Brandon Where am I supposed to sleep? Snoring comes from the couch; the guys fell asleep ten minutes ago. But not before ruining my floor. Beer cans and pizza boxes lay scattered everywhere, and I would rather not sleep on the floor. The couch isn't an option, either. More than five people are sleeping on the couch, and I cautiously glance down at Emilie. She has stayed at my place countless nights in a row, but we have never shared a bed. Would she freak out if I asked her? In the past, I would have just flopped down beside her without asking, but after getting to know her, I...I care about her, okay? "Do you wanna share a bed?" Please say yes. It would be beneath me to use my sister's bed or Bernie's—that little fucker uses way too much Axe bodyspray. I would suffocate as soon as I smelled his pillow. Emilie looks up at me with a flushed face. "S-sure!" "Great." I walk up the stairs and notice Emilie's gaze is locked on her feet. Why do I get the feeling this is a bigger deal

EmilieLaura: Are you telling me he never tries to do more than just kiss you?I look down at my phone that's lying in my lap. Brandon is driving to the hospital while I'm texting with Laura. Our subject is apparently my non-existent sex life with Brandon, although there are more important things we should be talking about. Like the fact we are heading to the hospital to say goodbye to Brandon's mom, but Laura doesn't know that, and I won't tell her. Not today. Me: I don't want him to do more. Laura: ... you're not a-sexual, are you?Me: What? No? Why?Laura: Because just looking at your man makes me want to have sex, and I think every girl on campus can agree with me. Brandon is hot.Me: I know.Laura: So what's your problem?Me: Ever heard of waiting?Laura: Oh, so it's like that? Well... I'm not against waiting, but Brandon is a man. If you don't have sex with him, he will find someone else who will. That's how men work. Laura: Don't get me wrong! I ship you two, but men will a

BrandonI think I’m living in denial. My mom is gone, and she won’t come back. She is officially dead, yet the tears aren’t here yet. Instead of crying, I’m staring into space while my siblings are joking around with Emilie. I guess it’s their way of handling their grief, cracking jokes and smiling to ignore the pain of losing one’s parent. But one look at Bailey and Bernie tells me they will both be in tears once they are alone in bed. I won’t be getting away from the pain, either. I’m already feeling the sadness creep up on me even though I’m trying to keep it at bay. I can’t cry here. Emilie would be so embarrassed if I suddenly started bawling my eyes out inside a fast-food restaurant. Then again, maybe I could get away by saying I’m crying because this is the best chicken I’ve ever had?But that would be a lie, wouldn’t it?This chicken is far from the best I’ve ever had. My mom’s slow-cooked roast chicken will forever have the honor of being the best chicken I’ve ever had, an

EmilieWhen I wake up the next day, I find Brandon snuggled close to me, clinging onto me as if he never wants to let go. We are curled up in my bed, my nose nuzzled into his sturdy chest while his big hands play with my hair. His chest rises and falls like two fluffy pillows, and I can feel his warm breath tickling my scalp each time he exhales.I smile and hesitantly reach out my right hand to place it on his side. He doesn’t even twitch, so I slowly stroke his tanned skin. It seems innocent at first, but then my fingers drift down to his lower abdominal muscles. What can I say? A girl has needs. Like a pervert, I skim over them lightly, relishing the way they twitch under my touch, the subtle shiver that it coaxes from Brandon’s sleeping form. He’s still asleep, his expression peaceful, the blonde stubble on his jaw giving him a rugged look that my fingers itch to trace.A small puff of air escapes his lips as my fingertips skirt the waistband of his boxers, though I stop shy of l

EmilieLater that same night, Brandon takes me to a hotel in the same town where my mother’s hospital is located. He doesn’t bother to ask me if I mind sharing the same room. I don’t. Being alone right now would be the worst thing ever.“I hope you’re happy with our room. It’s supposedly the best view in town,” Brandon says, probably in an attempt to lighten the moon, but I don’t respond. I just stare out into nothingness while Brandon hangs up his jacket in the background. He is talking, but I can’t hear him. My mind is empty, and I walk towards the bathroom without taking off my clothes. There is a large shower area inside. One of those large, luxurious showers with rocks on the wall to imitate a tropical place, and I press my palms against the cool wall as the water cascades down, drenching my clothes, my hair, and my skin as the tears fall down. I feel like a broken woman and can’t stop the ocean from spilling from my eyes. Why am I never included in anything? Why am I so fucki