Page 116 of Puck You Both

"This version. Stop being difficult."

I go first, because leadership is sacrifice. The bottle does two fast laps, wobbles, and picks Wall.

He glares down at it for a long moment. I'm already drafting a reminder about the rules when his jaw sets.

"It took me three weeks to learn Grześkowiak. I had an app and all."

I choke on my next exhale. "An app."

Wall shrugs one massive shoulder. "It grades pronunciation. I got a 94."

"What'd you lose the six points on—"

"The funny-looking vowel."

I'm still laughing when I look at Patrick.

He isn't.

His face has gone still, in a soft way that makes him look younger, and he's looking at Wall with dangerous levels of charmed. “I always though you could say it, and just pretended to be difficult.”

A small smile appears on Wall’s face, one he thinks he’s concealing. He’s not. "You were supposed to think that."

Oh, this is disgusting. Round one, and the kissing version is already circling my game like a shark.

"Next," I announce. Somebody has to stay professional.

Wall spins, and the bottle picks me.

Finally. An artist at work.

I crack my knuckles. "Okay. The Roundabout Incident—"

"Nope," Patrick cuts me off.

I huff at him. "It's my secret."

"And I was there. Some things stay buried."

Wall leans in. "Now I need to know."

"No. You need to sleep at night."

I hold Patrick's stare and he holds mine. Somewhere behind his eyes a roundabout spins, and we both know I'm not winning this one.

"Fine. The cheesehead." I deliver it to the ceiling, because the ceiling doesn't have eyebrows to raise at me. "I sleep in it sometimes. It's oddly comforting."

Wall stays silent for a moment. Wall's ears, on the other hand, hold a full press conference, pink, climbing toward red. Finally, he reaches for the bottle and turns it toward himself, then says, “Good. Cause I may or may not have picked up another one. It may or may not sit in my backseat, because I may or may not have felt stupid about it.”

Patrick turns his head to Wall with deliberate slowness, his eyebrows asking questions on his behalf.

Wall rolls his eyes. “I’m bad with comfort gifts, okay?”

I grab the bottle and spin, because my eyes may or may not start stinging again.

It does one lap, loses its nerve, and points back at me.

I sigh and reach for it again. "Self-spins are void—"