“Prove it.” I grin, convinced that I’ve already won him over but still enjoying the sparring.
He hesitates and glances back at his textbook with genuine longing. “My parents will kill me if they find out I left.”
“Then we’ll make sure they don’t find out.” I lower my voice, thrilled by the danger of it all. “Besides, when has sneaking out ever been about getting caught? We’ll be careful. Promise.”
“I don’t sneak out.”
“I know. That’s the problem.”
Finally, something in his expression shifts. Maybe it’s how confident and excited I am about the whole thing, or maybe he’s tired of being perfect all the time. Whatever it is, he sighs and pulls on his shoes.
“If I fail this exam because of you…”
“You won’t fail. Trust me. You don’t know how to fail.”
He gives me a look that’s part exasperation, part fondness. “You have way too much faith in me.”
“Someone has to.”
With that, we climb out through the window. Ben moves surprisingly gracefully for someone who spends most of his time hunched over books, and we make our way down the trellis. His backyard is freshly cut, the smell of watered grass clippings lingering in the air and making it feel like quintessential summer.
“You’re gonna have the best time,” I promise.
“Shh.” He puts his finger to his lips. “They’re downstairs,” he hisses.
I quietly zip my lips and pretend to throw away the key. He smiles in that way that always makes my stomach flop. Always. Every single time.
Not that I would ever tell him.
We grab a blanket from his car, jog down the driveway, and twenty minutes later, we’re entering the park where the annual fireworks display takes place. The evening is warm and humid, carrying the scent of barbecue smoke. Ben walks beside me, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, looking like he’s being led to his execution.
“You know,” I say, nudging his shoulder, “normal people look forward to fireworks.”
“My GPA…”
This again? I roll my eyes dramatically.
“Your GPA will survive one night off, I promise.” I spin around, walking backward so I can face him. “Remember when we were kids and we used to make up stories about what the fireworks were? You said they were messages from aliens trying to communicate with Earth.”
A genuine smile crosses his face, transforming his entire expression. “You said they were fairies having a dance party in the sky.”
“See? You do remember how to have an imagination.”
“That was before I learned that imagination doesn’t impress college admissions boards.”
I stop walking so abruptly that he nearly bumps into me. “Ben, do you hear yourself? You’re talking like you’re already dead inside.”
“I’m talking like someone who has goals.”
“And I’m talking like someone who wants to make sure you’re still human when you achieve them.”
We stare at each other for a moment, and I see something flicker in his hazel eyes. Vulnerability, maybe, or longing. But then he looks away, breaking the tension.
“What?” I ask, suddenly finding it hard to remember how to breathe.
“We should keep walking or we’ll miss the start,” he says.
The park’s lawn is already crowded when we arrive. Families spread out on blankets with coolers and lawn chairs. Kids run around with glow sticks while parents chat and laugh. There’s something magical about the Fourth of July—the way it brings the whole community together under the same sky.
