The Before
“It’ll be fun!”
I hesitate. We’re at the entrance of a winding driveway. The sun is golden and fading. Warm light washes over London’s face, his green eyes, the depth of his smile. Noises shake me from my stare.
Even from here, the loud music is jarring.
Parties aren’t my favorite thing. Neither are unnecessarily large crowds. But London insisted we come.
“It’s our first high school party,” he said days ago, like he’d won a golden ticket. Unlocked a door that was previously hidden from us. But I don’t want to open it.
I don’t want to walk inside.
My eyes bounce from London’s grin to the sprawling ranch-style house at the end of the driveway. It belongs to the Ackermans. Ryan, a senior, is hosting the party while his parents are out of town. His younger brother, Troy, has classes with London. He invited us.
Well, he invited London. I don’t really know Troy. But Ryan is one of the assholes who called me Sideshow Bob in the hallway last September. The day Max saved me.
She’s not with us. I wish she was.
Nerves creep up my shoulders. My fingers twitch at my sides. London looks down and I stop, squeezing my hands into fists.
His smile lights up again. It loosens my chest. Something about being around him always makes me comfortable.
A couple of older girls pass us, giggling. One looks over her shoulder to stare at London. He doesn’t notice. His eyes are locked on me. Pride stirs in my stomach.
“Come on. It’s just a party,” he says. “Besides, it’ll be great practice. For college.”
“College?” I laugh. “We’re barely fifteen!”
His lips curl into a weird smile. I don’t know how to describe it. But it’s my favorite thing about him.
“It’s never too early to plan,” London insists. “Haven’t you thought about it?”
“No.”
“At all?”
I shake my head.
He groans disappointedly. London’s a planner. He once told me that every Sunday, he organizes his outfits for school. For the entire week. That’s not me. I roll out of bed and put on whatever is least wrinkled.
London glances toward the house, then back to me. “What are you worried about? Your clothes?”
My gaze lowers. “What’s wrong with my fit?”
“Nothing.” London presses a hand to my white T-shirt. His fingers spread over my chest. I wonder if he can feel how erratic my heartbeat is. “I just don’t get why one party has you so nervous.”
“I don’t know. I just am.”
After I hear the words out loud, they seem…silly. Shouldn’t I have a stronger answer? A real reason to not want to be here?
My fingers dance by my sides.
London’s mouth quirks. “Okay. Hold on.” He digs into the back pocket of his shorts. When his hand opens, there’s a woven bracelet resting delicately on his palm. Braided threads of blue and yellow.
“Our favorite colors,” London points out.
I blink, surprised.
He steps forward. “I made it for you. It was supposed to be a six-month anniversary gift.”
We’ve been dating since October. He asked me a month after we first met at Pride Club.
I can’t stop staring.
“You made this?” My voice is raspy, too in awe to work properly.
“Yeah. I watched a couple of YouTube videos on how to.”
He shrugs, as if it’s nothing. I smile at his modesty. He’s so smart. Half the time, I don’t think he even knows it. He’s going to get into whatever college he applies to.
“Here.” London ties the bracelet around my wrist. Then he tugs on it to make sure it doesn’t slip off before standing back.
“Now you can look at it whenever you get nervous. That way you don’t—” He mimics what I do with my hands when I’m anxious.
The way they dance in the air like I’m playing piano again. Composing a song in my head.
Heat stings my cheeks. London almost looks like he’s mocking me. But he’s beaming, so that can’t be true.
“Thanks,” I whisper. “I didn’t get you anything.”
Amusement lights his face. A newborn sun. “You can later.”
I squint at him. “Did you make me something because you spent all the money your parents gave you on these ridiculous threads?”
I flick the collar of his diamond-patterned button-down.
He gasps. “What? No.”
“Who are you trying to impress, London Sanders?”
“Nobody!”
I tug on the belt loop of his khakis, provoking. His hands shoot out to tickle my ribs. A laugh springs out of me, so loud it forces a bird in a nearby oak tree to take flight.
“I did it, you asshole,” London says, grinning, breathless, “because I love you.”
We both pause, frozen. The world goes silent. All but the ocean meeting the shore, the roaring heartbeat in my ears, and his words floating away on the breeze.
Panic tenses his jaw. He’s never said that before.
Neither have I.
London swallows. His face flushes pink as coral. “I mean—”
I surge forward and kiss him. His stammering stops. He kisses me back. Over time, we’ve gotten better at this. Still not perfect, but better.
Between noses bumping and teeth clinking, I whisper, “I love you.”
It falls from my lips without thinking. Without considering the weight and boldness those words carry. Because his weird smile is pointed at me. Because he gave me this bracelet. Because, secretly, I’ve wanted to say it first, day after day, but I was too nervous to.
“August, I love you,” he repeats.
His voice is like honey, full and warm.
I’m helpless to the hot bloom of my heart unfolding beneath my ribs.
As he leads me up the driveway, London grips my hand. Firm and secure. It stays like that the whole night.
I want it to stay like that forever.