“I’m really glad you let me come tonight.”
I turn my head and find him already looking at me. The copper-tinged light catches in his eyes, turning the familiar green into something deeper, like moss after rain. His brow relaxes, the tiny scar above his right eyebrow—from when he fell out of the treehouse his dad built in their yard—suddenly visible. His bottom lip pulls inward, caught briefly between his teeth before releasing, the way it always did before he’d tell me a secret. He swallows, his throat moving in the shadow of his jaw.
“I’m glad too,” I admit.
His pupils dilate in the dim light, two black holes pulling me into their gravity. The seconds stretch, marked only by the synchronized rise and fall of our chests, until the corner of his mouth twitches upward—that same half-smile from when we were kids and sharing something no one else understood.
Then, by some unspoken agreement, we both turn our attention back to the sky. The eclipse continues its inevitable progression. The red deepens, spreads, transforms the familiar silver disk into something ancient and strange. We witness it all together.
Two people who found each other again after years of separation. Sitting close enough to share warmth on a summer night, hands intertwined on a blanket that belonged to a woman who dreamed of touching the stars.
Mom would have loved this. Who I have for company. The connection building. Knowing that my heart has grown too big for my chest, trying to expand to accommodate something terrifying and wonderful.
“Beautiful,” Oliver murmurs.
I turn my hand over beneath his, palmup, and let our fingers interlace properly. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch his toes curling; the funny thing is, mine are doing the same dance. His grip tightens, binding us for the rest of the show.
PART III
JULY
23
OLIVER
This was meant to be a straightforward errand. Grab a pair of jeans for Drew, who somehow destroyed his last decent ones in what Jackson cryptically called an “acrobatic incident.” Quick stop, simple purchase, then back to campus.
But I’ve been dealing with underwear betrayal all week. Elastic giving up the ghost mid-lecture, fabric bunching in places no fabric should bunch, bathroom trips that have nothing to do with bodily functions and everything to do with discreet adjustments. And to get from the jeans to the exit, you have no choice but to navigate through the underwear section. Might as well stock up while I’m here.
I reach for the familiar blue package of boxer briefs—same brand I’ve worn since high school, same size that gets over the hockey butt without ripping. My fingers have barely closed around the plastic when something at the edge of my vision demands attention.
Three feet to my left, arranged in neat stacks by size and illuminated by a spotlight usually reserved for museum exhibits, is a tower of Fruit of the Loom briefs.
Tighty-whities.
My brain, that treacherous organ, immediately fires up a memory I’ve been trying to bury since the night it happened.
The skinny-dipping incident at the end of the semester. Moonlight streaming through glass walls, turning water into liquid silver. Clothes flying in every direction—board shorts, basketball shorts, boxers, boxer briefs. And Ryan, standing at the edge of the pool in white briefs, while everyone else cannonballed and belly-flopped. The white cotton clung to his narrow hips, the elastic band riding just below his navel.
Stop it, Jacoby. Stop these indecent thoughts right now.
But the display is right there, mocking me with its wholesome packaging and promise of “classic comfort.” The models on the package stare back at me with confident smiles, begging me to come over to the dark side.
I wonder what they feel like.
The thought arrives uninvited, kicks off its shoes, and makes itself comfortable in my frontal lobe. Boxer briefs have been my thing since puberty. There’s no reason to switch things up now…is there?
Three seconds pass. I snatch the package up, the plastic cool against my palm. My thumb traces the edge where the cardboard backing meets the clear front. Another five seconds. I put it back in its place on the shelf.
“You’re being insane,” I mutter to myself.
A woman with a shopping basket hooked over her forearm pauses mid-sock-selection, her head tilted in my direction. I squint at the package label, tracing the “XL” with my index finger, nodding thoughtfully.
Once she’s gone, I take a step toward the exit. Away from the display, away from the temptation, away from the absolutely unhinged idea that wearing white briefs will provide me with some kind of insight into Ryan Abrams’s inner world.
Flip, flap, flip, flap.My flip-flops announce my retreat across the store. The sound suddenly dies as I halt mid-stride, toes curling against the worn footbeds.
I look at the display again.
