They Hate Each Other

by Amanda Woody

He pulls Andre up next to him, and they start grinding, and— No.

It's starting early

He squeezes my arm tighter, like he’s trying to crush it. Tragically for him, he’s got the strength of a strawberry.

On a whim, I snatch Jonah’s hand and begin to massage the length of his thumb.

“Kiss,” I repeat squeakily. “Like, with our lips.” “No, with our dicks.” Dylan rolls his eyes. “Yes, with our lips, you fucking dork.

At first, Jonah is quiet. Then, slowly, “I’ll run through it again. Just focus on my voice.” He can tell. Just by the way I’m speaking.

I fall asleep to his breathing.

His breathing. It’s quiet, steady. I wonder what it would sound like quick and shallow.

“Speaking of the making out thing,” he says, pulling a loaf of French bread out of his pantry. “You . . . seemed like you were into it.” “I wasn’t,” I wheeze out, already humiliated. “Right. Sure. I was wondering who you were picturing.” His voice sounds strange, like he’s forcing nonchalance.

As if his face isn’t constantly exploding with every thought and emotion he’s ever had.

I smirk, flicking his nose. “You little brat.” He wriggles deeper into my arms, making himself cozy. “Your little brat,” he whispers.

I can’t help myself around that jerk. His skin is so soft, and he smells so good, and his hands are so warm, and his house is so empty.