“Let’s go,” I say curtly.
“What was that?” Derick leans in close enough that I can smell his cedarwood and orange-ginger cologne. For a second, it’s senior year again and I’m back outside Ye Olde Bookshop on Halloween night—the chilly eve I fully registered my feelings for him. Right before the start of the historical ghost tour, he saw me shivering as usual, undid his Burberry scarf (his Ken doll costume was almost too perfect anyway), and handed it to me with a warm smile. High on his cologne, I barely listened to the petite, brown-skinned girl whose throaty voice echoed eerily through the storied graveyard.
That scarf is still in a special, secret compartment in my closet back in 3B. I silently vow to purge myself of those memories, start the tour, and probably dump the scarf.
Probably.
I shove my hands into my pockets so he doesn’t see them shake. He pulls his camera from its pouch. The long Nikon lens catches the sun beams and almost blinds me. He wields it with impressive authority as I gesture toward the main screen with clipped precision. The faster I get through this, the faster we can go our separate ways.
“Sorry we got interrupted the other day,” Derick says almost under his breath when I break for a beat. I know he feels the awkward tension in the air as we round the storage shed. His half apology does nothing to diffuse it. “Damien is known for his bad timing. He was born three weeks early during my uncle Leon’s wedding. Smack-dab in the middle of the vows, a real Kleenex moment killed by broken water and pained shouting. I was only three, but I remember the ceremony stopping and my aunt fainting and… Wow, sorry. Jeez, it seems like all I do is apologize around you lately.”
I huff. I don’t even mean to huff. It’s a reflex that I can’t help. There’s too much irony that he’s apologizing for everything but the obvious. To cover it up, I start to turn away, deliberately lightening my voice as if none of this—including him—means anything to me. “Anyway, so, moving on.”
“Please don’t do that.” The camera falls from his hands in frustration, bouncing against the rigid muscles of his stomach.
I turn back. “Do what? I’m notdoinganything.” I’m being a brat, obviously, but aren’t I entitled to? Maybe I’m dismissing him now, but only because he dismissed me back then.
“Wrenji.” He sighs. And, dammit, for the second time, I’m all too helpless against that nickname. Left powerless by the exasperated way it floats out of his mouth and swirls into my eardrums. It transports me back to our playground days, to kickball and him never letting me get picked last. I drop the thorny behavior because even now I hate to see him hurt. Even though that sentiment doesn’t flow both ways. “I wanted to tell you—”
Again, suddenly, I desperately don’t want to hear whatever he has to tell me. I’m afraid it’ll hurt too much. “I’m doing my job,” I say, cutting him off. “You’re doing your job. We both have do those jobs in proximity of one another. Let’s not make this any harder than it has to be.”
And then, before he can say anything more, I start away. He’s quick to follow, calling my name—determined to have this talk—so I detour straight for the snack shack. There are too many prying ears present for either of us to say anything there.
Avery’s got the newbies working like a well-oiled machine. Two team up on a step stool, filling the soft-serve machine with a giant bag of mix. Another pair are cleaning out the popcorn maker. Avery leans up against the counter, snacking on a pack of Reese’s Pieces.
“Hello, Derick. Nice to see you,” Avery says with a casual iciness. She had a few choice names for him after I relayed what happened at the restaurant. He doesn’t seem to notice her tone, and he greets her with a gregarious smile. We flip up a portion of the chipped teal countertop and pass through to the other side. Mateo is hobbling, holding two heavy soda-syrup refills. It’s day one and he’s already complaining that his feet hurt.
Derick turns back once to capture the frenzy in a single frame. It wounds me to admit that this will probably look dazzling on our Instagram feed. Not that I’m 100 percent behind it just yet.
I broke my social-media boycott the other day just to inspect his work. The feed is racking up more views and likes than I expected, and we aren’t even open for the season yet.
At warp speed, I show him the empty break room with the punch cards and the time clock, the jumbo wall calendar covered in Post-it notes, and the box filled with rolls and rolls of old film posters. We save them all in case we do an encore showing. Most get adopted by me afterward so I can hang them in my room. Even if they’re wrinkly and torn at the edges, I don’t care. I love them anyway.
“And that’s everything. Tell Earl I went to inventory the shed,” I say, attempting to extract myself from this moment as efficiently as possible.
He stops me as I start to slip by, his voice low even though we’re alone back here. “I really do think we need to talk.” When I just look up at him, lips set in a stubborn line, he adds, “Okay. Let’s do it the old-fashioned way, then. Two truths and a lie. Isn’t that how you got all those middle schoolers to open up in our mentoring sessions? You loved those icebreaker games.”
“We’re college graduates. Our icebreaker days are behind us.” My light laugh rings hollow.
“I’ll go first,” he says, ignoring me. “One: I have three older brothers. Two: I’ve got an extensive sneaker collection, and I change the pairs out during the day to match my mood. Three: Wren Roland sent me a sweet email that caught me completely off guard and—”
Without letting him finish that sentence, I pull him out of the break room and into a nearby closet, full of popcorn buckets and churro seasoning, to make sure the others can’t walk in and witness this. I will not let him undermine my authority like Mateo did, especially not by airing out my lovelorn miscalculation.
Even if he did just say my email wassweet. Which is a revelation I’ll have to spiral about later.
The whirring of the soda machine and the cheerful chatter from the main room can’t be heard from in here. The lone, ancient light bulb buzzes over our heads.
“Can we not talk about the electronic elephant in the room, please?”
“Oh, so now it’s an elephant? The other day it didn’t matter,” he says, folding his arms defiantly across his chest. I take stock of how wide he is. His shoulders practically brush the shelves that bracket us in. “So, which is it?”
“I said drop it.”
“I mean the lie. Which one is the lie?” There’s a playful softness to his tone, all his vowels elongated.
“It’s the brother thing. Damien’s younger than you, obviously. You just told that whole story,” I state. He nods. “Did I win? Are we done now? Can I get back out there?”
“Not until you play too. Those were always the rules, right?” He takes a daring step closer. He’s a glutton for challenges.
