“I’m sorry, Wesley,” I say. “I hate it when you ignore me. You’re . . .” He tilts his head forward to listen better, and I worry for a moment he’s going to tip off the couch. “I’m what?” I sigh and lean forward to organize his hair. It’s slick and warm. “I don’t know. You’re, like, my favorite part of the day. It sucks when you don’t talk to me.” This time I see it plainly. His mouth breaks into a smile. His eyes crinkle. “Don’t tease me,” I warn. “It took a lot for me to say that.” “I appreciate that,” he says. His eyes are practically sparkling. I hope it’s not the fever. I nod. “Sure.”
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