Troy sits up. “Just... just the garland?”
“And boxers. White ones. Very sexy, yes?”
“Very arrested,” Freddie corrects. “You realize there’s a line between ‘creative costume’ and ‘public indecency,’ right?”
“It covers everything important. Besides, Piper said I’d look like Adam from the Garden of Eden.”
“Piper said—” Troy exchanges a look with Freddie. “Oh, this makes sense now.”
“What makes sense?”
“Nothing. Just interesting how you’re taking fashion advice from your ‘tutee.’”
“We’re shopping buddies now. It’s totally normal.” I drape the garland around my neck experimentally. “Think she’ll be impressed?”
“Impressed or terrified when she sees you in white boxers,” Alfie mutters, hot-gluing another star to Greg’s hat.
My phone buzzes. Piper’s name lights up the screen.
Pip
Costume crisis. Is this too much?
An image loads. Piper in her dorm mirror, wearing a black tank top and matching skirt, both covered in carefully wrapped fairy lights. She’s literally glowing, the lights catching on her glasses and making her look like some kind of electric fairy. Her expression is uncertain, one hand adjusting a strand of lights near her shoulder.
I stare at the photo longer than strictly necessary.
“Ethan?” Freddie waves a hand in front of my face. “You’re drooling on my brownies.”
“I’m not—” I clear my throat, type back.
You look incredible. Like a walking constellation.
Too nerdy? I can change.
Don’t you dare change. You’re perfect.
I realize what I typed and quickly add
The costume. The costume is perfect.
“Smooth.” Troy reads over my shoulder. “Really subtle.”
“Shut up.” But I’m grinning as I pocket my phone.
The next few hours blur into party prep. Freddie’s brownies emerge from the oven looking suspiciously professional. Troy’s aluminum foil armor slowly takes shape, held together by duct tape and delusion. Alfie strings fairy lights across the ceiling.
I slip upstairs to change, staring at myself in the mirror. The garland covers my chest (mostly), the leaves strategically placed to maintain some dignity. The white boxers are... well,they’re boxers. This seemed like a better idea when I was trying to make Piper laugh in the thrift store.
“You can do this,” I tell my reflection. “You’re a confident guy who makes bold choices.”
My reflection looks skeptical.
Downstairs, the party’s starting to fill. Alex arrives in what appears to be recycled newspaper, Tara sports bubble wrap and determination. The music thumps—Troy’s signature mix of everything from Swedish House Mafia to Taylor Swift.
Troy, of course, chooses an outfit just as crazy as mine, black jeans, no shirt, and a cape made of silver emergency blankets.
He flexes. “Whatcha think, Lilah?”
