Chapter 23 Harper #2
I scoff, rolling my eyes. “Don’t let it go to your head. It’s glue.”
We settle into a comfortable silence. After another minute, I risk another peek at him. “Thanks for coming today, by the way. I know you’re busy. And, well—do you ever get that feeling like you don’t even want to go home because the air is…heavy?”
“What do you mean?”
I shrug. “Eh. My parents are making things weird at home. Probably why I jumped at the chance to sign up for this committee in the first place. Less time…there.”
He straightens, looking at me. “Weird how?”
“They tiptoe around each other and give each other the silent treatment and it’s the most passive-aggressive arguing I’ve ever seen,” I explain. “Does that make sense?”
“Yeah, it does.” I watch as he sits back on his haunches to study me. For a moment, I think we’re done talking, but then he goes on. “You know,” he says, “you can tell me shit. We’re friends and I’m a good listener. I mean, I won’t pretend I’m good at giving advice or whatever, but I can listen.”
His smile makes me blush, but I don’t answer immediately, my throat oddly full.
Nodding, I turn back to the arch. It’s weirdly nice working in sync like this, no arguing, no teasing.
As we continue our task, the boxes of flowers gradually empty, and the once-plain wooden arch takes on the life of the vibrant blooms.
Pretty.
“The thing is—” I surprise myself when I speak again, interrupting the quiet that’s fallen between us.
I glance at Easton, who’s uncharacteristically focused, placing each flower with care.
“I guess the worst part of it is that my parents don’t even have the decency to fake it—they’re basically roommates.
Lots of whispering when I walk into a room, but no one tells me what’s going on.
They act like I’m still a kid and can’t handle the truth, so I just… ”
I trail off as he exhales, rolling his shoulders as if he has to stretch. “I get it,” he says gently. “I do. My parents don’t fight—not really. But sometimes it feels like we all just exist in the same space? Everyone has their own shit going on and we don’t really talk about our feelings.”
I chew the inside of my cheek. “That’s kind of how it is with my dad. He’s there, but he’s not.”
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
With a shake of my head, I move the conversation along, enjoying the camaraderie. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t planning to bring this up. I know you’d rather just, like, practice flirting and ask dumb questions.”
Beside me, Easton has a death grip on a tube of glue, squishing a tad too eagerly, and he squirts a generous amount onto his fingers instead of the flower in his grasp.
He scowls as he squeezes the last drop of glue onto a stem. “I mean—who doesn’t love a dumb, flirty convo?”
Bumps me with his elbow during another aggressive squeeze.
“Shit!” he exclaims, dropping the superglue and shaking his hand in an attempt to fling the goo off. “Help!”
He reaches forward at the same time I reach forward.
I lean.
He leans.
Hand out.
Fingers beseeching, full of glue.
Horrified, I watch a drop fall to the gymnasium floor between our bodies as if in slow motion. And if he’s not careful…
“Oh my god, Easton, you’re going to—”
Glue us together.
No sooner do I get the words out of my mouth than a wet droplet hits my chest. I glance down to the spot where his fingers are stuck to my flesh, skin on skin.
I shift back, testing to confirm what I already know: His fingers are attached to my body.
“You have got to be freaking kidding me,” I groan. “I told you to be careful! Now look!”
He looks.
Down at the exposed skin of my collarbone, his hand pressed where it shouldn’t be: on my clavicle, next to my neck, just above my boobs.
We are officially stuck together. The superglue has done its job a little too well.
“Oh fuck!” His voice sounds panicked. “That was an accident, I swear.”
“I realize that.” I breathe in and out, praying for patience. “I told you to be careful.”
I cannot stop myself from reminding him, though none of this should be a surprise. He has a short history of glitter bombs and mistakes.
My cheeks burn as I stare down at the spot where Easton’s hand is stuck to my skin. The sensitive skin beneath it burns.
This has to be some kind of cosmic joke.
When I told him to be careful, did he listen? No! No he did not! And now here we are, glued together, his fingers pressed against my collarbone in a way that is definitely not okay.
I try to remain calm, which is difficult, considering my brain is screaming THIS IS SO BAD, HARPER. Really, really bad.
What if someone sees us like this? What if they get the wrong idea?
What if?
If? Ha! They totally will.
My heart races as the reality of the situation sinks in. We’re surrounded by our classmates; any one of them could turn around and see us glued together like this. Not to mention Mr. Grazz, who remains blissfully unaware of our predicament.
I glance at Easton. Maybe he has some brilliant plan to get us out of this mess?
Nope. He looks just as freaked out as I am.
His eyes are wide with that kind of desperate panic that makes it clear he has no idea what to do.
“Shit,” he mutters. “What now?”
My brain spins at a mile per second for a solution.
“Oh! Maybe we can use some acetone or something,” I suggest, trying to sound confident and in charge.
“Acetone?” Easton’s nose is scrunched up as if my idea were the lamest thing he’s heard all day. “You honestly think that art dude carries around poison in his bag of tricks? No.”
“That’s arsenic, not acetone, genius. And I’m throwing out ideas. It’s not like you have any!”
He gives his head a shake. “Nope. Not a single one.”
We sound more panicked by the second.
Easton tries to tug his arm away, the tips of his fingers pulling my skin with them.
“Ouch!”
It’s no use—the glue is holding fast because it’s skin on skin. Every time one of us moves, the situation feels more impossible.
He tugs again.
I gasp. “Could you not do that?” I ask, wishing I could smack him. “It hurts!”
“Sorry.” Easton rolls his eyes. “It’s not like I’m hurting you on purpose. Stop moving.”
“I’m not moving—your hand is stuck to my chest. What do you expect me to do?” Smart-ass.
He cranes his neck, checking for onlookers, appearing more culpable and guilty than he did the night he stole that rhino head from Parker Lane Prep.
“Would you please act natural? Stop looking around!” I sneer, doing my best not to draw attention. Everyone has been given a task and seems pretty intent on getting their work done—but that doesn’t mean that at any moment, one of our classmates won’t look over and see what’s happening between us.
And draw their own conclusions about the hand near my boob. Then it’s bye-bye to my reputation, my dignity—gone in an instant. Poof!
“How are we supposed to act natural when we’re literally glued together? What if someone sees us?”
“Oh, people are definitely going to see us.” I snort. “Anyone with a set of functioning eyeballs is going to notice. Plus we’re causing a scene with our bickering.”
“I don’t bicker,” he counters. “You’re the one complaining.”
This keeps getting worse.
“You really need to stop being so dramatic,” I tell him. “We won’t be stuck like this forever.” There has to be a solution.
“Let’s Google how to get this off.”
“Finally! A useful suggestion.”
I reach for the back pocket of my shorts and retrieve my phone, holding it to my mouth and speaking quietly into it. “Siri, how do you get superglue off skin?”
Easton shakes his head. “Don’t ask it that—tell it you’re stuck and ask it how to get unstuck.”
I shush him while my cell phone thinks. “I’m not telling it that.”
Guys are so dumb.
The screen on my phone lights up and my cell begins speaking.
“I found the answer you are looking for. To get superglue off skin, there are several options. One: Soak the skin in warm soapy water to loosen the glue, then simply attempt to peel the glue off. Two: Apply lemon juice. Lemon can be used as a substitute for soap. Three: Apply butter or olive oil…”
“Oh my fucking god,” Easton whines. “This is hopeless. Where are we going to get butter?”
Butter? Is he for real?
“Seriously, Easton? Stop. We’re not using butter.”
“But the search said—”
“Unless you want to get in my car and drive with me to the store, butter is not an option.”
He’s quiet a few seconds. “What about lemons?”
I hold up my hand. “Easton. Stop.”
Please.
“ ’Scuse me—sorry I’m the only one freaking the fuck out!”
“It’s not necessary for you to be acting like a damn drama queen.”
Easton scoffs. “I’m only acting this way because you’re starting to rub off on me.”
“Are you implying that I’m dramatic?” Is that what he’s saying? “This is what happens when you’re not paying attention, you don’t listen, and you use all your strength to squeeze a tiny bottle the size of a…a stick of gum!”
“A stick of gum?” He cocks a brow.
It’s the best comparison I can come up with at the moment, and of course that’s his takeaway from that entire tangent.
“It’s not my fault you’re freakishly strong.”
“Freakishly strong?” He lets out a low whistle. “Why, Harper Conrad, that sure does sound like a compliment.”
I ignore him, scanning the supply kit Mr. Grazz set down nearby us. It’s similar to a tackle box that you’d use for fishing, but instead of lures and hooks, it’s filled with small art tools.
Scissors, ceramic sculpting tools, painting knives, box cutters, and—
“Reach over and see if you can snag that pair of tweezers. Or a putty knife.”
We scoot in tandem and Easton reaches into the tackle box, rooting around until he can get his hooks on the tool we need.
When he hands the tweezers to me, I hold them up in front of his nose, tapping them together like alligator teeth.
“Hold still.” Chomp, chomp. “Let me see if I can get us out of this mess.”
“With those?” he squeaks, clearly terrified.
“It’ll be fine.” It has to be fine. “I’ll be careful.”
Carefully—as if I were a surgeon performing a delicate operation—I wedge the tweezers as slowly as I can between his fingers and my flesh, gently trying to pry them apart without hurting either of us.
“Ow, ow—stop, stop, stop.”
I stop.
“Seriously?” I huff. “This is your fault. I take my eyes off you for three seconds and this happens. You’re gonna have to suck it up and let me do this.”
“Only because I became distracted by someone bossing me around, because God forbid I choose the wrong flower color for your precious garden thing.”
“Trellis. Garden trellis.”
“They didn’t even have those back in medieval times.” He ignores me and continues complaining. “What a stupid idea.”
“Literally not the point!” I practically hiss in frustration. “You are glued to me. Focus, Easton, focus!”
I fixate on the hand pressed to my skin; it’s so big. These hands have been on your body, Harper, running down your spine when he kissed you.
I give my head a shake, biting my bottom lip.
Concentrating on the task, I do my best to ignore the way my pulse quickens with him so close. He smells so good…so clean, with a hint of something woodsy.
Guh!
I bite harder on my lip, forcing my brain to come up with a solution to get us apart rather than getting distracted by the heat of his skin beneath my touch. His index and middle fingers specifically.
“Agh,” he mutters. “We don’t have time for this!”
I roll my eyes. “You’re not going to be stuck here all night—calm down.”
I push. Pull. Nip at the glue with the tweezers.
Cringe.
Gasp.
It hurts, but I’m willing to fight through the pain.
And just as I’m about to say Let’s just rip off the Band-Aid and separate on the count of three, the gym doors behind me bang open, followed by a cool breeze hitting my back.
Everyone seems to stop what they’re doing to stare. Time stands still. Birds stop chirping.
I know who it is without turning to look.
Maddie Miller.
Great.
Perfect!
Of all the people who could walk in right now, of course it has to be the last person I want to see. She’s got her camera with her, probably to film that content for her socials she mentioned to Easton, making good on her promise.
Shit, shit, double shit.
Easton shifts slightly, trying to block Maddie’s view of his hand on my body, but it won’t work. We’re too close together, almost on top of one another at this point. Too tangled.
My heart is pounding so freaking fast and hard I’m certain everyone around us can hear it. How could they not?
I watch spellbound as Maddie’s keen eyes scan the room like she’s on a mission. She hasn’t seen us yet, but it’s only a matter of time. I feel a wave of panic wash over me as I realize there is no way we’re going to escape this unscathed.
Unfilmed.
As if she were in a music video, her long blond hair catches the light, tousled from the wind outside whipping it around her face. She’s wearing a strappy top that recently went viral on the internet, making it impossible to find, of course, and is the center of attention.
Always the center of attention…
Easton’s posture straightens, taking me along with him. I wince again as he twists his body to watch her approach.
He makes one last-ditch attempt at disconnecting us, tugging his hand, gawking at Maddie as if she were the only other person in the gym and he weren’t glued to me.