Gyver sat up and rubbed his face with the palm of his hand. His hair was an anarchy of black locks and the pillowcase had left creases on his cheek. He was shirtless. One foot and part of his calf were sticking out from under his blanket, making it clear he didn’t wear pajama pants to bed either.
“Hi,” I said shyly, sitting down in his desk chair.
“You’re in my bedroom. In your pajamas.” His words were sleep-slowed and rusty.
“Yeah,” I agreed, waiting for his inevitable innuendo.
Gyver blinked. “And you’ve been crying. What’s wrong, Mi?” He sat up straighter, alert.
“Nothing.”
He tilted his head and raised an eyebrow.
“Nothing really. At least, nothing that matters. My mom wants me to get my hair cut today.”
He raised the other eyebrow.
“Cut off,” I clarified.
He nodded and waited. Were the Russos born with magical listening powers or did they cultivate them?
“It’s superficial, but I like my hair. I don’t want to wear a wig and I don’t want to be sick.” I was making trails in his carpet with my big toe. “Go ahead, tell me I’m being shallow.”
“C’mere.” He patted a spot next to him.
“Um … what do you have on under there?”
He grinned. “Would you like me to show you?”
When my cheeks lit up with blushes, he laughed and amended, “I’m joking, Mi. I’ve got boxers on. Come here, would you? I’ll stay safely under the covers.”
I sat on his bed—the way he’d sat on my hospital one. He gave me a sleep-warm hug. “You okay? You want to cry?”
“Did that already. I’m just so tired of it all, Gyver.”
He leaned his cheek against the top of my head; I could feel the heat from his bare chest radiating through my pajamas. “I worry about you, Mi. It seems like you’re more worried about people finding out you’re sick than the fact that you are sick.”
I heard him, but I didn’t have an answer. I continued to fidget: tracing lines with my fingertips on the inside of the arm he’d wrapped around me.
“Maybe you should give them a chance. If your friends aren’t there for you when you need them, what good are they?” he asked.
I needed to push things back to safe waters—I should push away from him. I forced a laugh. “Maybe you just make it too easy; I don’t need them when I’ve got you.” I’d planned to add “and Ryan,” but my voice betrayed me and I was suddenly nervous. “We should go downstairs. Mom’s waiting in the kitchen.”
“Yours or mine?”
“Both.”
“So I guess I can’t pull you under these blankets and take advantage of your fragile emotional state.” Gyver laughed at my startled expression and rolled away from me to reach for something on the far side of the bed—revealing a pair of light-blue boxers decorated with purple musical notes. My cheeks burned again. I shifted my gaze and tried to shift my thoughts.
“Here.” Something landed in my lap. I looked down at a black newsboy cap with a band logo on the front. “I got it last night, but it’ll look better on you.”
He gently brushed my hair back and placed it on my head. My “thanks” was breathless.
“No problem. Now, can you get out of my room so I can get dressed? If you’re going to wake me up early to go to a salon, the least you can do is properly fortify me with caffeine first.”
“What? You don’t have to—”
“Go.” Gyver nudged me through the blanket with his foot.
“You don’t have to beg. I’ll come with you—but most public places require pants. And I require coffee.”
I forced myself to laugh, half-relieved and half-disappointed to be leaving his room. “I’ll have a mug ready for you.”
“Yes, please. And Mi?” I paused at the door and turned around. Gyver grinned. “I caught you checking out my boxers. Couldn’t help yourself, huh?”
My face blazed again: embarrassment plus anger. I pulled the door shut—loudly—and headed downstairs to make him an overly sweet cup of coffee.
Chapter 29
“Be honest.” My posture was debutante perfect in the salon chair. “Do I look like an anorexic alien?” I hadn’t seen myself yet, but I could imagine a huge, bald head on a too-skinny neck.
Mom was horrified. “No! Of course not. You look beautiful.”
Gyver spun my chair toward the mirror. “Actually, you’re kinda right—as usual.”
Mom was more horrified. “MacGyver! My daughter certainly doesn’t. You don’t, kitten.”
I looked at Gyver’s reflection; he was making faces behind my back. I laughed nervously and lowered my eyes to my own face, sucking in a deep, loud breath.
“Your eyes look bigger,” offered the optimistic stylist. “You’ve got killer blue eyes.”
“Exactly!” Mom agreed emphatically. “Once you put on your wig, no one’ll know.”
She held it out, but I ignored her and continued to study the large-eyed, bareheaded girl in the mirror. I twisted the chain around my neck, pulling the charm out from under my smock so I could slide it back and forth while I processed.
“What’s that?” Gyver frowned, reaching for the pendant.