Sticky summer air lashes at my face. A bird, confused by our presence up this high, squawks before taking off. Derick jerks me toward the cupola, a white box with a copper top. The base is attached to the roof. Without the weather-vane ornament, it looks like a miniature house on top of a bigger house, one where an athletic elf could live undisturbed.
When he offers me the rooster end of the pole, I ask before I lose my nerve, “Why did you try to kiss me?”
He’s stunned into stopping. “That’s a complicated question.”
“I’m okay with a complicated answer.”
We tentatively move toward the cupola where his end of the pole slides precisely into the hole at the top. The unset ornament slips down so fast it lets out a brassyclang. From his tool belt, Derick pulls out a screwdriver.
As per his instructions, which are starting to feel like stall tactics, I crouch down to tug the rooster up to the top. He takes out his phone to find out which direction is true north. Once we figure that out and line the ornament up with the proper openings, he screws the final nails into place.
“Back in high school—I don’t know if you remember this—but you had this list of perfect-first-kiss elements. Right place, right time, right person, or whatever? I caught you writing it in Peer Leadership in that bullet journal you carried everywhere. I remember joking about it, laughing, busting your chops a bit,” he says wistfully. “You looked so hurt. I regretted it immediately. I didn’t realize how serious you were about it. It always stuck with me for some reason. I hated making you feel that way.” He takes a deep reset of a breath. “One of the things on that list was—”
“The Fourth of July fireworks,” I finish for him.
He rakes a hand through his deflated mane. “Yup.”
“But you said you didn’t think of me like that. You asked if we could be friends.”
“In my first email back, I was trying to say I didn’t think about anyone that way in high school because everything about my sexuality was still so mixed up. And later, you told me that email meant nothing to you. That it was an accident. That you didn’t feel that way either,” he says. “I guess I was just trying to protect myself.” All the hurt words I’d speared him with in the gazebo were full-scale deflection. How did I expect him to see through my swords and suit of armor?
“Wow,” I mutter. “We are really bad communicators.”
“We’re out of practice,” he says. He’s right. Those three and a half years of silence have taken their toll on us. Finding our footing among all this change hasn’t been easy. “I’m willing to practice now if you’re up for it.”
I gesture for him to sit. On opposite sides of the cupola, we look out on the untouched land. Everything the eye can see could use a trim or a cut but, even overgrown, it has a humble peacefulness, a painting come to life.
“You’re different this summer. Seeing you take charge around the lot and interact with Alice around here, I just, I don’t know, started to catch full-on feelings for you,” he admits. “After that night in your basement, I didn’t know how to backtrack, what to say to let you know, so when the fireworks opportunity presented itself, I thought,You better take this, Derick. This is your shot. Clearly, I misjudged the moment.”
“No,” I jump in. I stand without holding on, feeling steady on my own two feet for once. “I have feelings for you too.” He looks up at me, cheeks reddening. “I think we just…”
“Moved too fast?” he asks. It’s not exactly wrong, and I’m not sure I’m ready to share my demi-ness just yet. Not until I feel certain or set about how that puzzle piece lodges into the image of me—is it a corner or is it one of the many unsorted pieces that make up the middle?
“Yeah,” I breathe. Because that’s fine for now.
“Does that mean our trip is still on?” he asks. “I really want to go to the city with you, Wren.”
Wren.Not Captain. Not Wrenji. Just my name, short and sweet sliding off his tongue in the shining sunlight.
“The concrete jungle better make way for us.” I let loose a stupid laugh.
Like Cupid’s sending us a message, a gust of wind sends the weather vane spinning, and when it stops, the arrow points right at me, aimed straight through my heart.
Chapter 18
“Babe, why do you own these?” Mateo asks, picking up my boxer shorts with cartoon clapper boards on them.
Avery oversees folding my shirts while Mateo rummages through my underwear drawer. I’m happy to have help packing for this trip. Otherwise I’d be blasting some swoony Rachel Portman (my favorite female composer) and waltzing around my bedroom in an embarrassing, grandiose fashion. I’m still buzzing on high from Derick’s and my declarations earlier in the week.
“They’re novelty loungewear. They’re comfy,” I retort.
“They’re tragic.” He slingshots them across the room with expert aim. They land in the trash can. “Have Imentionedyou’re in desperate need of newunmentionables?” He tugs at a tearing waistband on a threadbare pair of Hanes.
I zip up my cosmetic case, now stuffed with toothpaste, floss, and other oral care must-haves so my mouth is always minty fresh. I may have curbed the Fourth of July kiss, but who knows what this trip might bring. I like to be prepared. “That’s not really a priority right now.”
“Is this, like, a couple’s trip?” Avery asks. She secures the straps over my clothes in the main body of my suitcase, pulling tightly so they don’t slide around.
“After we get the Alice event situated, I do have a big, flashy date planned for us, but nothing is official right now. We’re feeling it out,” I say.
