Wasted Words by Staci Hart

“Yeah, you like that?” He shifted, making a show of it. “How about that?” He moved again, and I have to admit, it wasn’t easy to keep my eyes off his biceps. “And a little of this?”

“I’ve seen this show, beefcake. Remember you walk out of the shower every single day in nothing but a towel?”

We walked up to the door, and his smile was as sideways as his mental state. “Yeah, I’ve seen you looking. You’re a fan of the gun show. Free admission.”

“Oh, my God,” I said, giggling and rolling my eyes to play off the flutter in my chest. “You’re so drunk.”

I swung at his chest playfully, but he grabbed my hand, all of a sudden dead serious, his eyes dark. I didn’t realize how close we were, and I looked up at him, stunned silent.

“I’m not that drunk, Cam.” The words were barely above a whisper, and I couldn’t breathe.

He was about to kiss me.

I laughed awkwardly and way too loud as I took a step back. “Yeah, you are. Super drunk. Open the door, nerd.”

He smiled, but it took a moment for him to erase the look that had been in his eyes. My heart was still racing from the adrenaline of it as I watched him unlock the door.

We didn’t say much once we made it inside, just went through our routine of changing and brushing our teeth, joking when we did speak. I didn’t want to be serious, didn’t want to think about what had just happened. He was just drunk, that was all, probably caught up in the fact that I was ogling his bod. He knew I thought he was attractive, it was just the energy of that, nothing more. I was sure of it.

I poured him a glass of water and grabbed him a couple of ibuprofen, finding him climbing into his bed, shirtless, with a thump.

I smiled as I approached his bed, handing him the pills and water, and he smiled back gratefully before knocking them back. He set the glass on his nightstand as I fussed with his covers.

“Maybe I was wrong.”

“About what?” I asked absently as I pulled his blanket up over him.

“About you being able to live without me.”

“Oh?”

He met my eyes, saying gently, “Maybe it’s me who can’t live without you.”

I turned out his light so he couldn’t see my face — I wasn’t sure what expression I wore. And all I could do was laugh and say playfully, and maybe a little patronizingly, “Goodnight, Tyler.”

He sighed in the darkness and answered, “Night, Cam.”

And I made my way to my room, slipping into bed as I wondered how life could be so cruel.

INFALLIBLE

Cam

THE STEADY HUM OF THE crowd filtered into the kitchen from the TV as I pulled the fundido out of the oven. The cheese and tomatoes bubbled around chorizo, and I swear to God, I actually salivated when the smell of the dip hit my nose.

“Incoming,” I said as I made my way into the living room, setting the small cast iron skillet on the trivet next to the chips and salsa we’d been nibbling on.

Tyler didn’t take his eyes off the TV, just muttered, “No. What the hell are you doing? Throw it! Throw it!”

The quarterback was sacked.

He rolled his eyes and threw his hands up in the air. “This,” he gestured to the screen, “is why A&M won’t make the playoffs this year. Their passing game just isn’t strong enough to compete.”

I snorted and sat down next to him, leaning in to dip a chip in the cheesy mess. “Getting sacked by Purdue tells me they’ve got bigger issues, like lack of a decent offensive line. He didn’t have a receiver to throw it to.” I took a bite and moaned.

Tyler huffed and changed the channel to put on a different game. “I don’t think I can watch any more of this. It hurts too bad.” He landed on the Tennessee-Georgia game and tossed the remote on the table, leaning forward to dig into the dip beside me. He moaned when he took a bite too. The sound gave me a deep feeling of satisfaction.

“You ready for next weekend?” I asked. “I’m kinda sad you’re going to have to witness the Huskers getting shucked by the Hawkeyes.”

He snickered. “Not a chance, Cam. You guys are gonna get ruined. There’s not a single defensive lineman for the Hawkeyes who can stop Darryl. He’s too fast.”

“No one’s infallible.”

“True, but Darryl’s the closest thing I’ve seen in a long time.” He tossed another chip in his mouth. “What’s cooking in there?” He nodded toward the kitchen.

“White chili for Mrs. Frank.”

“And us?” he asked hopefully.

I smiled. “And us.”

“I thought old people weren’t supposed to eat spicy stuff.”

“Not Mrs. Frank. I swear she makes the spiciest Bloody Marys I’ve ever tasted.”

He chuckled. “You going up there later?”

“Yeah, after the game. What are you doing tonight?” I stuffed a dip-slathered chip in my mouth.

“I’m going out with Adrienne,” he answered, something undecipherable in his voice.

Thankfully, I had a full mouth to keep me from giving myself away. You’re glad. It’s good. Best thing ever. They’re perfect together. Stop being weird, Cameron. I swallowed and took a long sip of my beer. “Good,” I said, sounding completely normal. “Where are you going?”

“Frenchie’s — it’s a French-American hipster bistro, or something. That’s what Adrienne said, at least. She asked me out.”

A laugh shot out of me. “I love that. She’s got some pretty serious lady-balls.”