Hopper waves him off. “We never compare. The only question you ever need to ask about art is if you enjoy it. If you get something from it.”
“I…I do.” Boone clears his throat. “Get something from your art, that is.”
Hopper beams. “Do you want to be an artist? Is that what you’re studying in school?”
Boone gulps. “It’s my minor.”
“Oh!” Hopper takes Boone’s arm, and I worry that Boone might faint. “What’s your major?”
“Criminal justice. Just like my…Just like my dad.”
Boone looks down and curses under his breath, like maybe he said something wrong.
“It’s really kind of adorable to see him be nervous around Hopper,” Rami whispers out of the side of his mouth. “Of all people.”
“Don’t make fun of my futile husband,” I hiss, then curse my damn fucked-up wiring. “Future.”
Rami snorts into his hand, but then he pats my back. “I’d never get in the way of true love, cousin.”
It’s a good thing too. I don’t wanna have to put his hand in warm water while he’s sleeping.
Boone and Hopper keep talking about art, and after a moment, it’s awkward that I’m just standing there, so I wave goodbye. Boone sends me a grateful smile.
God, he’s soperfect.
“What are you doing?” Holmes asks, hands on his hips. He watches as I pick the prettiest flowers from the field.
“Shh.” I pop up and swing around, making sure no one sees us. “I’m bringing Booney a bouquet.”
Holmes presses his lips together. Genetically, we’re clones, but I have never been this much of an old man.
“What?”I spit out, already annoyed.
“You ask that as if you haven’t already embarrassed yourself enough this week.”
“Ihaven’t!”
I mean, did I flip my canoe when Boone dove into the lake wearing short shorts and nothing else? Maybe, but I’m pretty sure he didn’t see that.
Holmes shakes his head at me. “Man, do you have it bad.”
“Well, he’s my husband, so…yeah.”
“Oh my God.” Holmes pinches his nose. “He’s like, way,wayolder than us.”
I stare at my twin. He’s worse than Rami, I swear.
“No, he’s not.”
“He’s in college.”
“So?”
Holmes gestures at the bouquet in my hand. “He’s not going to want a bunch of mangy flowers from a teenager.”
I look down at the flowers I’ve picked and…oh. Some of themarea little mangy.
Not a problem. I toss the bad ones and look for better ones.
