“That would be great, Mom. Thank you. I’ll keep playing with these numbers, and we’ll just have to find something that works.”
“The two of you can do it,” she says, and this time, I hear a confidence in her voice that gives me a little more hope.
“Yeah. We’ll figure it out.”
“Let me know how it goes later, okay, sweetie?”
“Sure, Mom. Thanks again. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
I hang up, set my phone down next to me, and turn back to my laptop, determined to get these numbers to work, even if it takes me the rest of the afternoon.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Nico
“Wait,wait,wait.”Ishut the passenger side door to the truck and turn around as Alex meets me along the sidewalk. “So ifIget a waffle cone, does that mean—”
“Oh, shit,” he cuts in, frowning. He runs a hand through his hair with a sigh and then pulls out his phone. “I, uh... I actually don’t know. Maybe it’s fine?”
I step closer as he opens up a browser tab and googles our question. We both groan as the search results pop up. He scrolls for a second, skimming the summaries under each of the links. Then he sighs in frustration and shoves his phone back into his pocket.
“So... how do you feel about cake cones?” he asks, grimacing as he looks back up at me. He’s about due for a haircut and a touch-up, if he’s going to keep it dyed blue—his natural blond is showing through at the roots, and it’s getting a little too long for his neat style. And now it’s messy too. I want to reach up and brush it back into place, but I manage to keep my hands to myself.
Instead, I shrug and pretend to think on it. “Hmm, I dunno. How long did it say we’d have to wait?”
“Really? Really, Nico?!”
“I’m just weighing all of my options,” I tease with a smirk. “I mean, you’re asking me to choose between a waffle cone andkissing... I’m really not sure. It’s ahugesacrifice.”
He groans again, but there’s a small smile tugging at his lips. I can tell he almost wants to swat at me, but he doesn’t do it. He just shakes his head and turns to look toward the ice cream shop down the street. There’s a line out the door, and all of the tables outside are filled with loud groups, mostly people our age. I immediately recognize a bunch of them from school, including several guys whom I’m not too fond of.
I blow out a breath and drop my eyes to the sidewalk, trying to ignore the rush of uncomfortable feelings and memories. Voices calling me names.Nico the Freako.Punching Bag. Other things. Worse things.
Suddenly, even my light tease about Alex’s cinnamon allergy doesn’t feel good.
I bite my lip and lift my eyes up just as he glances back at me, his expression tight. “I’m kidding, of course,” I say, and he nods.
“Yeah, I know.”
“I’ll take whatever type of cone you usually get. What did you call it?”
“A cake cone.” He looks down at his shoes and scuffs the toe of one into the ground. “I’m sorry, uh... That’s something I hadn’t really thought about before, you know? I hate to ask you to—”
“—make a tiny adjustment to my eating habits so we can be together safely?” With a smile, I reach out and brush my fingers against his. It’s a tiny gesture, but the need to reassure him is strong. I link my pinkie with his for just a second before letting my hand drop back to my side. “It’s fine. Really.”
He lifts his eyes and then holds my gaze for a count of five. His cautious smile fades into a grimace. “You won’t be saying that when you have to turn down a cinnamon roll. Or snickerdoodles. Apple pie. A lot of desserts, actually. And curry. Mole. Barbacoa. Oh, and Coke and Dr.Pepper.”
“Damn.”
“Yeah. Eating out can be kind of a minefield. That’s probably one of the reasons my mom cooks so much. She can substitute for other spices when she’s cooking, and there’s no, uh, cross-contamination, I guess you’d call it.”
I just nod, and together, Alex and I start down the street toward Harley’s. Each step closer makes my chest tighten more, and an uncomfortable buzzing starts in my fingers. It’s familiar, accompanied by a growing irritation in the back of my mind.
I fucking hate it.
Alex’s hand touches my back briefly, as though he can sense the change. He probably can. And though it helps knowing he’s here with me, it doesn’t get rid of the feeling completely. There are too many people. Too many people who are assholes. Even with all the struggles of the last week and a half since school ended, I’ve been lucky to at least not havethatto deal with, too—the bullying, the pressure of having to be around so many other people I don’t trust.
