By eight that night, Jon and I are sprawled out on the couch, feet tangled in the middle, with the remnants of the double chocolate chip cookies we baked only a few hours ago, melted ice cream, half-eaten chips and two empty bottles of two liter pop surrounding us.

I cant move.

"Jon," I whine, rubbing my protruding belly, "I can't move."

He groans, shifts a little on the couch, feet knocking against mine. "Me neither," he agrees, and lets out a loud burp.

"I think I just gained twenty pounds," I say, and I'm not even being dramatic either, I mean, I'm pretty sure I've consumed more junk in the past three hours than I have in my whole entire life. "I can feel the rolls forming already. I'm going to be fat, and Ryan's not going to have sex with me anymore. No one ever is, because no one likes having sex with a fat person," I cry, and okay, maybe this time I'm being a little dramatic, but still. I don't want to be fat.

Jon laughs, throwing his head back against the couch armrest. "Knowing you, you'll probably be just as much as a twig when you wake up tomorrow."

I make a face, but I know he's probably right.

"What should we do now?" I ask, stomach rumbling beneath my fingertips.

He shrugs. "I dunno."

We've already baked cookies, played video games, then attempted to watch A Walk to Remember, but I made Jon turn it off because Jamie's father was reminding me too much of Ryan's and that's just not cool for our BFF night, and well, let alone ever. Okay, and it was just plain old creeping me out.

"We could watch another movie?" he suggests lazily.

"We could. Or we could watch porn."

Jon wrinkles his nose. "But - but, wouldn't that be kind of... weird?"

I take a moment to sit and contemplate this before deciding that yes, he's right, and that would be weird. Very weird. "You're right," I agree. "Never mind. Another chick flick it is then."

He laughs, then makes a noise from the back of his throat, but doesn't get up to put on another movie. I don't blame him, cause the mere thought of getting up right now makes me want to keel over and just die.

We're silent for a bit, the only noises are our stuffed stomachs growling discomfortingly about every .5 of a second.

"You miss Ryan, don't you?" Jon asks, voice muffled and tired from the opposite end of the couch.

"...no..."

He kicks my foot with his. "Liar."

I sigh, defeated. "Fine, maybe only a little. But I don't understand why cause he's just a big ass and he's with that stupid skank right now."

"True," he replies with a small nod and laughs.

I wait a second before asking, "And you miss Spencer don't you?"

He pouts. "Yes, but that's even more sadder cause I just saw him like, three hours ago. I'm so lame."

I smile, and if I wasn't glued to the couch I'd really consider going over and pinching his cheeks for being so cute. "You really do like him, don't you?"

"Oh god," he groans. "Don't even get me started. I won't stop. Save yourself."

I laugh. "You're probably right."

There's another short pause, and I just stare up at the ceiling. Even after all this time, I still find it a little weird to think about how Spencer and Ryan just came into our lives like they did, so randomly. Before they were the little church boys that we'd never even give the time of day (okay, more like the other way around, but still). Spencer was just this homophobic kid who Jon would drool and make weird noises over from afar. And Ryan, was just Ryan, the pastors son who I barely even looked twice at. And now... now, I couldn't even imagine what it would be like not to have them in my life - and I even mean Spencer when I say that.

"So, who usually bottoms?" Jon asks, out of nowhere, completely serious with a blank look on his face, like it's the most normal, non-personal, non-awkward question to ask someone. Even if it is your best friend.

I laugh, but it hurts my stomach, so I stop. "Neither," I reply. "We um, switch it up, I guess? We both like it either way, so..." I shrug. "You guys?"

"Are you kidding me?" Jon scoffs. "Do I really look like I'd bottom to you?"

I take a moment to think this over, then slowly shake my head, an amused smile spreading across my lips. "Erm, no. Not really. You're too hairy and masculine for that. Plus, Spencer kind of looks like a girl already," I joke... except not really, cause he actually really does.

He somehow manages to reach over, and take another handful of chips and pops it in his mouth. I gag at the thought of even trying to eat. "I tried bottoming once..." he starts, through a mouthful of chips. He takes a moment to swallow them, and then bites onto his lip, ashamed, "and I totally cried."

I burst out laughing and my stomach kills, but I just can't help it because, honestly, the thought of big, ol', man Jon crying with a penis shoved up his bum is just too great... except for the fact that I'm imagining Spencer's penis up his bum, which is actually quite disturbing at the same time.

Jon actually blushes a little at this, and this is like, a rare occasion all on it's own, because he like, never blushes or even gets embarrassed really. I mean, look at the conversation he brought up and how casual he was about it. "It was terrible, Brendon. I don't know how you guys do it, and like it. I seriously have nightmares about it." He shivers. "I mean, topping is usually considered the manly thing, right? But, god, after that, I now see Spencer as the man in the relationship. Like, seriously. It's one thing to shove your dick up something, but to actually take it... oh my god."

"The first time just sucks, you know," I finally manage to say, through fits of laughter. I still can't decide whether to be disgusted or not. Right now, it's just too funny to be much else. "It gets a whole lot better. Maybe you just didn't prep yourself enough, or use enough lube. Did he even find your prostate?" I ask, and how am I handling this conversation so casually?

Jon shakes his head, face still a soft shade of pink. "No. I made him pull out right away."

I laugh. "Oh god, Jon."

"Hey," he says defensively. "I mean, I've felt the wonders of the prostate before, just not with his dick." That's all he's says, and I'm thankful, because I can figure it out myself without him going on, because, really, talking about this stuff is awkward enough without him going into great detail about how Spencer finger-fucks him.

Ew. Okay, now I'm grossed out.

I mean, sure, they're good-looking guys, but sorry, Jon's my best friend and Spencer's just... Spencer and I'd rather not have the mental picture of that kind of stuff in my brain, thanks.

Eventually, Jon manages to get up and pop in a movie, and then practically dives back onto the couch, right on top of me.

I moan, clutching onto my stomach and I actually can't breathe. "Jon! I'm going to puke, you idiot!"

He gives me a sheepish look, and slowly crawls off of me, then situates himself at my feet, cross-legged.

I groan some more, and close my eyes, waiting for my stomach to resettle. When I open my eyes again, I realize Jon put in a Mary-Kate and Ashley movie.

I groan once more, and he just beams.

- - -

Jon and I don't end up getting to sleep till about five, so it goes without saying, when I get home at ten the next morning, I'm anything but happy.

So, when the first person I see at my house, sitting at my kitchen table, is Dayna, it doesn't go over too well.

"Oh Hey, Br - " Ryan coos all bright and happy from where he's standing by the counter, buttering toast.

"What the fuck is she doing here?" I demand cutting Ryan off before he has a chance to say anything else.

They both turn to stare at me, eyes completely wide, like they're actually shocked or something that I'm pissed off that she's sitting at my kitchen table in her fucking Pj's.

"Brendon!" he scolds, face turning red, once he realizes that yeah, I actually just said that.

"What?" I snap, because oh my god, this isn't happening. This stupid, little, conniving, two-faced, slutty bitch is not in my house, hair a mess, and wearing my mom's Pj's, eating my bread. This is a dream; I'm still at Jon's, asleep in his bed. None of this is actually happening. It can't be.

I pinch my arm, and oh god... it is.

"Don't be an asshole!" he says, incredulously, the half buttered toast ignored on the counter.

That stupid bitch is sitting at the kitchen table, looking up at Ryan with this look like, Oh, I'm so hurt. Comfort me, Ryan.

"Did she sleep here last night?" I ask slow, voice hard and cold as I stare at him, eyes the same. I can feel my ears turn red, and my pulse quicken. If he says yes, I swear...

"Yeah," he says calm and nonchalantly, like it's the most normal effing thing for his crazy ex-girlfriend to be sleeping at my house when he knows how much I despise her. "She was here last night, and because of the storm, you're mom just ended up letting her sleep in the guest bedroom."

I shake my head, looking up at the ceiling, because this is actually un-fucking-believable. My mom, my own flesh and blood, knows how much I hate her, and she let her stay over for the night? Why would she even let her step foot into this house in the first place? She should have kicked her out on the street (in the storm to get hit by the lightning) the second she stepped foot in the house.

I am too sleep-deprived, and moody, and grouchy, and just, upset over the fact that I woke up this morning and all the junk food that I ate last night did effect me, and is evident on my thighs and ass (which, by the way, did not need to get any bigger in the first place), and now, there's this... thing in my house.

"I want her out of my house, right now," I hiss.

Ryan stares at me, like he just cannot believe I'm reacting like this, but really, how did he think I wouldn't? "Brendon..."

"I'm serious, Ryan," I seethe, already turning to leave the kitchen and away from her. "If I come down and she's still here, I swear..."

He shakes his head, at a loss for words, finally all he manages to sputter out is a clever, "You're such a fucking asshole, you know that?"

"I don't really give a shit right now, actually," I snap back, leaving the kitchen completely, and heading up the stairs to my room.

And okay, maybe I am an asshole. Maybe I am over-reacting. But, like I said, I'm exhausted, moody, irritated and just plain upset, and after all the things Spencer said about Dayna last night, seeing her (especially in my goddamn house) just makes me want to throw something at the wall (preferably her head). And I just can't even believe Ryan would be so stupid to invite her into my house, when he knows how I feel about her. How fucking rude and inconsiderate is that of him? Hmm?

I'm in my room, sitting on my bed, with my face in my hands, for a total of two minutes before the door flies open and a red-face Ryan is standing at the doorway, throwing his hands up in the air, "What the heck is your problem lately?!" he demands.

"My problem?" I cry, and I actually even a laugh a little, because god, that's an absolute fricken hoot that I'm the one who has the problem. "You're the one that's been ditching everyone for this two-faced bitch who's obviously just trying to get you back!"

"You don't even know her!"

"Maybe not, but I've heard enough to know."

Ryan snorts, and rolls his eyes. "Oh, right. Let me guess, from Spencer, right?" he sneers.

I shrug, remembering my promise not to tell Ryan that he was the one who told me, but just like I had thought, I fail because he knows.

"Of fucking course. He's still going on about that," he snaps, voice icy. "And how he was the victim, and Day -"

"Ryan, go! I don't want to hear any of it right now!" I cry, pointing to the door behind him. "Get out of my room! I don't want to talk to you right now, or even look at you! Go hang out with your precious fucking Dayna, do whatever the hell you two do together, I don't care anymore, but get her the fuck out of my house!"

Ryan snaps his mouth shut, and stares at me, completely still. "Fine," he mutters after a minute, voice cold. He steps out of my room, and walks down the hall without another word.

A few minutes later, I hear hushed voices downstairs, and then the sound of the front door slamming.

I don't cry; I'm too furious for that. Instead, I just fall down onto my back, and stare up at the ceiling, my brain pounding. Eventually, my eyes can not hold themselves up anymore, and I end up drifting off to sleep.

- - -

I wake up to the bed dipping by my shoulder, and a soft voice calling my name. The first thing I see when I open my eyes is Ryan's face looking down at me, eyes red and tears streaming down his cheeks.

My first instinct is to ask what's wrong.

He shakes his head, sniffs and wipes at his wet cheeks. "I'm just so sick of us fighting all the time," he replies, voice shaky.

I nod, still half-asleep, my brain still not really remembering why we were fighting in the first place. "Yeah," I murmur, because I am sick of it and that's all we've been seeming to do lately, and it really freaking sucks.

"I hate it, Bren," he whispers, voice cracking.

I feel a hot tear land on my arm.

"Me too," I croak, my mind slowly begins to process the reason why we're in a fight. I move my hand to his wrist, running my thumb over the inside, and scoot over a little before tugging him to lie down beside me.

He does so instantly, resting his wet cheek on my shoulder and curling into me. I'm still pissed that Dayna was over at my house, and that I'll now have to burn the guest bedroom sheets, but Ryan's crying here.

"Shhh," I murmur while I thread my fingers through his soft hair, and he nudges his nose into where my neck and shoulder meet as he hiccups.

"Can we please stop fighting?" he asks, voice muffled in my t-shirt.

"Yeah," I say, but I'm not really sure I believe it right now, not with Dayna still in the picture.

He nods, and lets out a shaky breath. "You don't have to like Dayna, okay?" he starts, and yeah, that's right I don't have to, cause I never will. "But, please, can you at least pretend? For everyone's sake? Because she's my friend, and you're my boyfriend and I just, I don't want to keep getting in fights over it..."

"Okay," I mumble, but I really doubt I'm even capable of pretending to be nice to her. I just have to hope and pray that eventually (and hopefully soon) Ryan will realize how much of a two-faced bitch she really is.

He smiles into my neck, and presses a soft kiss to my jaw. "Thanks, Bren," he whispers. "It means a lot."

I make a soft sound of recognition from the back of my throat, but that's it before my eyes are slipping shut, and I fall back to sleep with Ryan curled at my side.