Desperate to shake the feeling, I step back, tapping a white rose against my chin. “This doesn’t look terrible.”
“See?” Easton shoots me a smug grin. “Told you adding color would make it better. Maybe I should be a decorator, not a hockey player.”
I scoff, rolling my eyes. “Don’t let it go to your head. It’sglue.”
We settle into a comfortable silence. After another minute, I risk another peek at him. “Thanks for coming today, by the way. I know you’re busy. And, well—do you ever get that feeling like you don’t even want to go home because the air is…heavy?”
“What do you mean?”
I shrug. “Eh. My parents are making things weird at home. Probably why I jumped at the chance to sign up for this committee in the first place. Less time…there.”
He straightens, looking at me. “Weird how?”
“They tiptoe around each other and give each other the silent treatment and it’s the most passive-aggressive arguing I’ve ever seen,” I explain. “Does that make sense?”
“Yeah, it does.” I watch as he sits back on his haunches to study me. For a moment, I think we’re done talking, but then he goes on. “You know,” he says, “you can tell me shit. We’re friends and I’m a good listener. I mean, I won’t pretend I’m good at giving advice or whatever, but I can listen.”
His smile makes me blush, but I don’t answer immediately, my throat oddly full. Nodding, I turn back to the arch. It’s weirdly nice working in sync like this, no arguing, no teasing. As we continue our task, the boxes of flowers gradually empty, and the once-plain wooden arch takes on the life of the vibrant blooms.
Pretty.
“The thing is—” I surprise myself when I speak again, interrupting the quiet that’s fallen between us. I glance at Easton, who’s uncharacteristically focused, placing each flower with care. “I guess the worst part of it is that my parents don’t even have the decency to fake it—they’re basically roommates. Lots of whispering when I walk into a room, but no one tells me what’s going on. They act like I’m still a kid and can’t handle the truth, so I just…”
I trail off as he exhales, rolling his shoulders as if he has to stretch. “I get it,” he says gently. “I do. My parents don’t fight—not really. But sometimes it feels like we all just exist in the same space? Everyone has their own shit going on and we don’t really talk about our feelings.”
I chew the inside of my cheek. “That’s kind of how it is with my dad. He’s there, but he’snot.”
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
With a shake of my head, I move the conversation along, enjoying the camaraderie. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t planning to bring this up. I know you’d rather just, like, practice flirting and ask dumb questions.”
Beside me, Easton has a death grip on a tube of glue, squishing a tad too eagerly, and he squirts a generous amount onto his fingers instead of the flower in his grasp.
He scowls as he squeezes the last drop of glue onto a stem. “I mean—who doesn’t love a dumb, flirty convo?”
Bumps me with his elbow during another aggressive squeeze.
“Shit!” he exclaims, dropping the superglue and shaking his hand in an attempt to fling the goo off. “Help!”
He reaches forward at the same time I reach forward.
I lean.
He leans.
Hand out.
Fingers beseeching,fullof glue.
Horrified, I watch a drop fall to the gymnasium floor between our bodies as if in slow motion. And if he’s not careful…
“Oh my god, Easton, you’re going to—”
Glue us together.
No sooner do I get the words out of my mouth than a wet droplet hits my chest. I glance down to the spot where his fingers are stuck to my flesh, skin on skin.
I shift back, testing to confirm what I already know: His fingers are attached to my body.
