I try to keep my eyes down, but I notice people staring—some with blank party faces, some with open fascination. I’m not sure if they’re trying to guess if I’m a guy or a girl or just reveling in the spectacle. For once, I don’t care. I’m more focused on keeping my knees from giving out.
“Next!” the toga girl shouts.
The person ahead of me vanishes into the closet. I’m on deck. I can hear the blood in my ears, the rushing sound almost drowning out the music.
Hunter reappears at my elbow, breathing hard. “You’re up next,” he says, barely disguising the glee in his voice.
I glare at him. “This is all part of your master plan, isn’t it?”
He looks at me, eyes shining. “You’re going to crush it, Spence. Remember. Play the part. It’s just one minute in the dark. Then you never have to see them again.”
I want to ask if he’s rigged the lineup, if there’s an ulterior motive to this match, but the curtain opens and the toga girl waves me forward.
Sara touches my wrist one last time. “You got this,” she whispers.
I step through the curtain. The darkness is total, thick and absolute. There’s a faint chemical tang—perfume, or maybe Febreze. I hear the door close behind me, and I stand there, paralyzed.
A voice in the dark, low and uncertain: “Uh… hey?”
I know that voice. I would recognize it anywhere.
My heart spikes. “Hey,” I manage, pitching it higher, more breathy. Jessica, not Spencer.
There’s a beat of silence, then the unmistakable sound of Aaron Thompson clearing his throat. “So, uh. Guess we just…?”
I can’t see him, but I can feel him, the heat of his body, the shifting of weight in the tiny space.
“It’s tradition, I think,” I say, half a joke.
He laughs, nervous but not unkind. “Yeah. Guess we’d better not ruin the party.”
I have no idea how to proceed. I don’t know where he is, where his hands might be, if he’s as scared as I am or if he’s just bored and waiting for it to be over.
I reach out, fingers trembling, and brush against his arm. He’s close—closer than I thought. He inhales, sharp.
“You smell really good,” he says, surprised.
Sara’s perfume. I almost laugh.
I move my hand up, feeling the fabric of his Deadpool suit. There’s no mask now; I feel bare skin under my palm. He leans forward, tentative, and I realize he’s giving me the lead.
The urge to run is overwhelming. But there’s something else, too—a flutter of excitement, the potential for chaos, the possibility that for once, I could be someone else. Someone who isn’t afraid.
I take a small step, and his lips find mine.
It’s nothing like I expect. Soft, careful, a test. His hands rest gently at my waist, then flex, just barely tightening. I’m hyperaware of the pressure of his mouth, the taste of beer and candy, the faintest tremor in his breath. He’s holding back, maybe unsure, maybe just polite.
I remember what Hunter said: play the part.
I lean into it, just a little. My mouth opens, not much, but enough for him to get the message. His tongue flicks at my lip, then retreats. He makes a low sound in his throat, almost a laugh.
“Is this—okay?” he asks, lips grazing mine.
I want to say yes, but the word sticks in my throat. Instead, I kiss him again, and this time he responds with more certainty, hands rising to my lower back, bodies aligning in the small, dark space. It’s warm, and a little desperate, and for sixty seconds I lose track of who I am supposed to be.
There’s a knock on the door. “Time’s up!” the toga girl calls.
Aaron pulls away, breathless. “Wow,” he says, and then seems to catch himself. “Sorry, that was—um. You’re really good at this.”
