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I feel like I’m tap dancing, trying to distract him away from a place I’m not ready to go. “Then the snapping turtle drops it and a giant catfish noms it up.”
Nic winces and falls silent for a few minutes as he focuses on his canvas. “That day by the tire swing, when I stole your pencils…I almost kissed you.”
“I…know.” For years I thought I’d daydreamed that moment between us, but it was real. I’d pretended I didn’t care about the pencils, grabbing the tire swing like I intended to climb through it. Nic stood on the other side, holding my pencils just within reach. When I caved, he moved them higher. I threw the swing at him, but he caught it, pushed it aside, and in a heartbeat he had his free hand around my waist. We stared, wide-eyed, at each other for a solid thirty seconds. I don’t think either of us breathed.
Then he’d stepped back, and it was over. I snatched my pencils from him and ran to the house, my heart a mess.
Nic glances back at my painting of the tire swing. “The date in the corner…”
He hasn’t gotten close enough to read the date, so he must have been the one to turn it around. The whole time he was up here looking for Ping-Pong balls, he’d been looking through my paintings. It makes me feel all warm and fuzzy and a little nauseous if I’m honest.
I’d painted the tire swing the day afterSummer Campcame out. Because the kiss in that movie could’ve been us and maybe I’d wanted to relive that moment a little. Maybe Nic wanted to, too, when he suggested moving the kiss to the tire swing.
“Why didn’t you kiss me?” I ask. I didn’t kiss him thanks to a healthy fear of rejection from someone who only ever showed me indifference.
“Seriously? You’d have removed my nuts.”
If he’d kissed me that day, testicle removal would’ve been delayed a good 72 hours as I recovered from the shock. More than enough time for him to change his name and move out of state.
“And I don’t think Timothy would’ve reacted well.” He adds.
That makes me laugh. “Nope. He had a huge crush on you.”
He nods and sighs a little. “He was my best friend. Couldn’t risk it.”
“He’s still your best friend.” I point out.
“He doesn’t have a crush on me anymore.” He dabs some paint on his canvas and frowns. “It kind of feels like he wants us to get together sometimes.”
“Of course he does, he’s been betting on us for years.”
Nic’s jaw drops, but he recovers quickly. “Actually, that makes sense.”
“Timbo’s gotta Timbo,” I say, tapping the sketchbook. My face is already growing warm. Maybe it’s something about this conversation and clearing the air, or maybe I’m starting to suffer from carbon monoxide poisoning shut up in the attic, but I can’t stop myself from confessing, “I had a crush on you too.”
Chapter twenty-three
Jessie
Nic’seyesdropbackto his canvas as he concentrates on whatever he’s painting, the tips of his ears going pink. “I was infatuated with you in high school,” he says quietly. “Every class we had together I failed or came close to failing.”
I laugh. “Seriously?”
He shrugs, stepping back to look at his canvas before plucking a different brush from the cup of water.
“That game of spin the bottle. You refused to kiss me because of Timothy?”
“I’d only known you both for a month. I thought he’d beat my ass.”
“He didn’t beat anyone else’s ass.” I point out.
“No one else kissed you the way I would’ve,” he says, glancing up, his eyes dark and heated.
“Very good answer,” I say, dropping my eyes to my sketch pad. The silence between us is comfortable as Nic paints and I think about how I’d paint little glimpses of an erotic moment. Not how Gretchen wants it, but how I feel it. My fingers are itching for a paintbrush.
There’s a blank page in front of me, but I don’t want to doodle.
“Can I sketch you?” I ask.
