I didn’t say any of that though. He wouldn’t listen, and anyway he was probably too drunk right now to remember. Instead, I squeezed his hand and hoped that would be enough.
“I’m sorry I puked,” he said.
“It’s okay,” I told him. “Just let me know if you’re gonna do it again so I can get out of the way.”
He smiled, his eyes soft and slightly unfocused. “Remember that time you decided to drink all those B-52s a few years ago?”
“Not very well, no.” That had been one of my more epic bad decisions. Some friends—including Wyatt—had taken me out to celebrate my twenty-third birthday, and I’d gotten a little carried away with the shots.
“I drove you home and had to help you into the bathroom.” His thumb stroked over my wrist absently.
“I’m still sorry about that.” And still plenty embarrassed. Part of the reason I’d downed so many shots that night was to work up enough liquid courage to finally make my move with Wyatt. But I’d misjudged my tolerance and shot myself in the foot by getting sloppy drunk, thereby killing any chance of a romantic end to the evening.
“Your head kept falling forward, and I had to hold it up for you so it didn’t fall into the toilet.”
I grimaced in embarrassment. “Lovely.”
He leaned forward to set the ice cream on the laminate coffee table. When he leaned back, his head lolled toward me again. “You got vomit on your shirt, and I had to change you into a clean one before I put you to bed.”
“I never knew you did that.” Jesus. No wonder he’d never found me sexy. I didn’t know what was worse, the fact that Wyatt had undressed me under such revolting circumstances, or that I couldn’t even remember it. I suspected he’d withheld that part of the story to save me further embarrassment. He probably wouldn’t have told me now if he hadn’t been so drunk himself.
He looked down at our clasped hands, and his eyes narrowed as they focused on my wrist. Frowning, he pulled my arm into his lap and ran his callused fingers over the red mark that was turning into a bruise. “That fucking asshole. I wish to god I hadn’t been drunk so I could’ve made him eat all his teeth.”
Wyatt was a tactile, affectionate person, and he’d touched me casually a million times before. But something about the way his fingers were stroking my arm felt too intimate. Dangerous. Too close to the way I wanted him to touch me, which wasn’t casual at all.
I pulled my hand away, despite the voice in my head whispering more, and tried to make my voice sound stern. “I wish you hadn’t been so drunk and I wish you hadn’t gotten into a fight at all.”
“Don’t be pissed at me, Andie.” His lower lip jutted out in a play for sympathy. “My head hurts.”
Fond irritation prickled in my chest. Impulsively, I reached up and brushed his hair back from his face. His eyelids fell closed, and he purred like a contented cat.
“I can take care of myself,” I told him. “I don’t need you barrel-rolling in and throwing fists.” I kept stroking his hair, because he seemed to like it. Maybe it was wrong, considering he was drunk and his defenses were down, but I was weak and it seemed harmless enough. I remembered Brianna running her hands through his hair earlier, and how the sight had made me seethe with jealousy. And now here I was, the one in Wyatt’s apartment with my fingers in his hair.
Too bad he probably wouldn’t remember it tomorrow.
“I know you can take care of yourself.” He opened one eye and peered at me.
My hand stilled with my fingers threaded in his hair.
“But you shouldn’t have to.” His eye shut again, and he pressed his head into my hand the way the goats on our farm did when they were begging for affection.
I stroked his hair some more, brushing back the silky soft strands and running my fingernails lightly over his scalp.
“Besides,” he mumbled with a satisfied smile, “Josh made me promise.”
My hand stilled again as I frowned. “Promise what?”
“That I’d always look out for you when he wasn’t around.”
I retracted my hand from Wyatt’s hair. “When?” Leave it to my overprotective brother to enlist his best friend as a part-time bodyguard.
Wyatt yawned, stretching his arms over his head. “Tenth grade.”
That would have been right around the time I started dating, which tracked. I could totally see Josh bullying his horndog best friend into some stupid oath to protect my honor.
“I think you can let it go now,” I said. “I’m not a kid anymore.”
Wyatt’s eyes met mine, heavy-lidded and somber. “A promise is a promise.”
The way he was looking at me unnerved me. Like he saw a lot more than I’d ever given him credit for—things I’d never found the courage to say. The possibility made me uncomfortable, so I leaned forward and grabbed the ice cream off the table, ripping the lid off and spooning a bite into my mouth. It was soft from sitting out and so sweet it made my teeth ache.
Wyatt laid a hand on his stomach, looking a little nauseous as he watched me. “How can you stand to eat that garbage?”
“Because it’s delicious,” I said around a mouthful of ice cream.
“It’s horrible. That’s the worst flavor we make.”
“I like the sour bits.” I shrugged and shoveled another spoonful into my mouth before leaning forward and setting it on the table.
He shook his head, smiling faintly. “I remember when you were little, you used to lick the powder off Sour Patch Kids and leave the gummies.”
I cocked an eyebrow at him. “I remember you used to eat the gummies after I’d licked them.”
“The gummies are the good part.”
“Did you know if you took all the gummy bears manufactured just in one year and lined them up head to toe, they’d encircle the earth four times?”
“How do you remember so much random shit?” He yawned and laid down, resting his head in my lap.
A tingling ache erupted in the pit of my stomach, and I forgot how to move for a second.
“Is this okay?” Wyatt asked sleepily.
I managed a nod. “Sure.”
His eyes fell closed. “Remember that night we watched the meteor shower?”
“Yes.” I think I’d been about fifteen. Wyatt had slept over at our house, and he and Josh had set an alarm for three in the morning, when it was supposed to be the best time for viewing the meteors. They came and got me out of bed, and we all piled into the back of my dad’s pickup with a bunch of blankets to keep warm while we watched the night sky.
He stretched out his legs, letting his socked feet hang over the armrest. When he spoke again, his words came out softly slurred. “Did any of your wishes come true?”
We’d taken turns making wishes on the shooting stars. Jokey ones mostly, trying to make each other laugh. But I’d also made a few silent wishes that night. Ones I hadn’t wanted to say out loud in front of my brother. Or Wyatt.
“Well, I never got to meet Taylor Lautner,” I said. “But technically I guess there’s still time for that.”
Wyatt’s face had grown slack, his lips parting, and I could hear a faint rush of air in his throat with every rise and fall of his chest. The night we’d watched the meteor shower, we’d all fallen asleep in the bed of my dad’s pickup. Me in the middle with Josh and Wyatt on either side of me. It’d been cold, and my brother had been hogging the blankets, so I’d burrowed against Wyatt in my sleep for warmth. I remembered waking up with my face in his chest and lying there counting his heartbeats until my parents came out to get us. It was one of my most treasured memories from those years.