Page 84 of I Wish You All the Best

“‘Crisp sound’?” I try not to giggle. “How much can I pay you to never say ‘crisp’ again?”

“Very funny.” His mouth spreads into that big grin. “This is a good spot.” Nathan reaches into the basket and pulls out this absolutely huge blanket, letting the slight breeze unfold it for him before settling it down.

“Here. Take a seat, my prince.”

“Prince?” I feel myself get smaller. He doesn’t know, he can’t know. Just stop making a big deal out of it.

He grabs the basket and gets down on his knees. “What’s wrong with being a prince?”

“Nothing.” I try to shake that weird feeling. “Nothing. So what do we have?”

“I bought a few sandwiches. But I wasn’t sure what you like.” Nathan opens the basket and starts to lay everything out. “There’s ham and cheese, turkey with lettuce and bacon. And in case you’re vegetarian, there’s a veggie one. No cheese either, so it’s vegan too!”

I eye the choices, grabbing the ham and cheese.

“Classic, nice.” Nathan picks the turkey.

“What do we do while we wait?”

“We eat, we talk, do a little one-on-one bonding.” The music starts to echo over the loudspeakers at the back of the arena.

“Sounds fun.” I unwrap the sandwich and take a bite. “So …” I swallow.

“So …” he says, rocking back and forth a little.

“What do you want to talk about?” I ask.

He bites into his sandwich again. “Well, as much as I’d love to sit here and have an awkward back-and-forth with you, I think we need to have a serious discussion.”

“What?” My mind races with at least a thousand possibilities. Did he figure it out somehow? Or maybe the night at Stephanie’s really did scare him, and he wants to know exactly what’s wrong with me. Maybe he doesn’t want to be friends anymore? No, that’s silly. Why would he invite me out like this, make us a dinner, if he wanted to stop being my friend?

Nathan grins from ear to ear. “I think we should get to know each other a little better.”

“Oh. Um … Okay?”

“Come on, I’ve known you for almost three months now and I barely know the first thing about you.” He starts counting off. “You like to draw, last name is De Backer, you live with your sister, you’re a little weird, but I like that about you.”

“Am not,” I argue.

“Dude, come on.” He picks up the veggie sandwich. “I didn’t even know if you’re vegetarian or not.”

“Whatever,” I huff. “So, what do you want to know?”

He leans back on the blanket, folding his arms under his head. “Hold on, have to think of a good one.” He thinks for a moment. “Okay, so what’s your favorite color?”

“I like green, and pur—”

“Ah-ah. I said favorite. Not the ones you just like.”

“You’re going to laugh at me.” I put my sandwich on the blanket, my appetite suddenly forgotten.

“I promise I won’t laugh. Pinky promise.” He sticks out his pinky.

I take his finger. “Pink. I like pink.”

“Pink is a perfectly acceptable color. Why would I laugh?”

I shrug. Because pink is “girly,” because for some reason even colors have been assigned gender. Because I’m supposed to be a boy, and boys aren’t supposed to like pink.