He nods.
“He really was good. I remember that.” I turn away from Evan, studying the empty wall. “Do you want me to help you hang them?”
“Right now?”
“Well, yeah. I can help you get organized.” I might be stalling. I’ve hung out in boys’ rooms before, but it’s been a long time.
“Morgan,” Evan says in a way that makes me look right at him. “Don’t be nervous. It’s just a room. It doesn’t have to be anything more than that. I promise.”
Even though I spent the whole afternoon kissing Evan’s mouth and pressing my thumbprint against the soft part of his neck between his earlobe and his jaw, I’m relieved to hear him say that his room is just a room. So I move my feet, one in front of the other, until I’m inside.
It’s instantly clear that Evan’s room is the most lived-in part of the apartment. He’s taped posters to the walls of bands I’ve never heard of and daredevil surfers conquering monstrous waves. Under the window, there’s a computer desk and a clunky-looking laptop with a Surfrider Foundation sticker stuck across the top of it. A mismatched desk chair, piled high with sweatshirts, is turned backward to face the room instead of the desk. The music switches to something lazy, and I turn to find where it’s coming from. I spot his phone plugged into a dock propped on top of a bunch of surf magazines on the shelf underneath a small wooden nightstand. And next to that nightstand, in the middle of the room, is his queen-size bed. It’s immaculately made, the pillows neatly lined up along the headboard.
“Yep. Just a room,” I say.
Evan nods. His eyes don’t falter.
I wander around the cramped space, leaning across his desk to get a closer look at a photograph he has tacked to the bottom corner of his bulletin board. It’s one of those portraits people get done at the mall while wearing matching outfits. It’s a family—a dad, a mom, and two kids, both boys.
“That’s my dad,” Evan says, leaning over my shoulder to point to the tall guy with dark Hawaiian skin. He looks like Evan with less fluffy hair. Evan draws circles around the mom and the kids with his index finger. “That’s my dad’s new family.”
“Oh.”
I understand then. And I think it might be an even worse rejection than what I feel from my own dad. Evan must feel like he’s second best. I know my mom and Ben and I are second best to my dad’s demons and addictions, but Evan is second best to two other kids. I wrap my arms around his waist, burying my face against his chest to hug him tight.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble against his shirt.
“Thanks. I know you know.” He sighs. Resigned. “We should study.”
“In your room?”
“Is that cool? I like to play music when I’m working. And as you saw, the rest of the apartment isn’t exactly user-friendly.”
“Oh. Okay.”
Evan sits down on the bed. I stand. I stare.
“Sorry.” He leaps up and tosses the pile of sweatshirts from the desk chair to the floor. “Here.”
I sit down and the chair sinks low, like one in a hair salon that needs to be pumped back up by the stylist. My knees are practically touching my chest, so I have to fumble with my notebook to spread it out across my lap. It’s awkward and uncomfortable. Evan looks at me, stifling a laugh.
“I look ridiculous, don’t I?”
“Not even. It’s cute.”
“It’s okay.” I stand up with my open notebook across my chest. “We can both sit on the bed.”
Evan scoots over to make room for me, and I settle down next to him. I open my notebook and start highlighting sentences. He puts on a pair of reading glasses, settles against his pillow, and grips a copy of 1984 between his fingertips. The sight of him in those reading glasses just about does me in. I scoot in closer. He glances up from his book to look at me.
“Are we moving past the ‘just a room’ thing?” he asks.
“Kinda. Not completely. Still studying, just closer.”
“Okay.”
Evan looks down at his book again. I can’t help watching him.
“So you wear reading glasses.” A statement, not a question.
He rests his book on his chest. “Yeah, why?”
Because I love them? “No reason.”
I stifle a hum of satisfaction as Evan tucks my head against his chest and goes back to reading, slowly raking his fingers through my hair. The feel of it makes goose bumps sprout up on my tailbone. He pulls a long strand of my hair apart from the others and wraps it around his thumb.
I try to concentrate on my notes, but they’re all a big, giant blur. There’s the music and his breathing and his heartbeat. And his reading glasses. I put my notebook down.
“Evan?”
“Yeah?”
“I need to ask you something.”
He stops reading again and pulls my hair back, tucking it behind my ear. “Yeah?”
“Maybe you don’t have a thing for Taylor, but are you sure she doesn’t have a thing for you?”
He kisses the top of my head. “Never.”
“So she’s more like your BFF then.”
Evan laughs, and his chest vibrates against my ear. “She’s not my BFF. Do guys have BFFs?”