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“Ready?” he says, leaning closer.
He’s kissing close, and a pull to lean forward too surprises me. My mouth dries. My heart beats in my fingertips, until I see the disinfectant-soaked cloth in his hand.Right.He’s not trying to kiss me. He’s about to inflict pain on me…while taking care of my leg.
Rattled and dreading the sting of that cloth, I grip Avett’s arm. The second he applies the antiseptic, I jerk and squeeze his biceps.
He winces. “Your nails could double as instruments of torture.”
The stinging lessens a bit, and I ease up my grip. “If I wanted to torture you, all I’d have to do is steal your alarm clock.”
He dabs at my wound, moving carefully. “What has my alarm clock ever done to you?”
“It’s not what it’s done to me. It would mess up your regimented schedule. Imagine the joy it would bring me.”
He stills for a beat. “Who says I’m regimented?”
“Sorry. Do you prefer the termanal?”
He pulls the cloth away and gives me a hard look. “You know nothing about me, Naomi.”
“You’re right. I don’t know that you run every morning along the exact same route by the junkyard, or that you never eat sugary foods, or that you grocery shop on Mondays. I also don’t know that you wear specific shirts on specific days of the week.” I point to today’s ironed blue button-down. “This is your Wednesday shirt. You’re a walking calendar.”
He straightens and folds his arms. His dark eyes narrow in an assessing way. “You’ve been paying close attention to me.”
“I…no.” Heat floods my face. “Not like that.”
“Like what, then?”
“It’s a small town, Avett. Everyone knows everything about everybody. I was just making a point.” And keeping track of my enemy. The last time I let my guard down with him, he doubled down on his high school insult. Which I need to remember, since he clearly doesn’t or he’s pretending he’s grown out of his rudeness.
He watches me a moment longer, then says, “I’m not anal.”
I snort. “You make the army look disorganized.”
Giving me a challenging look, he presses the disinfectant cloth firmer to my wound. I squirm but stay quiet.
The suturing goes relatively smoothly. I keep my eyes closed, counting my breaths to keep from freaking out. Needles are not my friend.
He finishes his work and applies a bandage, back to being gentle and thorough, and nerves flit through me. I replay his confession outside the clinic—I was crazy about you—the instant leap of my heart in that moment. This whole time with him I’ve felt safe and cared for. I’ve been utterlyattunedto him. Undeniably attracted to him. Now and always, really. The day I saw him kiss Tvisha Shah outside the Smash Shack when he moved home, jealousy struck, sudden and shocking.
I don’t know why Avett Lewis has always been my weak spot.
In high school, I first noticed him when he was quiet and sad. The Bower family, including his best friend, had left town without a word. I’d just lost my grandfather and then my dog, JoJo. I knew how it felt to be brittle while life and school went on like everything was normal. I recognized Avett’s quiet sadness and felt a secret kinship with him.
I have no clue how I gathered the nerve to go up to him and tell him as much. I wasn’t exactly flush with social confidence back. I was an only child, used to spending time with adults, not kids. My parents pushed me academically, encouraged studying and extracurriculars over having fun.If you want to succeed, my mother would say,you need to put in the work. Nothing good in life comes without sacrifice.That advice was always followed by her usual,Make us proud.
My goal in life back then was to do just that—make my parents proud. I sacrificed friends and dates and fun for good grades. I worked my butt off to get on the Dean’s list and be school president. Then I met Avett, and my socially starved heart bloomed.
I’m not sure if it was how reclusive I was back then or if it was just him. Either way, I fell hard while keeping my distance. My heart would beat so fast when he was near. Focusing on school became a struggle.
Then I found myself sitting at a table next to him in the library, studying for the same calculus test. When he muttered angrily and dropped his pencil, I chewed my lip, wanting to talk to him. Terrified to talk to him.
Want won out.
“Who would win in a fight,” I asked, swallowing my nerves, “the Flash or Spider-Man?”
He looked at me, startled, then grinned, revealing a dimple in his left cheek miles more fascinating than word problems. “The Flash. No contest. He’s too fast to hit.”
“Right, so, if the Flash’s body position is marked by the displacement function”—I pointed to the calculus function he got wrong—“how do you calculate the Flash’s acceleration when Spider-Man’s velocity is five?”
