Vincent dips one in ketchup and bites it. “He asked me my name and said, ‘You’ve got a gift, kid.’ Then he gave me a form with the class list and a pen.”
My eyes light up. I grab his hands, and the fry he was holding drops on his tray. “He told you you have a gift! I knew it. Did you sign up?”
He hesitates, staring at our joined hands. I squeeze him tighter, searching his eyes, but he avoids my gaze. “Tell me you signed up.”
Vincent sighs, pulling away from me. He lays his face on the table, hiding under his arms. “How come you’re not mad at me?” he mumbles.
I raise an eyebrow. “Why would I be mad?”
He doesn’t answer.
I smile a little. “Can you look at me?”
He shakes his head. I chuckle as I get up, and I move to sit beside him. Gently, I place a hand on his back and trace circles over the fabric of his shirt, trying to calm him. “Please?”
He lifts his head just enough for me to see his dark irises. “Sorry.”
I lean closer and he lowers his head again until it’s almost touching mine.
“Sorry for what?” I ask softly, resting my head on the table too, so our eyes meet.
He studies me carefully, searching for something. Maybe anger. But he won’t find that—not from me. A few strands of hairfall over his face and he blows them away, frustrated. I giggle—it’s such a sweet sight. He doesn’t know how adorable he looks.
“If I sign up for music club, I’ll leave you alone in baking club because they’re at the same time. What if someone starts bothering you? I don’t want jerks like Seth or Dustin to hurt you.”
I roll my eyes and I brush his hair back. He’s always so thoughtful, but he shouldn’t put me before his dream.
He needs real lessons, not just YouTube tutorials. And Mr. Sheridan himself said it—Vincent has a gift. Not just talent.A gift.
“I can be alone during one class. Nothing will happen to me,” I reassure him.
He snorts, lifting his head. “But—”
I raise a hand, stopping him. “I can do it. The important thing is that you join music club.”
“I don’t want to leave you alone,” he insists, worry creeping in.
I notice the signs of his anxiety setting in—his fingers picking at the scrunchie on his wrist, his leg shaking under the table. He only started his new medication last month. The Coopers explained me the difference between the drops he used to take and the antidepressants he’s on now, but I’m still afraid. If he has a panic attack, I don’t know how to help without his meds.
I sigh. “I’m the one who wants to be alone.” I lie.
“You... want to be alone?” His voice trembles.
No. “Yes. I want to try bakery class on my own and make new friends,” I lie again.
The truth is, I’m scared to death of being without him. But I want him to join music and learn how to play guitar.
“It’ll be fun. I’ll bring you desserts I bake, and you can tell me all about rehearsals. You know Mr. Sheridan is full of music stories and quotes—just the way we like it.”
Uncertainty lingers in his brown eyes, but I keep pushing.
“It’ll be fun,” I repeat with a smile.
He picks at his cuticles now, his leg bouncing again. I rest a hand on his knee, stilling it.
“What kind of knight in shining armor would you be if you couldn’t play guitar?” I tease, grinning.
He arches an eyebrow. “Do you really want to be alone?”
