The Game

𝟏𝟏

𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝑬𝒍𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏 - 𝑲𝒊𝒔𝒔 𝑴𝒆

"Do you live far?" August asked, slouching just enough to look comfortable and still take up too much space.

"Kinda," I said, eyes on the road while the late afternoon light slid across the hood.

He nodded like he had nowhere else better to be. At the next red light he found my hand on the center console, lacing our fingers together like he'd been holding them all day and finally got them back. He toyed with my rings and the tiny callus on my middle finger from writing too much. The light flipped green. I pressed the gas and tried to pretend my pulse hadn't just started timing itself to his thumb.

Twenty-five minutes later, the city thinned into quiet streets and deeper lawns. My neighborhood opened up the way it always did — wider sidewalks, older trees, mailboxes that looked like they had stories.

"Damn," he breathed, turning his head left, then right. "You live in a fine neighborhood."

"It's alright," I said, shrugging because bragging felt gross and apologizing felt worse.

"It's better than what I got," he murmured, not fishing for anything — just telling the truth and letting it sit.

"I didn't mean—" I started to apologize for... I don't even know what, the way people do when they feel lucky and guilty at once.

He shook his head, cutting it off with a quick smile. "It's cool, Aliya. I'm here, aren't I?"

"You are," I said, and the small weight in my chest shifted to something warmer.

I pulled into the driveway and shut off the engine. The sudden quiet made his hand around mine feel louder. I reached for my seat belt. His fingers wrapped gently around my wrist and held for a second.

"You think it's cool with your family if I'm here?" he asked, eyes flicking to the house like it had its own rules.

"Of course it's okay," I said, laughing a little. "You're not a stray off the street."

He smirked. "You sure? 'Cause I be hungry like one."

I bumped his shoulder. "Come on, dramatic."

We climbed out. The evening smelled like damp grass and someone's laundry detergent drifting across yards. I unlocked the door and stepped inside to the familiar hush of our foyer — foyer sounds extra, but that's what it is — cool tile under my sneakers, family photos down the hall. My phone buzzed twice. I glanced at the screen. Two messages — one from Dad, one from Gracie. I read them, sent quick replies, and put the phone away without thinking to narrate them out loud.

A knock sounded like it had been waiting for me to finish texting. I opened the door again. Anthony stood on the other side, backpack slumped on both shoulders, bottom lip pushed out.

"Hey, little man," I said, scooping him up. He melted into me like warm bread.

"Tired," he mumbled into my shoulder, the word squashed and honest.

"I can see that." I kissed his cheek. "Let's take your backpack off."

He nodded sleepily. I set him down and unhooked one strap, then the other. Both thudded to the floor like he'd been carrying bricks. He rubbed his eyes with his fists and swayed.

"Who's that?" he asked, pointing at August without lifting his head.

"That's August," I said.

"Is he your boyfriend?"

"Nope."

"Is he a boy?"

"Pretty sure."

"Is he your friend?"