A hand reaches out and smacks my computer closed. “Stop wasting your fucking emotions on them.” A tall six-foot-three guy is in my bed. Beside me. In only a pair of drawstring pants. And I’m sitting against the headboard, wearing white cotton shorts and a cropped red and blue top that says: Wild America. On the outside, we probably look like a couple, gently rising from the morning sunlight that peeks through my curtains. On the inside, there’s no touching. No kissing. Nothing beyond friendship status. Reality is a whole lot more complicated.
RYKE????
