The idea of trusting Blake seems unfathomable. But then again, isn't that what I've been doing? I trusted him to be my campaign captain, which means if I can trust him with that, I can trust him to pick a movie that won't make me an emotional wreck.

I settle into the sofa as it plays. It's late enough that the basement is dark, and I can just about make out Blake's silhouette as he stares ahead, his face lit up a fraction by the screen. It's the first time we've sat this close without a reason, and I don't know what to do with myself.

"I don't get it," I say. "Why is he so concerned about finding this egg?"

"Because," Blake says with a hint of impatience, "it's got healing abilities."

"But why does an egg have healing abilities? Where did it come from? What laid it?"

Blake winces. "We don't know that yet, because we're only five minutes into the movie, Matthews."

I fall silent again. Even watching films with Chase, I found it hard to invest fully in what we watched. I get too caught up in the details, which is why, when the guy falls unconscious for twenty minutes straight, I can't help but say, "If he were unconscious for that long, he wouldn't just be getting up and walking around right after."

"I have a question," Blake says, his jaw contracted, "are you going to stop talking anytime soon?"

I can't help it. I talk too much when I'm nervous, and Blake makes me nervous. "Sorry," I mouth and turn to the front.

His arm brushes mine as he reaches for his beer. My heart pounds; if we were anywhere other than his basement, I'd feel embarrassed to admit to the searing heat invoked by a simple touch. But down here, away from expectations of life and school, it feels safe to acknowledge, even if it's only to myself.

It's not long before I lose interest in the movie altogether. Not because it's terrible, it's not, but because I can't stop overthinking. At first, it's about the campaign and my speech, but soon those thoughts turn back to Blake's party and how he'd taken the joint when I didn't want to smoke. Or how he let me sleep in his room. How, despite the fact we don't get along, he looked out for me. And then I find myself wondering things that I shouldn't, like what it would be like if we had something in common. Or how it would feel to spend all of my time in the shadows of his basement. Or what it would be like to kiss him.

The thought is ridiculous. Not for obvious reasons, but because the last thing I need is to do something stupid that will overshadow the campaign. What if rumors got out about us? What if my parents found out? What if something went wrong and he quit as my campaign captain? I didn't work this hard just to let it go to waste because I developed unnatural urges about a guy like Blake.

Eyes closed, I mentally rehearse my speech in preparation for Wednesday. But then the nerves I've been trying to suppress about that join the ones I have about Blake, and I'm back to overthinking.

Blake's still engrossed in the film and unaware of my anguish. My gaze drops a little and rests on his arm, tracing the lines of each tattoo. There is one I never noticed before, placed between the pocket watch and the compass, and it looks like a small dog bone.

Unable to stomach the silence any longer, I take a risk. "Can you tell me what one of your tattoos means?"

Blake leans forward and grabs the clicker from the table. He turns the tv off, cloaking us in darkness, and half-turns to look at me. I can just about make out the wry twist of his mouth. "Remind me never to watch a movie with you again."

"Sorry," I say, "I just can't concentrate on a movie when I'm worried about my speech." And other things. "Maybe I should go over it again." I reach for my bag, but Blake grabs my arm before I can unzip it, his fingers like fire on my skin.

"You're obsessing," he says.

"I know."

His eyes darken with deliberation. They must see something desperate in me, something obsessive and unhinged, because he finally relents. "One. That's it."

It feels like I've won some kind of battle. I turn to him properly, a part of me thrilled at the prospect of learning something new. Despite spending almost every day together, I know nothing about the boy sitting in front of me. What's even more worrying – and something I'll never admit to out loud – is that I want to.

I slowly reach out, about to take his arm because I can't see a thing, but I pause when my confidence wavers. He meets me halfway, resting his forearm against my lower thighs so I can study it properly.

Now that it's dark, it's impossible to make the majority of them out. I graze my thumb along the pocket watch and bone, trying to decide which to pick. I do it because I'm desperate to touch him, and now I've got an excuse. I can feel his eyes on me, alert with intrigue as I make my decision. If I only get to know the meaning of one, I want to make it a good one. "The pocket watch," I say.

"Not that one."

I don't press it; I'm starting to learn how his mind works, like putting together puzzle pieces. Pressing on something he doesn't want to talk about only leads to silence, and silence leads to overthinking.

"The bone," I say. "I take it you had a dog?"

It's quiet for so long that I think he won't answer. "A retriever."

"What was his name?"

"Sparky." He looks over briefly. I realize my hand is still on his arm, but he doesn't move away. "My grandma used to tell us not to cross the road when we walked him, but I didn't listen. There's a meadow on the other side that he liked to explore, so I'd take him there most days." He stops to pull a joint from his pocket and waits for my permission. I nod and watch him light the end before he lifts it to his mouth. After a steady inhale, he exhales slowly, filling the room in a light silver haze. "One day, when I was nine, a car hit him as we crossed the road."

I pull back a little, surprised. I don't know what kind of story I'd expected, but it wasn't this. "That's awful."

"I carried him back to the house and laid him on the porch," he says. "I was bawling my eyes out when my brother came out. The dog was still alive, but barely. My brother got the shotgun – put the dog out of its misery." He takes another hit and exhales. "I hated him for it at the time – thought he was heartless. It took me a long time to realize he had more compassion than I did – that's why he did it."

"I'm sorry." My throat feels thick as I run my fingers along his other tattoos and wonder if they're equally as heartbreaking. He watches me do it, and I half expect him to pull away in horror, but he doesn't. "I'm going to get a tattoo," I say to lighten the mood.

The corner of his mouth lifts. "Sure you are."

"You don't think I'd get a tattoo? I could get one next week – you don't know."

He leans closer, voice warm, and says near my ear, "You're not cut out for spontaneity, Matthews."

"I'm extremely spontaneous, thank you very much. My decision to ask you to be my campaign captain was spontaneous."

He grins. "You were desperate. That doesn't count."

That smile does something to my insides. "Well," I say, feeling hot, "I'm telling you I'm spontaneous."

His eyebrow arches. He's testing me. "Then prove it."

Something electric passes between us. For the briefest of seconds, I stare at his lips, imagining how much coaxing it would take to part them with my tongue. My skin is on fire, hot with anticipation for something that will likely never happen. Not likely – will never. But in the back of my mind, Chase calling me boring still plays on repeat, and I'm tired of being perfect to protect my mother's job. The truth is, there is something inside me desperate to break free, and down in this basement, shut off from the rest of this town, it can.

Don't overthink it.

Blake lifts the joint to his lips. I do the unthinkable and climb on his lap until I'm straddling him. His eyes snap to mine, as dark and smoky as this basement. My throat is on fire as I pull back his joint and hold it a little away from us.

Right now, his eyes smoke like coal. He grabs my waist to hold me steady and exhales the smoke. "What now, princess?"

What now? I lean over him, one hand resting on the headrest behind him and the other still holding his joint. His hands slide down from my waist to my thighs and pull me in closer. I lift the joint to his mouth again and watch him inhale. This all feels insane, like maybe for a moment I've completely lost my mind, but for once, I don't care. I part my lips, my heart like a rocket about to take off, and brush them on his – a shotgun kiss.

My body prepares for a lungful of smoke, but it doesn't come. Blake's lips brush mine for less than a second before he blows the smoke away from me. Maybe he didn't want me smoking and driving, or maybe he didn't want me smoking at all. Or maybe he didn't want me, period.

I suddenly feel stupid. More than stupid, like when you wake up the next morning after getting too drunk and realize you did something stupid, only I don't have alcohol to blame for this; I made this decision stone sober. I don't look at him as I climb off his lap and grab my bag from the floor.

"I'll see you at school," I say without looking back, because my face is poker hot. He says my name, but I scramble out of his basement and into my car before screeching out of his driveway.

❤️

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