And while I hadn’t meant for it to be a party, the fact that I’d thrown one had scored me infinite points with my parents. I could practically see their stress levels dropping with each doorbell ring. They were taking this as proof I’d finally acclimated after the move.
And maybe they weren’t wrong.
“Do you guys need more snacks? Pennsylvanians really like pretzels. I should go get some. What kind? Rye, extra salty, the big ones? Snaps?”
I interrupted Dad’s encyclopedic knowledge of the pretzel aisle—why?—to ask, “Could I use your office for—”
“Sure!”
“—interviews. It’s too noisy downstairs.” It was a little alarming he’d agreed before I’d finished the request. One of these days I was going to sit my parents down and lecture them on the perils of their new popularity fixation. Yes, we’d moved—and I was fine. But right now I was going to answer the door, because Rory had called her brother-in-law, and Trent had gathered a few of his Hero High alum friends so I could cross those interviews off the list too.
It was late when people left. Bancroft had upgraded me from choreographed handshake to bro hug, and between what they’d all revealed on camera and the time we’d spent chatting during setup and afterward, I got to know the rest of them a little better too. Not that Rory had to worry; I wasn’t going to snatch the BFF bracelet off her wrist and regift it—despite the fact that she’d spent a good portion of the night making faces at me through the glass door of Dad’s office while I was trying to record interviews.
But my conversations with everyone hadn’t been fake. I’d talked as much as I listened. I hadn’t felt awkward or like an outsider. Maybe I wasn’t anymore.
Elijah even suggested that he and Shiloh and Win and I go out sometime.
“I’d like that,” I said sincerely. “Though if I ever wrangle him into a double date, I promised the first to Rory and Toby. You guys can have second.” I left unsaid that Win and I should have any date before I agreed to plans with his ex.
“Fair enough.” Elijah gave Shi the type of open, soft-eyed smile that made my stomach twist with longing for the guy who wasn’t here tonight. I’d considered inviting Win, even though I’d already done his interview. But I wanted him here because I wanted him here. And if he’d come, I’d have resented or rushed through recording everyone else so I could be with him.
Shiloh patted my shoulder. “Thanks for having us. We’re going to head out so I can walk him home before curfew.” At Mom’s insistence they took a cup of snacks for the road. Dad’s “pretzel bar” with the fifteen different options I hadn’t been able to stop him from running out to purchase had—shockingly—not been as popular as he’d anticipated. There were many weeks of salty-doughy-yeasty lunches in my future. I wasn’t looking forward to pickle flavored.
Surprisingly it was Mira and Clara who closed it down. And not only closed it down, but stayed to help me pick up. Mira had firmly waved me off when I’d protested that she didn’t need to get out the vacuum.
“Let her.” Clara gave Mira a thumbs-up as she switched the Dyson on. “She’s going to have nightmares about carpet crumbs unless she sees they’re properly taken care of. Seriously, if you want her to like you, let the girl vacuum.”
“By all means, go ahead.” I stepped out of the way as Mira sashayed toward us, humming as the pretzel crumbs disappeared beneath her precise sweeps of the rug. “But I want it on the record that she’s volunteering.”
“Let the record reflect that,” Clara teased.
“Speaking of things on-record.” I put down the empty soda cups I’d been stacking. “There’s an idea I’ve been wanting to talk to you about.” Because I’d heard from Charles again. I’d heard from other reporters too. I refused to give out Clara’s number, but if she was interested, I could pass along theirs.
By the time Mira turned off the vacuum with a self-satisfied flick, Clara and I had hashed out a plan.
“I don’t want to seek this out.” Her mouth was as flat as her straightened hair. “But if any opportunity presents itself, I’d think about it.”
Opportunities continued to present themselves to my voicemail several times a week, so I had no doubt this could work. And more than could, it should. When it came down to it, Clara and I had similar fixer skills, but she’d proven tonight that she belonged on the other side of the camera. Her interview had the potential to be the one I built the rest of the video around. It was witty, it was charming—it had the kind of enthusiasm that made you want to believe and it was grounded in her deep knowledge of the school. If I used a written overlay during her section it would only be to highlight the facts she said; there was no need to add or correct anything.
Mom and Dad had already gone to bed by the time I walked Mira and Clara to where Penn and Lynnie were waiting in his car.
I was exhausted and caffeine deprived enough that I might actually sleep, but first I needed to send a text. I’d heard from Win a few times over the weekend, mostly teasing updates as he tried to salvage footage from the Chester interviews I’d recorded before his instructions. I’d sent the files after I’d had an important realization, courtesy of more unsolicited big brother advice: I had to let Win know I needed him too.
“When you get nervous you try and fix things—whether or not they need fixing,” Miles had said. “That’s fine if it’s a crooked lampshade or your middle school’s recycling program, but Win’s a person. And you guys have been dealing with real problems. Make sure he doesn’t feel like a problem. And let him take a crack at some of yours too.”
Hey.
I could stop there and wait for Win’s response, let him steer the conversation, but that felt cowardly. I missed you. And I have more interviews. I think these are less hopeless. You sick of hearing about Hero High, or will you use your vid-master skills to help me edit them into something watchable?
It was late. It was a school night. Despite all the reasons not to expect a response, the three dots appeared almost immediately. I gave a quick whoop that startled Luna from her perch on Mom’s cookbook stand.
I don’t know if I’d call you hopeless. I mean, my five-year-old cousin takes better selfies, but “hopeless” feels harsh.
I laughed; Luna hissed. The lights were off. The kitchen was supposed to be her domain until dawn. I lifted my phone to respond, but Win beat me to it.
Good thing you have me. Send the interviews. See you tomorrow.
27
“Huck, have you read The Sign of the Four?” Ms. Gregoire had been infinitely patient with me today. I’d spent most of class on the wrong page, the wrong poem. Too lost in my head to participate in discussions. The bell had rung and she could’ve let me be my next teacher’s problem, but that wasn’t how she worked; she didn’t only care during class hours.
So I set down my bag and tried to focus on her question. The Sign of the Four. Stolen jewels, prison camps, prisoner uprisings, boats. Lost treasure. It was the novel where Watson met his future bride, Mary, and within a few shared hours they’d gone from introductions to declarations of feelings. Somehow him being involved with her case hadn’t prevented them from getting together. I scowled, but nodded.
“Do you remember the part where Sherlock says, ‘A change of work is the best rest’?” She handed me a marked-up version of my ad hoc response journal. “You need a change of work. Or a night off work.”
I folded the page and stuck it in my bag. I’d read her commentary later, once I was ready to face the overshare I’d vomited onto my keyboard. “I just took a weekend away. I went to New York.”
“That’s a start, but . . .” She gestured around us with a flourish. “Take a night off here. Do something fun.”
Fun. Like figuring out how to ask Win if he wanted to go to Hero High?
“I’m running out of time.” I rubbed my forehead. “The admissions committee—”
“I’m handling them. You handle taking a break. Sherlock’s orders.”
I might nee
d to reread that story, because I didn’t remember Sherlock ever voluntarily taking a night off. But I did recall—and resent—how quick and easy romance had been for Watson. Him declaring, “If treasure’s not in the way, I can say I love you, Mary.”
Once the case wasn’t standing between Win and me, then I could say . . . well, not that. But something. “Change of work.” I told her. “Got it.”
Meet me at Cool Beans?
It was super convenient that Win wasn’t grounded anymore.
Less convenient that he was already deep in editing mode when I arrived at the coffee shop. A half-empty bottle of cranberry juice was uncapped beside him, and he was splicing and playing with light levels, importing all the individual interviews into a larger movie file and tweaking their order and text overlays as he went.
Maybe I should’ve been more specific in my text, mentioned that we were taking the night off—Ms. Gregoire and Sherlock’s orders. But how could I complain when he was doing work for me—work I had no desire to do for myself, but that I dutifully paid attention to? Watching his hands and noting the sequences of clicks and buttons each skill took. But mostly I was regretting my choice of location. Regretting all the coffee I was smelling but not drinking.
I blinked when Win snapped his fingers at me. His amused expression made it clear it wasn’t the first time he’d tried to get my attention. Maybe I should’ve apologized or thanked him for his help, but no one interrupted Sherlock when he was musing. “Why can’t you just follow me around and shower me with accolades?”
Win sat back. “Excuse me?”
“That came out wrong. Sorry. It’s just . . .” I groaned and rubbed my temples. A cup of coffee would help in so many ways, but I’d already hit my quota. “Sherlock Holmes has Watson, who’s his biggest fanboy and helper, and sometimes I want one too.” A sounding board. A partner. I couldn’t tell Win about my worries, because they were all about failing him.
“Hey.” Win’s voice was quiet, and I jumped at the soft touch on the back of my hand. “Another headache?”
I nodded.
“Are you okay?” His brow furrowed. “You’ve been getting them a lot lately.”
“How did you—” I shook my head, then winced. “I haven’t said anything.”
“You’re not the only one who can observe.” His darkening expression looked especially ominous when paired with the lingering green and yellow bruises around his eye.
“It’s nothing. Just stupid caffeine withdrawal. I’m down to one cup in the morning then two cups spread throughout the day.”
Win whistled. “Down to three cups? Do I want to know where you started?”
“It could be worse,” I snapped.
“Okay, true.” Win rummaged in his backpack and handed me a pair of sunglasses. They had advertisements for an HVAC company on the purple plastic arms, and there was no way they were UV protecting. But for filtering the light coming through the café windows and fixing my sun sensitivity, they were perfect.
“Thanks,” I said. “It’ll get better. At least that’s what everything I’ve read says. Just have to be patient.”
“I don’t know about you, but I’m so tired of being patient. I want to fast-forward to when you tell me, ‘Elementary, my dear Watson,’ because you’ve figured it all out. And it’s over. And we get to get to the interesting part.”
“That line’s not actually in the books. At least not in any of the stories I’ve read. I think it comes from the movies.”
“Yeah, that’s not interesting either.”
I didn’t take it personally. I didn’t write the books, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was too dead to care. Also, Win’s posture made my chest tighten. There was so much tension balanced on his shoulders.
I reached over and shut the laptop. “You know what? Ms. Gregoire was right. We need a night off. No more talking about Hero High or Sherlock Holmes or iLive. We’re going bowling.”
“Bowling?”
“We need to throw something. Knock things down. And eat rubbery pretzels dipped in fake cheese.”
Win was out of his seat almost as fast as that time I’d vaulted a couch to escape a kiss. He chugged the rest of his juice and three-pointered the empty bottle. “I could go for some fake cheese.”
Normally he was a fortress. A poker player. That he was broadcasting his enthusiasm was a gift, and I wanted to offer him one too. “You’re not the only one who’s impatient,” I told him as we gathered our coats and he shoved his laptop into its case. “I want to get to the part where I get flirty with a snarky, hot guy—” I paused, in case this needed clarifying. “That’s you, by the way. The hot guy.”
Win glanced up from zipping his bag. “I figured. And thanks. But if that’s true, then . . . why?”
“Why pick detective over boyfriend?” I sucked in a breath, because so many people had offered different opinions. But Rory and Miles and Curtis were all wrong. It wasn’t just Sherlock’s theories on emotion, or that I was scared, or that I didn’t know what to do with requited, or that I felt the need to “earn” good karma after Clara. “Because no one else was stepping up for the role. And you deserve someone who’s on your side with no ulterior motives.”
He opened the café door and gestured me out, but then caught my arm as I passed him and quirked those irresistible eyebrows. “No ulterior motives?”
“I mean, don’t get me wrong, I want to kiss you—” We sidestepped to let a frazzled woman with a stroller through the door. Then, after catching her raised-eyebrows eavesdropper’s face, we continued down the sidewalk past the outdoor tables, pausing when we reached the corner of the building. My face was a furnace, not from being overheard but from the honesty I was about to drop as Win leaned back against the brick wall and waited. “I want that so bad. But I also want you to have someone taking you seriously. Believing you.”
Win was inscrutable, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t scrutinizing me. And every emotion I’d offered up felt printed in bold on my flushed cheeks. It became too much and I dropped my gaze, only to have it snag on his mouth. On the way his bottom lip was slightly chapped from how he always tugged and bit at it. How would that feel against mine?
I shifted left, ready to bolt down the sidewalk. I needed a walk in damp air, a bowling alley full of strangers and crashing pins to beat these thoughts from my head—but Win tightened his grip on my arm.
“Just so you know.” His voice was low, raspy. His eyes darker than they’d been when I’d last met them. “Watson and Sherlock have nothing on me: I am your biggest fanboy.”
I laughed. Apparently we weren’t doing the thing where we actually stopped talking about Sherlock. “You just can’t make it easy for me.”
Win’s hand was still bunching the sleeve of my blazer. “I don’t make it easy for anyone.”
“True.” This was one of the first facts I’d deduced about Win. If you wanted to be in his life, you had to prove you wanted him in yours. And not just once. Daily. “And in case my obsession with clearing your name isn’t clear enough—I’m your biggest fanboy too.”
His expression flickered. It was there and gone. A tiny glance left. A loosening of his fingers on my arm. It was a drop of doubt poisoning our well. And the only way to counteract his fear that I’d run was to stand.
I planted my feet wider. His hand was on my arm, so I put one on his shoulder. Put the other on his neck, where he could probably feel the tremble in my fingers.
When I was five, during my very last swim lesson the lifeguard had led me out to the edge of the diving board. I’d shaken as hard then as I did now. And while she’d been poised in the water beneath, clutching a long red float and promising to catch me, I’d dropped to my knees and crawled backward off the board.
This time I leapt. Crashing forward into the boy who was leaning in to catch me. Pressing my lips against his in a sigh that melted trembles into shivers of electricity.
This kiss was . . .
There were no words.
Just . . .
Lips.
And Win.
I thought he’d broken me, because it was the first time I could remember my mind being quiet. The only time I’d been fully in my body—fully fixated on sensations and . . .
His tongue had teased past my lips and twisted with mine.
And.
He groaned.
I drank down the sound and added my own to the chorus. I was off-balance. Even though I was firmly planted on the sidewalk, it felt like I was falling. It echoed my fears from the diving board—and I pulled back, straightening, gasping like a person who’d gone under and nearly drowned.
In actual drownings, the victim often endangers those trying to rescue them. They cling too tightly and thrash so wildly that they can drag them both under. I did the opposite. Practically shoved Win away—not that there was anywhere for him to go. His back was already against the wall.
Both our chests were heaving with ragged breaths. His eyes were wary, his voice soft. “You okay?”
“Wait.” We were supposed to wait. I braced my hands against his shoulders, locking my elbows to keep distance between our mouths, but curling my fingers into the fabric of his shirt, like I dared anyone to try and make me let go. I didn’t have time to get distracted. I didn’t have room to make mistakes. I didn’t have the strength to keep resisting him. “There’s only four—”
“No.” Win shook his head, then leaned a cheek against the back of my hand, bringing his own up to rest on top of mine. “You’re not—we’re not doing this. No. You make a lot of decisions, but I’m not letting you make this one. What difference is four days going to make? Are you going to change how you feel about me?”
Miles’s advice had proved itself ridiculously accurate—not that I’d ever tell him. But I would tell Win. That was the whole point. That I needed to speak my truths, not just think them. My arms went slack, my feet scooching closer. “No, of course not.”
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