Page 49 of The Wicker King

“I didn’t know what music you liked and I was feeling cliché and sentimental.”

“About little old me? We getting hitched now?” August tucked a finger under her bra strap and snapped it. Rina pinched him back.

“Shut up. What’s your favorite song?” she asked, tugging his shirt over his head.

“‘Gloria’ done by the great Patti Smith.”

Rina crinkled her nose in distaste.

“What’s Jack’s?”

August smirked. “‘You Are My Sunshine.’”

“Really? That’s so weird,” she squeaked as August ran his fingers like spiders up her sides. He began tickling her in earnest, grinding against her as she laughed and tried to pry off his jeans.

“He’s weird. But let’s not talk about him right now.”

ONE EIGHT-HUNDRED

Roger began texting him every day. Usually it was some version of Are you okay? but sometimes he’d text things that made August laugh, like Peter hates red peppers. Made dinner and put them in anyway. Or weird questions like How did we all decide that clapping is a good way to let people understand appreciation with a nonverbal cue? and What is scarier, one large scary thing or many, many small scary things?

August wasn’t nearly as comedic himself, and he usually just answered pretty straightforwardly. But it was fun.

“You’re probably his first real friend outside of Peter,” Jack said.

August closed his phone and shoved it back into his pocket. “Well, there’s that, but I think he’s also checking up on me. He’s just being really casual about it.”

Jack shrugged. “Why is that a bad thing? As long as he doesn’t tell, it will be fine. I’m pretty sure at this point, if they told anyone, I’d be taken away from my parents for, like, severe negligence or something. Keep texting him back.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

BLACK-BODY RADIATION

August was sitting in the woods decompressing when the hairs suddenly rose on the back of his neck.

“So. This is what you do when I’m not around.”

August moved to try to hide the fire, kicking damp dirt and leaves over it. But Jack just laughed anyway and clapped him on the shoulder.

“It’s okay, really. We all have our vices and secrets. What are you, a pyromaniac now?” Jack was smiling. It wasn’t a nice smile.

“No, I just—”

“You just like making small fires all over the woods every week? You’re not subtle, August. I figured it out pretty quickly. Is this how you get by with dealing with me and my little problem?”

“No, that’s not what—”

“Be quiet,” Jack said harshly. August fell silent. “I don’t … I can’t understand why you…” Jack covered his mouth, then crossed his arms as he tried to decide what to say.

August couldn’t meet his eyes. The weight of Jack’s disappointment choked him.

“Can you stop?”

“I … I don’t know.”

Jack laughed again and shook his head. Then he turned on his heel and walked away.

FLY