Candy Gram ✓

chapter eight

"Ben," I warn, "don't be nosy."

"It's fine," David says, turning back as well and smiling. "They're for my sister. She's lending me some clothes for school."

Ben grins. "Cool. Are we having hot chocolate, Nick?"

"Um, yes."

"Can David have some?"

Um, no, is my first thought. Still, at this point, I kind of owe the guy. This isn't the first time he's been there to help me out – it's always the little things: copying a sheet of homework for math; helping me study last minute for a test in bio when we used to be lab partners; ripping down a few mean notes from my locker when I came out and telling me that he'd "mess anyone up that effed with such a nice guy".

"Sure," I say. "If he wants."

"Oh, I want," David assures me. "Very much."

When we get inside, I finally check my phone. I have a few missed texts from Secret Guy that I respond to and a note from my parents saying they left for work, then set off to the kitchen to boil some milk (milk is the only way to make hot chocolate, and no one can tell me otherwise. I'd take milk over freaking holy water) while Ben gives David a tour of our house.

"This is my room," I hear him say. "My friends come over sometimes. I love my friends."

"You're so sweet," comes David's voice. A door opens. "Is this Nick's room?"

Jesus Christ, NO.

"Yeah," Ben says. "That's his bed – he never makes it. Mom calls him a slob, but she doesn't mean it. That's his laundry pile. I sat in his hamper. That's why it's broken. He's supposed to do his own laundry now – do you have a brother? Is he weird about his socks, too? Anyway, he's lazy, so he doesn't do his own laundry enough—"

"Ben!" I shout. "Get out of my room, please! David doesn't want to see it!" Or my promiscuous bed, for that matter.

As soon as the hot chocolate is out, Ben retreats into a documentary. I sneak off to lightly clean my room and open the curtains. It's started snowing again – I swear, if I have to wait another day to meet Secret Guy, I'll die. In fact, I'll probably have to wait till Monday. I'll be very much dead by that point.

There's a light knock at my door. "Um, hey," David says. Jesus. He's still in my house. I almost forgot.

"Hey," is all I can say back. He's in my freaking room. David Marquez is in my freaking room. Then: "Thanks for the ride. Seriously."

He gives me this smile that almost looks shy. I don't know if I've ever thanked him before. This is just more swiftly-accumulating evidence showcasing what a horrible person I am. "It's nothing. Really. You'd do the same for me."

Like hell I would.

I just kind of nod as I pull my covers up over my bed. (My way-too-big bed. My anxiety has totally been justified about this thing – it's freaking massive, I swear.)

"Your bed is huge," David says.

See?

"Must be really relaxing, though," he continues. "Like, to just get to fan out or whatever? I kick the wall a lot. My bed is tinier than I am." He's trying to get me to laugh. He's always trying to get me to laugh. This once, I give in. (Because I'm not sure if one tiny mug of hot chocolate is payment enough for him driving us home on a snow day.)

"Do you remember when we were in Ben's grade?" he asks me – after sitting on the edge of my bed. If I were a more relaxed person, I'd sit next to him and be like, "Wow, this is a really fun, chill time."