“Good point,” I say, still trying to fold my legs in a way that makes sense. There’s floor space in here, just not alot, and I think I’m sharing it with at least one vacuum cleaner and what might be some tennis racquets. My knee brushes Javier’s, and I jerk it back on instinct.
“Sorry.”
“You’re fine.”
“There’s not much space and I can’t see shit.”
He snorts softly. “Madeline. Don’t worry about it.”
I squirm some more—there’s a baseball bat and, I think, a fan—and end up briefly pressing my side against his, our faces too close in the dark. I can feel his hair on my cheek, and I’ve had a couple beers over the course of several hours and it’s enough that I don’t pull back immediately.
I do pull back, though, finally shoving the baseball bat to the side.
“There,” I say, and my legs are angled awkwardly, but at least they’re not touching his. “Perfect.”
We sit in silence for a minute. I’ve got my head against the back wall of the closet, someone’s coat in my face, my entire body is tense with the effort of absolutely, definitely not touching Javier at any point.
“How’s your Christmas Eve been?” he asks after a bit, voice low but no longer whispering.
“Well, I’ve spent the last half hour in a bathtub, under a desk, or in a closet,” I say.
“Is that better or worse than Charlie’s dad asking you whether you are part Smurf?”
“I got asked that by two separate people tonight.” I can feel him laugh in the dark. “I’ve never even heard that one before.”
“Silas’s dad calls me his long-haired hippie friend,” Javier says. “I think it’s a compliment, though? Like he thinks I’m a kindred spirit?”
I blow a coat sleeve out of my face. Or try to, anyway. “Is he the tractor enthusiast guy?”
“No, he’s the hot sauce guy.”
“Oh,him,” I say. “I saw him put hot sauce on pie, and then he told me everything about the Scoville scale and hot pepper cross-pollination. Did you know you can die from eating hot peppers?”
“What kind of pie?”
“I think it was blackberry.”
There’s a brief, considering pause, and then: “That actually sounds like it might be good.”
“What thefuck, Javi,” I mutter, and I can feel him laugh in the dark.
After a few minutesI get a charley horse from sitting in such a weird position and try to scoot around so I can straighten my leg out, but all I do is knock a coat down and kick the vacuum and make a ruckus.ThenJavier is whispering at me that we’re going to lose to a three-year-oldagainand he can’t believe I’m causing him to bring shame on his sister like that, and we’re both giggling like idiots, flailing and groping in the dark.
Only Thomas never shows up to throw open the closet door and shoutFound you!and when we’re done rearranging ourselves, we’re shoulder to shoulder and the edge of my rightknee is touching his left thigh, and it doesn’t have to be, technically. Technically there is enough space in here to not touch. Technically we could leave this closet and lose this round of hide and seek. But I’m tipsy enough to be stupid and Javier’s always been a little too sweet, a little too accommodating of graceless, awkward me, so we don’t.
Then he rests his hand on my knee and apologizes but doesn’t move it, and I have to lean my head back against the wall and take a deep, silent breath because I’m always ready to read too much into a casual gesture.
“I heard,” he says, low and slow, in a voice I swear I can feel through the floor, “there might be dead frogs in here.”
I have to blink into the dark about that one for a minute.
“What?”
“Also, possibly, a snake.”
“Doesheremeanhere, in this closet, or doesheremean, like, Sprucevale.”
“The house,” he says, like it’s a normal thing to say. “Apparently out in the country, children bring live animals into the house for fun.”
