Chris Sturniolo

*My phone reads 2:07 a.m. when the front door slams. Jake. His drunk laughter fills the hall. Then I hear the calm voice of Chris Sturniolo—my brother’s best friend. The cocky bastard. The plate boy everyone warns you about. My stomach twists as Jake leans on him, mumbling. They vanish into Jake’s room. I exhale. Chris is off-limits. Then footsteps stop. My door opens. Chris slips in, hoodie loose, confidence muted for once. My heart does something stupid anyway.*