I grin.
“—but I,personally,need gear. Like… skates. And a stick. Maybe a puck, even. High maintenance, I know.” Her tone is teasing, but there’s a hint of suspicion mixed in.
I cross my arms. “Do you want my help or not?”
Her mouth opens. Closes. Then opens again. She sighs. “Fine,” she mumbles, dropping the bag with a thud. She steps into the hallway, closing the door behind her.
The metal bench at the bus stop is like ice against my body, but I stay seated. Standing feels worse—like hugging a metal pole while someone beats it with a hammer. The four-hour bus ride two days ago left my joints stiff and aching. Too much stillness is what kicked off this mini flare-up. Ironically, stillness is now all I can manage.
Peyton glances sideways. “Where are we going?”
She pulls the hood of her GU sweater over her head—the same one she let me borrow at Harlowe’s Halloween-Birthday party. The one that was too snug in the armpits. The one that smelled like her.
“You’ll see,” I say, squinting at the oncoming headlights trying to guess if they’re bus headlights or just regular headlights.
Peyton huffs. “You know, this wasn’t part of the deal.”
She takes another sip of her putrid “hazelnut” latte that really tastes more like charred dirt. She grimaces at the flavor. The headlights draw closer, then the front of the bus breaks into view. I press both palms—pastel green today to match my pants (thanks to Cleo’s fashion tips, and yes, dressing nicer does boost my confidence)—against the bench, forcing myself up with a wince.
“If you’re going to keep questioning my methods, we can—”
“No! No,” she cuts in quickly, eyes wide. “It’s just—the bus home leaves at eight, and if this takes a while, I won’t have time to get on the ice.”
The bus screeches to a stop in front of us, brakes hissing. She climbs on behind me. I fish a handful of change from my pocket, feed it into the machine, and grab our tickets.
The bus lurches into motion before we’re even sat down. I stumble and catch myself on the back of a dusty but occupied seat. The middle aged man in it spins around and glares at me like I’ve stolen his firstborn child. Peyton nudges me forward, and I see her flip him off out of the corner of my eye.
I’m grateful she’s behind me so she doesn’t catch the way I smile.
“That’s kind of the point,” I say, settling in. She flashes me an unamused look. “By the way, how did you manage to get into the rink yesterday morning?”
Peyton grins wolfishly. “You’d be amazed at what the promise of a Harrison Clarke autograph can buy you.”
I chew my lip. “Right. Dad perks.”
She nods.
As we ride through the city, our bodies swaying with the rumble of the bus, stop after stop rolls by in a dark, tranquil blur. We’re sharing Peyton’s earbuds again, the wire dangling in the gap between us. Her playlist is the most chaotic masterpiece I’ve ever heard—starting with the All American Rejects, then shifting to Beyoncé, then 50 Cent, The Carpenters, and Gigi Perez.
The strangest part is that it’s not at all jarring. Somehow it works, like different pictures cut into the same puzzle.
After five or six tracks, she turns to me.
“We don’t have to listen to this,” she says, holding her phone out. “You can play whatever you want.”
I shake my head. “I like it,” I say.
I don’t think I really understood the phraseher eyes lit upuntil I see it happen to Peyton. She doesn’t smile. In fact, nothing about her expression really moves. But something in her eyes shifts, and it’s like staring at the goddamn sun.
“You do?” she asks. “Really?”
“Yeah,” I say. “It kind of feels like the score to a low-budget indie movie. But like… the best movie you’ve ever seen.”
That’s when she smiles. A real goofy one. It’s one she hasn’t shown me before. One I feel privileged to see.
There’s something I love about people that you only get to experience when you spend real time with them. Something about watching them be themselves, completely unaware of the way their lips pull, how their hands move. How they talk faster when it’s about something they love, and their voice gets louder.
And if you tell them, it’ll make them embarrassed. So instead, you just watch and listen, praying that no one points it out—so that the next time it happens, they’re not covering their mouth, or lowering their voice. Not shrinking themselves. Not watering down who they are for the convenience of everyone else.
