Tag cheered. “Leda!”
I nodded. My mother with all her special keys and combinations. I should’ve known better. She’d once made an offhanded comment that Daniel was her most capable RCI, but that didn’t mean he needed to knoweverythingabout the ropes course.
Quickly, I tried various dates. Her birthday, my birthday, the year we came to Ames. No, no, and no!
What is it?I wondered, rubbing my temples as if to summon the answer. My mom’s comment about Daniel not knowing everything about the ropes course—it was true in the sense that he didn’t know the lock’s code but also that he didn’t knowall that had happened here. Nobody ever would, but my mom knew one special thing thatdid.
“Any luck?” Tag called up to me.
My fingers trembled as I reset the dials and then immediately input: 1-0-2-5.
October 25th, the day the course closed to students for the fall.
October 25th, the day she and Josh went on their annual climbing date.
Please, I thought before shutting my eyes and tugging the lock.
This time, there was no resistance. It willingly popped open for me.
“I’m in!” I shouted as I unhooked the lock and shoved it in my pocket before pushing the trapdoor upward. Its squeaky hinges drowned out Tag’s reaction.
After hoisting myself into the darkened Hideout, I aimed my headlamp straight at the far locker-lined wall. Because of the lock trouble, there wasn’t time to see the sights or check out how comfy the couch was. I needed to hide the clue and then scramble back down the ladder. Hopefully Alex would be waiting with Tag at the bottom. Had the freshmen boys gone home to Mack?
Sure enough, each equipment stall had a weathered brass nameplate.D. RIVERA, the one in the middle read. I rolled my eyes before pulling the clue from the back of my shorts and tucking it on the stall’s top shelf, under Daniel’s red climbing helmet.
Goodbye, little one.
Then I retreated to the trapdoor and tediously lowered myself down through the hole, taking carenotto lock up behind me. It was probably best to throw Daniel a bone.
Because he would never guess that code.
THIRTEEN
Tag was ecstatic once my feet were safely back on the ground. “You did it!” he whooped and then lost it when I celebrated a victory the only way I knew how: playing an invisible game of hopscotch. The headlamp beam danced up and down as I bounced, heart rate riding my rhythm. Tag laughed. “Hopscotch,” he said, voice almost hoarse. “Hopscotch for the win!”
I grinned, but before we could share it, he hugged me. A congratulatory hug, not a romantic one. Tag clapped me on the back like we’d won a swim meet, although I imagined most of his teammates shook off the slap after a second or two.
Not me. Even through a couple layers of fabric, his handprint branded itself on my back. I felt it there, burning red. “Take off your sweatshirt,” I said.
Tag abruptly pulled back. “What?”
Shit, I thought.It’s “Man, I’ve missed your mouth” all over again.
“You’re hot,” I told him, then cringed. “I mean, you’resweaty.” I backed up to see him in my headlamp. His face, ears, and neck were flushed. “Do you feel okay?”
“Yeah, fine.” Tag nodded. “I was just really nervous that the code couldn’t be cracked, so that’s why—”
“But your pump went off,” I suddenly remembered. “It beeped back in the sculpture sanctuary. What did the notification say?”
Tag gave me a lopsided smile. “It was kindly asking for a BG calibration,” he said, putting a hand to his heart. “Impeccable manners, as ever.”
I smiled back in relief. Tag’s pump just needed a blood glucose reading to ensure he was receiving the right amount of insulin. Nothing was up with his blood sugar, and even if he got an alert later, I’d wager his backpack contained at least one Gatorade and some snacks.
He was always so prepared.
My phone pinged in my pocket—hopefully a status update from Zoe or Alex—but I ignored it, watching Tag shrug off his sweatshirt. The headlamp must’ve looked like a stage spotlight, but he didn’t say anything—actually, he was having trouble. His T-shirt clung to the sweatshirt; my legs went weak when a slice of bare skin was exposed, that swimmer’s six-pack. “Where is Tag Swell?” I’d once said, when it was clear all those gym sessions were doing the trick. His second growth spurt too. “Where is my Bambi boyfriend?”
He’d blushed. “Yeah, I don’t really look like myself anymore, do I?” He ran an awkward hand through his hair. “Do you still like me like this?”
