Oh, shit.
I’m backpedaling. “I would’ve helped you!” I call. “You should have stayed put.”
It’s true, I would’ve found a way to help him. After letting him sit there for an hour and posting a video of it online.
Nicholas’s teeth are chattering when he emerges from the pond, sopping wet. He lumbers straight toward me. “Agh!” I squeal, ducking and crossing my arms like a shield in front of my face. He picks me up and throws me over his shoulder and my first thought isholy wow. He’s stronger than he looks. Maybe it’s adrenaline strength.
He turns on his heel and heads back to the pond. When Irealize what he’s about to do, I clutch tightly to him for dear life while simultaneously kicking and thrashing. “No! Don’t you dare! Nicholas, I mean it!”
He swings me around to tuck me under his arm, planting his boots two feet apart on the bank. I’m flailing like a snake but he doesn’t lose his grip, tipping me over until my face hovers an inch over the water. Our reflected stares meet. My eyes are terrified, and his burn.
“Nicholas Benjamin Rose, I swear to god I will call the police if you don’t put me down right now.”
“Right now?” he teases, sliding me forward a centimeter. He’s going to drown me.
“Not literally right now! On the ground! Put me on the ground!” I kick, but the movement just propels me forward. He’s going to drop me on my face.
Nicholas hesitates. Considers. Then he does this impressive feat of strength in which he flips me like a pancake so that I’m right side up. He bends his face close, and it’s like we’re dancing and he’s just dipped me, leaning in for a kiss. My lungs forget how to function and I’m frozen, wide-eyed in wonder as he leans in closer, closer, closer. His lips are almost brushing mine, and intention solidifies in his gaze. Accepting of my fate, I close my eyes for a kiss and he abruptly tilts me back until my hair is submerged. Icy water chases all the way to my roots.
I scream.
He laughs, setting me upright. “You ass!” I yell, slapping his arm. Nicholas laughs harder. My hair is the North Pole and I’m traumatized for life. “That’s freezing!”
“Imagine how I feel.”
“It’s not my fault you jumped in the water, you idiot.”
He turns and saunters away. “Shouldn’t have laughed at me.”
I snarl and jump on his back, bringing him crashing down to the ground. I’m not cognizant of what I’m doing, just that I must destroy this man. I reach out on either side of us and gather armfuls of dead leaves, furiously scooping them over him.
“What are you doing?” he asks, facedown as the leaves scatter over the back of his head. His chest seizes, and then I gobump, bump, bump, jostling up and down when he starts laughing. “Are you trying toburyme?”
“Shut up and stop breathing.”
Nicholas howls with laughter. I’m so upset that he’s not afraid of me and taking the end of his life more seriously that I hop up and down on him in reprimand.
Nicholas rolls and catches my hands before they can shoot out and strangle him. He laces our fingers together, grinning crookedly. “You should see what you look like right now,” he tells me.
A murderous Jack Frost, probably. The image ignites another bout of anger, and I wrestle for control of my hands. He doesn’t let go, tightening his fingers. “Stop stopping me from destroying you.”
Tears leak down either side of his face as he laughs, cheeks pink, breath pluming up in white puffs. It hits me how much I like his laugh. His smile. His smile is ordinary when taken in on its own, but combined with the adorable laugh lines, the light that glows in his color-changing eyes, it’s remarkable.
Some of the leaves I’ve been messing with have pine needles hidden in them, and they’ve prickled my palms, making them itchy. I rub my hands on either side of his jaw, using his stubble like a scratching post. Nicholas’s eyebrows go up in disbelief,more tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. He stares and stares at me. “You’re bananas,” he says, not unkindly.
I snort. I have never heard him call anybody bananas. He’s called me ridiculous half a million times, butbananasis so silly a term that I start cry-laughing, too.
He grins wider. “What?”
“You’re a fopdoodle.”
We both laugh. “I saw it on the Internet somewhere,” I insist. “It’s a real word.”
“Your mom’s a real word.”
“Your mom’s a real bad word.”
He lets go of one of my hands so he can wipe his eyes. “Touché.” Then he asks, “What does fopdoodle mean?”
