James doesn’t think about how weird it is until he’s standing on Paul’s doorstep, bags in hand.
He’d have been here sooner, even, but he’s got an A, now, he can’t skip out on locker clean out to go sulk on his best friend’s couch.
His best friend, whose team eliminated them from the playoffs in an embarrassment of a Game 7 – it’s possible, James admits as he stares at Paul’s door without knocking,
that he did not think this through.
He’s debating turning around and getting a cab back to the airport and forgetting that this ever happened when Paul opens the door, bleary-eyed and tousle-haired and says, “James?”
“Uh,” James says, blinking. Paul is wearing his glasses and a threadbare white t-shirt over pajama pants and looks like he just woke up. “Hi?”
Paul blinks back at him before stepping aside and opening the door wider. James wavers for a moment, but he’s already
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