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“Still can’t grow balls, can you?”
My mouth drops. “What the fuck, Lucas!”
He smirks. “Zero points out of ten, Peapod. You still suck at this game.”
I glare back, zeroing in on the dark blond hair curling against his ears and neck. “All your money and you can’t afford a haircut?”
His smile widens. “Good one. How many combs broke trying to get through that rat’s nest on your head?”
My teeth grind. “How many people know you cry every time you watch Neverending Story and that you watch it at least once a year?”
Something shifts in his eyes. He takes a step forward. “Maybe I don’t watch it anymore.”
“You do.” My chin lifts. “How many?”
“Just one.”
The solemn look in his eyes tells me it’s the truth. How many more secrets do only I know? The question dances through my mind, pools on my tongue. I force it down with a heavy swallow and look away.
From the bordering backyard, we hear his mother’s voice.
“Lucas? Where are you, dear?”
The molasses-thick space between us grows rigid. I imagine it the color of mud, shot through with defiant streaks of gold. Once upon a time, we were something to each other, but that precious ore is now smothered in shit-brown.
Lucas clears his throat. “That’s my cue. Better go before your dad comes after me with the hose.” It’s an old joke—my dad would never. He hesitates. “Do you still paint, Peapod?”
“No.”
He studies my face so long my cheeks heat. I look down, away from the sympathy in his eyes.
“That’s a shame,” he says softly.
I shrug. “Take care, Lucas. See you in another decade?”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
“Cryptic as always,” I retort.
His lips curve as he turns away. I don’t watch him go, instead forcing my feet into motion. Picking my way to the side of the house, I zero in on the faded coil of our ancient hose.
The backyard needs watering, and I need badly to do something with my hands.
After nearly drowning every plant my parents own, I feed Lulu and head home. Invoicing for the shop only takes twenty minutes. I finish a load of laundry and prep dinner for Damien and me. When that’s done and I still feel insane, I compulsively clean the apartment, emptying trash, changing bedsheets, and sweeping and mopping the floors.
Anything to not think about Lucas. About his voice, his physical presence, his eyes, all familiar and not. And about that brief banter, trading insults as easy as passing a frisbee. In the moment, I’d been electrified, swept up in the old game. Now all I felt was guilt and shame.
Jeremy never understood why I tolerated Lucas’s teasing. Why I dished it out in return. But Jeremy was different from us. He didn’t have an angst-filled bone in his body. While he participated in the long-running prank war between us, he never delighted in the results.
But he worshipped Lucas and loved me. So he stayed in our little trio, and everything was fine until the summer before our senior year.
“I just don’t get why you let him talk to you like that. Why you think it’s so funny.”
“Because it is funny. He doesn’t mean any of it. Neither of us does. It’s how we, I dunno, blow off steam. We’ve always been that way.”
Jeremy hesitates, then asks in a different, lower tone, “Does he still hop over the fence every night?”
Shocked, I look across the front seat of the car. The tension in his shoulders and jaw makes my stomach twist. This—exactly this—is why I wanted to say no when Jeremy asked me out.
