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“Harsh, but not undeserved. In all seriousness, I think that club is a good thing for Ren. It’s important he has a place and friends to be himself with, to nerd out and loosen up, free from the pressures of the team, with his public image.”
Ziggy stares at me, her gaze sharp. “Would it appeal to you for those reasons, too?”
Just a few days ago, I’d have laughed that off, made some asshole remark.
But something about the way Ziggy looks at me as she asks that, soft morning sun lighting up those vivid green eyes, makes me pause, makes me consider it. Oddly, a group situation that isn’t just a glittering shell of vapid interaction sounds almost…appealing.
Especially if Ziggy were there. She’s turned my shins black and blue, and she has an annoying tendency to psychoanalyze me, but she’s also… How can I describe what it’s like, sharing space and time, even just a facsimile of a friendship with someone so far above me, who doesn’t make me feel like shit for it?
It’s…water on a desert-dry throat, air after diving far too deep—a gulp of grace that defies sense.
And I can’t say no to it.
Besides, friends would share this sort of thing with each other, invite each other to an activity they liked, wouldn’t they?
“Maybe,” I finally answer her. “It might go some way to improving my image, at least.”
Ziggy tips her head from side to side. “It might. But it’s not like we could broadcast it. Remember: this is a secret club.”
“The most un-secret secret club,” I remind her. “Regardless, my image could use all the help it can get, even if it is only via rumors. For once, at least they’ll be positive rumors.”
“Well, then you should come. It’s a lot of fun. But first, you have to memorize some of your favorite Shakespeare, then recite it for at least two members. If you do that genuinely and prove you have good intentions with the group, you’re initiated.”
I drum my fingers on the table. “That’s not hard.”
She seems surprised. “Really?”
“You’re looking at the lead heartthrob in our tenth grade English class’s dramatic reading of Romeo and Juliet.”
“Wow—I’m in the presence of high school theatrical greatness.”
I lift my water in cheers, then take a drink.
Ziggy rests her chin in her palm, eyes crinkled at the corners, dancing and playful. “I bet you were good. You have a flair for the dramatic, after all.”
“Oh, fuck off—”
“Zounds!” she hisses, eyes wide in warning. “Sebastian, you and that mouth!”
A deep laugh cracks out of me. I have no idea why it delights me—whether it’s the sweetness of her reprimand or the absurdity of an Elizabethan oath being yelled my way, maybe both. I bury my face in my hands as I laugh, my shoulders shaking.
Ziggy’s laugh catches in her throat, like she’s trying to stop it. “It’s not funny. You have a very serious cussing problem, Gauthier.”
A wheeze leaves me as I laugh harder. Ziggy’s laugh pops out of her like a firework, all sparkle and smoke.
Then our waiter steps up to the table and puts an end to the moment. Instantly, their gaze snags on Ziggy. Annoyance crawls through me, watching them appreciate her bright smile, the pink in her cheeks that bloomed as she laughed.
I clear my throat loudly, startling them. They glance my way, but only for a moment before they’re focused on Ziggy again, telling her the specials, answering her questions.
Ziggy bites her lip, deliberating as she peers back down at the menu. “I think I’ll take the strawberry banana smoothie and also…a ham and cheese omelet. Oh, and can I have extra cheese, please? Thank you. Wait! Sorry. And a blueberry muffin. That sounds good. Thanks.” She hands them the menu, then turns toward me, smiling.
Somewhere in our laughing, that tug in my chest from watching her cry dissolved. Looking at her now, I feel something new, something there’s only room for since I cussed my way through yoga beside her in a space that felt big and real enough to hold my mess. Since I told her things I was so sure would cost me even this farce of a friendship. Since I laughed in a way I haven’t in as long as I can remember.
That something new, weighty and warm, spreads through me, a hunger for… What did she call it last night? Nourishment. Something filling, sustaining.
Something good.
Slowly, I lift my menu, scouring it with fresh eyes.
