“Wow,” he says, shoulders shaking with a barely suppressed laugh. “Between the two of us, I assumed I’d be the one to choke on boba.”
“MARK WINTERSON, YOU CANNOT MOVE US TO MICROSOFT TEAMS!”I shout as loud as my croaky lungs will let me.
“All right, all right!” His hands are up, placating. “Didn’t realize it meant that much to you! Okay, then!”
I wave a hand vaguely and swipe at my eyes.
“Sorry that suggestion was so distressing,” he says with a weak laugh, and leans back again, studying me curiously while I’m burning with embarrassment.
“Why do you always call me Mark Winterson?” He gives me a pointed look. “First and last.”
“It just…rolls off the tongue.”
He holds my gaze too long for comfort. “Does it?”
Butterflies kick up in my stomach, and a distant voice in my head says,Really? That’s what gets you going?
“You know who you look a little bit like?” I blurt out, because he’s still staring at me, and my brain has vacated the premises. I sip sheepishly on my drink.
“Jacob Elordi?” he says, and I nearly do a spit take.
“Wow, okay.” My laugh sounds husky, post-choking. “And you’re modest too.”
“Nooo, I just—” Mark Winterson chuckles nervously, a notable vibe shift. “I’ve gotten that before. Ran into him at Equinox once.”
Of course it would be Equinox.
“Everyone there, like, pressured us into taking a selfie together.”
“Pics or it didn’t happen.”
He sighs and searches in his phone, then hands it to me. The differences between them stand out more, in side-by-side comparison. For one thing, Mark Winterson is shorter.
He scoffs and looks down. “Anyway, it was embarrassing. I switched gyms after.”
I swish the ice around in my cup. “Oh yeah, relatable. Hate when that happens.”
“He’s, uh—” He smiles, trying to recover his jokey tone. “Significantly more Australian than me.”
“Significantly.” I nod. “Sounds serious. He should get that checked out.”
Mark Winterson laughs so genuinely he looks like a different person, neither Elordi nor a Victorian child but a secret third thing. Weird how faces are dynamic like that. Hard to pin down.
Chapter
19
The next morning, I wake up flooded with adrenaline and dread, wondering if Mom will still be in Slack, or if something I’ve done has already freed her.
I haven’t figured out how to tell her about Mark Winterson. Will he even want to talk to me again? Not exactly my finest moment, in retrospect—asking him a series of bizarre questions, shouting down his idea, and hacking my lungs out in front of him.
But maybe Mom’s seen how I’m working hard? I’ve been messaging Erica questions about the deck.
I have to check somehow, so I write:
ruby.ocampo:
Good morning, Mom!
