Everyone starts chattering, claiming they knew it all along.
My hand flies to my mouth. Clark stares at me with eyes so wide I can see the amber flecks mixed with the green. Everyone else is either laughing or applauding or doing both.
But they fade away. The chatter becomes white noise. Their presence becomes pencil sketches. It’s just him and me and this massive, life-altering revelation hanging between us.
Scooching closer, he says, “You had a crush on me?”
“Yes,” I whisper. “The whole time. I waited for you to ask me to prom. When you didn’t, I thought?—”
“I thought you didn’t feel the same way.”
I echo, “I thought you didn’t feel the same way.”
Claudia groans. “You two are the worst.”
Cheryl is crying happy tears. Mr. Culpepper is shaking his head with a bemused smile. Whitaker looks thoroughly pleased with himself for stirring the pot, though Claudia shoots him a look that could melt steel.
And Clark and I are still just staring at each other, years of misunderstanding crashing down around us like dominoes.
“And now—?” I whisper.
But whatever I was going to say is cut off by Aunt Louise’s delighted shriek. “I’m posting this to my social media!”
“No!” the entire room shouts in unison.
The moment cracks like an egg into pandemonium. Aunt Louise is arguing about social media freedom. Cheryl is confiscating her phone. Mr. Culpepper is trying to restore order. The dogs decide this is the moment to play a game of chase. Claudia continues to glare at Whitaker. The twins are on their phones. The ladies from the neighborhood are speaking in murmurs.
And Clark and I still haven’t moved.
Because everything just changed.
The rest of the evening passes in a blur. Dessert resumes. At one point, Clark pulls Whitaker aside. Tension spikes between them. The guests say their goodbyes. Clark and I help clean up in near silence, moving around each other with a blend of familiarity and caution as an entirely new undercurrent of awareness spreads like food dye in Easter egg vinegar. Every time his hand brushes mine while drying dishes, I feel a jolt of electricity. Every time our eyes meet, something sparks between us that I can’t quite name.
He and I are about to walk the dogs when we find Claudia chasing Whitaker with a spatula. Over his shoulder, he hollers, “I asked April to the prom to make you jealous.”
“Kelly Morrison was right about you,” Claudia shouts back.
“She just thought my brother was a jerk.”
“Because she didn’t like the last name Finch.”
Whitaker retorts, “My mother happens to wear the name Mrs. Finch rather well.”
Clark shakes his head slowly. “I did not see that coming.”
“That your sister and Whitaker hate each other?”
“Or love each other.”
We walk the dogs and Clark tells me that he briefly talked to Whitaker about his public image management while I was occupied with trying to get Cheryl to share her spinach and bacon dip recipe with me. I anticipate Clark mentioning high school, but he describes how unhappy he’s been with his friend’s ideas for his career, the random dates, the parties, and the clubs.
“It’s not me, not who I am or who I want to be.”
“And you told him you want?—?”
“To go in a different direction.” He scratches his temple. “A more wholesome image. Someone kids who love hockey can look up to.”
“So is our fake dating contract null and void?” I ask, pulse accelerating.
