CHAPTER 35: THAT NIGHT

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My jaw dropped immediately. Clay's fever-induced words echoed in my head.

"One time, you and I kissed."

I try to play it casually, as if I'm not internally freaking out. He has a fever. People with fevers say crazy things.

"Oh yeah?" I ask softly while fixing the pillow behind his head, pretending I'm not affected at all by his words. "When was that?"

"We were drunk," he explains. His fingers find mine by the top of his head. He loops his pointer around mine lazily. "Sapnap was puking."

My brain tries to fuzzily find it. I remember the night we drank when they tried to make George and I friends. I don't remember any kissing though.

"You were sitting on the counter," he says, "And we kissed with pasta."

"Pasta?" I laugh, unsure if I even believe him now.

He nods slowly. His finger loosens around mine, and his eyes droop a little more.

My mind wraps around a memory of us late at night- me on the counter with my arms wrapped around his shoulders- I giggle, something I never do, and he smiles like I had just sang his favorite melody. Then, I say the words.

"Kiss me."

And then he did.

"Oh my god, we kissed," I whisper.

Clay opens his eyes with a smile. "I told you so."

I stare into space as he lulls off to sleep. He rolls over, grabbing my hand once again. "Will you stay here?" he asks.

I smile. "Scared of the dark?"

"Mhm." He nods once. "I could die, you know."

I roll my eyes, but then say, "Scoot over."

I sit up in the bed as he rests his head in my lap. I hesitate but realize he probably won't remember this in the morning, so I let my hands play with his hair. He seems to snuggle closer when I do so, and I'm reminded of a cat.

It's a peaceful environment, but I know I won't find a bit of sleep. My brain races at how long Clay's kept this a secret. He's known but never told me. Did he think I'd freak out? He'd be right because I am internally.

I don't think it means anything unless I make it mean something. He's been waiting for my memory to catch up; he's been waiting for my move. The ball is completely in my court.

The question is: do I want to make a move?

I repeat it over and over in my head, wondering the pros and cons of Clay and I together. A different version of Clay and I; the kind that drunkenly kisses on kitchen counters on a regular basis. Do I want that?

Clay stirs after a while. He glances up in a sleepy haze to meet my eyes. He smiles. It's the kind of smile that you do naturally when you're not awake enough to control your actions.

He sits up after a few minutes and looks at me. I let him wake up for a second but also prepare myself to get out of the bed when he throws up. I notice a sheen of sweat on his skin, and I put my hand up to his forehead. It's cooler than it was a couple hours ago, so I assume his fever is breaking.

He meets my eyes in the partially-dark room. My heartbeat quickens. I don't know what I expect for him to say. I'm not even sure what he remembers. Is this what he felt like? He opens his mouth to speak, and my stomach drops in anticipation.

"Can you make pancakes?" he asks.

I take a sharp breath. "What?"

"Pancakes," he repeats, "They sound really good right now."

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