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He strides to his car and pops the trunk, giving me a delicious whiff of his warm, sweaty body when he passes me.
Stepping back, he waves his arm with a flourish. “I wasn’t sure what colors you wanted, so I got a variety.”
“Holy hell, Lucas!”
The trunk is full of bags stuffed with paints, reusable palettes, and brushes of varying sizes. When I gape at him, he shrugs. “I figured whatever you don’t use will go to the Art Barn mural and general stock for the camp. It’s mostly latex paint. The lady at the store said that was best for outdoor wood signs.”
I nod absently as I rummage through the bags and quickly pull out a selection of colors. “These are great.”
“Good. Do you want me to sand the original sign down completely?” He hesitates. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted to do something new or just refresh it.”
“I want to keep the old design.” It’s simple but classic: two-toned block font with minor flourishes.
The hint of a smile twitches a corner of his lips. “I figured.”
Holding the thick tubes of paint to my chest, I look up into his clear eyes and feel that same feeling from twenty years ago. Tingly skin, shortness of breath, achy awareness.
“Lucas?”
His eyes narrow at my breathless voice. One eyebrow cocks in question.
“Can I have a kiss?”
Emotions play over his face like a slideshow, most too fast to name. Then he does as I asked—and exactly in the way I want—tilting my chin and placing the sweetest, most gentle kiss on my lips.
I’m still floating in the sensation of the past and present merging when he smacks my ass and says, “Now get to work.”
On a Tuesday night in September, two weeks into our sophomore year, I heard yelling through my cracked bedroom window. The path of my highlighter stilled as I angled my head, waiting to see if it would escalate or taper off.
There was a muffled thump, then a feminine cry. My mouth turned down and I squeezed my eyes shut.
It had been weeks since their last fight. Weeks in which I’d seen the ever-present knot of tension inside my best friend slowly unwind.
Tossing my highlighter to the side, I closed my textbook and grabbed the blanket off the end of my bed. Mom and Dad were watching a show in the living room. I glanced in as I walked past, meeting my dad’s gaze. Knowing exactly what the look on my face meant, his eyes darkened and he nodded.
I know my parents—and Jeremy’s parents, too—really struggled with Lucas and Michelle’s situation. Three times, my mom has called the cops. Twice when Lucas showed up with visible bruises on his arms and once when there was a crash next door so loud we thought a car had wrecked outside. And three times, nothing came of it because Mr. Adler has clout and money and is friends with the major.
They felt helpless, and so did I. But at least I could do this: support my friend when he needed me.
Outside, the sky was clear, the air crisp even while the ground held tightly to the vestiges of summer. My footsteps crunched over gravel and mulch as I picked my way to the bench.
He was already there, shivering in a T-shirt, his eyes wild with helplessness as he stared toward his house. A nearby solar light highlighted half of his face and the goose bumps on his arms.
I sat beside him and wrapped half the blanket around his shoulders, keeping the other half anchored around me. Like a computer rebooting, he shuddered and took a deep breath.
“You smell good, Peapod.”
“You smell like feet.”
He didn’t, actually. He smelled like leftover chlorine from swim practice and that slight earthiness that was indefinably him.
The barest smile grazed his lips. When his head turned, his eyes meeting mine, I felt a strange jolt in my stomach. His arm lifted around my shoulders, tugging me flush to his side. This time my stomach tried to crawl out my throat.
I made myself relax. Reminded myself this was standard for us. We hugged. We leaned. We shoved and pinched and high-fived. Physical connection had always been a part of our friendship, and there was no reason for it to get weird now.
Even though it felt different. New and a little scary.
We both stiffened when the back door of his house opened, slamming against the siding. His father’s voice reached our ears, low and drenched in rage.
