“I do have a colorful wardrobe.”
“You wearexclusivelyblack and gray.”
“I wear blue sometimes.”
“Navy doesn’t count, Spencer.”
His lips quirk.
“I like your clothes though. They’re very...you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? You keep saying that.”
“Bright. Unapologetic.” He steals back a fry. “Kind of impossible to ignore.”
My face heats. “Is that almost a compliment?”
“Don’t let it go to your head.” But he’s smiling now, that rare real smile that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. “Black is practical,” he speaks carefully.
“Boring, you mean.”
“Professional.”
“Predictable.”
“Are you done insulting my wardrobe?”
“Never.” I steal another fry. “Someone has to save you from yourself.”
He catches my wrist before I can grab another one. “You said something about standing out anyway. What did you mean by that?”
I fiddle with a napkin; suddenly aware I might have revealed too much. But there’s something about late-night diners and fluorescent lights that makes honesty feel easier.Or, there’s something about Alfie Spencer…
“I just... never quite fit anywhere, you know? Like I was alwaystoosomething. Too loud for the quiet kids, too nerdy for the popular crowd, too scattered for the seriousstudents. Even when I had friends, it never felt...” I trail off, searching for the right words.
“Real?” he offers quietly.
“Yeah. It was all very... one dimensional? Like, I’d be friends with the drama kids during musical season, then the debate team during competitions. I bounced between groups, but never really belonged to any of them.”
Alfie’s watching me. “Sounds lonely.”
“Sometimes.” I shrug. “It was probably my own fault though. I was scattered, I wanted to try out everything, I never quite fit in perfectly with any group so I floated between them.”
“That doesn’t sound like a fault,” he says.
“No? Try telling that to people when you quit ballet to join a mock trial for the debate team, then quit that to start a poetry club.” I laugh, but it comes out a bit hollow. “I just... wanted to do everything. Be friends with everyone, you know? But I think that made it harder to be close to anyone.”
“Until Alex,” he says, understanding in his voice.
“Yeah. Until Alex.” I smile, remembering. “First person who didn’t seem to mind that I could talk for hours about Victorian literature one day and want to learn skateboarding the next.”
“Some people might find that interesting.” His voice is soft. “The fact that you’re never boring.”
As I look up, he’s still watching me with an amused expression, but there’s something else there now—something that makes my heart skip.
“Well,” I say, trying to lighten the mood, “at least my weird personality led to excellent fashion choices.”
“You really never stop trying new things, do you?” There’s something almost wistful in his voice.
