Christopher leaned against his car door, burning holes in the back of Damien’s head with his eyes. Everyone had made it out the front door, but Damien was standing just outside the door frame, still talking to Sylvia instead of just saying good night already and getting on with it.

  It was rude to rush him. Them. Her. Her, specifically. And it’s not like Christopher was cold, despite the snow dusting the yard; it was only November, and the thin layer of snow wouldn’t stick overnight. But he was bored, and had to be up early even on Sundays, and he was Damien’s ride.

  “Hey, let’s go,” he called. He hadn’t meant to. He hadn’t thought about it. He just couldn’t take the waiting anymore.

  BJ, halfway down the ramp to the sidewalk, glanced up. “You’re the one wearing shorts in winter.”

  “That coat gives you lady-hips, Beej.”

  BJ flipped him off. “It’s a drawstring at the waist line. Unlike you, I refuse to suffer in winter.”

  “Girl. Hips.”

  “You don’t need to make it sound like a pejorative.” Bethany underscored her statement by loudly dropping the plastic grocery bag of empty beer bottles into the recyling bin on the curb. “Girl hips are cute.”

  “Not on a guy.”

  “Why? Does it make your feelings all confused?”

  “That’s just because BJ’s pretty, not because he’s got girl hips.”

  BJ smiled sweetly, taking the compliment, Christopher blew him the least heterosexual kiss he could muster, and Bethany said nothing because bromance always wins. She got into Corinne’s passenger seat, calling a general goodnight, and Corinne — who was finally ignoring him — did a Y-point turn toward home.

  Alexander, still lingering on the porch, watched their car with the same hang-dog look he always had when Bethany left first. She always did. He always waited to make sure of it. Still taking the break-up poorly, even if it had been months. Poor dope. It was hard to watch.

  Christopher suppressed the urge to shout at Damien again, this time for making Sylvie stand up to give him a hug, by sighing exaggeratedly and rubbing his face. He heard Damien say, “Take care,” and Alexander said, “’Night, Sylv,” and then both of them descended the ramp taking up a third of the Halversons’ lawn. Sylvia eased back into her chair, waved at Christopher and BJ, and closed the door. Alexander got into BJ’s car. Damien got into Christopher’s. Christopher followed BJ’s shitbox for three blocks, sat at a red light beside him, then waved as he went straight and BJ turned left.

  Same as it ever was.

  Sort of.

  “You shouldn’t have let her stand up.”

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  Why was he starting this shit?

  Damien leaned on his elbow against the passenger side door. “I didn’t ask her to. She said it feels weird hugging people while she’s sitting.”

  There are things Andy would’ve had to say about this. Sylvie singling out Damien to stand up and hug, for one, or chatting with him at the door once the session was over. But it wasn’t like Andy had passed on his brotherly responsibilities to Christopher, and Sylvie hadn’t asked him to step in, either.

  It wasn’t his place, but.

  “You know not to try anything. Right?”

  “You sound like Andy.”

  “She’s seventeen and a half.”

  “Dude, I’ve known her longer than you. Literally since she was a toddler.”

  “That means jack shit.”

  “It means I know how old she is.”

  “Right. Well. She’s not in a good place. Don’t try anything until she’s —”

  “In a better place?”

  Despite how much he wanted to punch Damien’s nose in, he snickered. “Dark.”

  They rode in silence for a little while. Damien broke it, saying, “Kind of nice to play again.”

  “Yeah. She dig those character sheets out of Andy’s mock-ups?”

  “Made ‘em herself. Made up the campaign, too.”

  “Huh.” He almost left it there, then added, “She runs a game like Andy did.”

  Damien checked his phone and typed absently. “Learned from the best.”

  It was Andy’s idea, back in the day, to do intro sessions for new campaigns. Everyone showed up with their character sheet ready to go, and he played the NPC that had called them all together. Christopher wanted to ask if he was the only one who thought it was a little messed up that Sylvie was keeping it going, complete with the permutation of “Aquila”, but he was trying to work on his impulse control. Not like anyone could blame her for trying to keep the traditions alive. It was the same reason they had all bothered to show up. Not because Corinne harassed everyone into it, but because it meant something.

  Try telling Corinne that, though.

  “Hey. Can you tell Corinne to cool it?”

  “You tell her.”

  “I’m not talking to her until she calms down.”

  “I don’t think she’s talking to you, either.”

  “Someone needs to tell her we’ve all played this more than she has and no one needs her micromanaging.”

  “She’s just…” Damien set his phone down and looked out the windshield, as though the word he wanted might be at the next crosswalk. “…I don’t know. Trying.”

  “She could try less.”

  Damien snickered. Christopher shifted, uncomfortable with his own words. He believed them, sure, and Corinne’s default setting was trying too hard, but she had blown past her own threshold with this game and everyone was tolerating it for the same reason everyone showed up for Sylvie’s first attempt at GMing. It’s what friends do. Once the words were out, though, they sounded wrong. Damien was the only one who heard him, and Damien definitely understood, but this was exactly why he was working on his impulse control — not everything sounded the same once it left the privacy of his head.

  Damien’s text conversation was still ongoing when they got back to the apartment. Christopher showered, went to his room, and passed out almost immediately. Six AM on Sundays and the post-church crowd with their huge groups and poor tips weren’t the kind of thing he wanted to lie awake thinking about on a Saturday night.