Chapter 18 #2
I stare at my screen, guilt churning in my stomach. How do you tell your brother you're fake dating his best friend? And that last night you might have accidentally slept with him just a teeny tiny bit?
You don't.
all good! Just working and studying Living my best peaceful life
how's camp?
the kids are amazing, seriously loving it
except for this one counselor who's driving me fucking insane
she keeps "correcting" my kayak instructions
like I haven't been doing this for THREE SUMMERS
today she actually interrupted my safety demo to demonstrate "proper form"
I snort, picturing Troy's face. He's probably doing that thing where he pinches the bridge of his nose when he's trying not to commit murder.
maybe she's trying to impress you
I will block you
don't even joke
she already tried to "improve" my lesson plans
MULTIPLE TIMES
sounds like true love to me
that's it. You're disowned.
gotta go, she's approaching with a clipboard
what a loser
If you don't hear from me, assume I'm in prison for justifiable homicide
she sounds cool - give her my number so we can chat. I think we’d be friends!
I set my phone down, trying to ignore the guilt. It's just temporary, this lying to Troy. Just until this whole fake dating thing is over.
My phone buzzes. A text from Alfie.
Space Boy
Meet at 10 for com service tomorrow? I have something to show you.
I’m early to community service for the first time ever the next morning.
We haven’t spoken about hooking up. I haven’t brought it up. I don’t want to come off as clingy or weird. So what – we’re two people fake dating who might have accidently fell into each other? Well, he fell into me. Hard. And very freakin’ deep.
I cough to hide my face.
The blank wall stretches before me, freshly primed and waiting. We’ve spent days scrubbing and painting over the old graffiti with a coat of pink, and now finally I get to see what Alfie’s been designing.
He’s been so protective of it, hunched over that sketchbook he guards like it contains freakin’ state secrets, snapping it shut whenever I get too close.
“You’re early.”
His voice behind me sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with the morning chill. When I turn, he’s carrying a stack of paint cans, sleeves already rolled up. The tendons in his forearms flex as he sets them down, and I force myself to look away.
“Couldn’t sleep,” I admit, then immediately regret it. Because now he might ask why, and I can’t exactly say I spent hours replaying the way his voice got rough when he talked about escaping to the stars. How he trusted me with that piece of himself.
But he just nods, something soft in his expression. “Ready to see what we’re working with?”
“You mean I finally get to see this mysterious design you’ve been hiding?” I bounce on my toes, probably too excited but unable to help myself. “The one you wouldn’t even let me peek at?”
“If you promise not to laugh.”
“When do I ever laugh at you?”
He raises an eyebrow.
“Okay, fair enough. But I promise to only laugh if it’s really terrible.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “Your support is overwhelming.”
He pulls out his sketchbook, the sketchbook, and hesitates.
I've never seen Alfie Spencer look uncertain about anything—well, except when he asked me to be his fake girlfriend—but there's something almost vulnerable in the way he holds his book.
“It’s not very... me,” he says finally, fingers tight on the cover. “but I thought maybe...”
He hands me the book, and my breath catches.
The design spreads across two pages in a riot of color that makes my heart stutter. Pink washes blend into soft purples and blues, creating a dreamy backdrop for dozens of wildflowers that look like they might actually be dancing.
It’s whimsical and magical and absolutely nothing like what I’d expect from someone who treats black clothing like a religion.
I realize with a finality that makes my throat tight - he’s right, it isn’t very him. It’s very me.
Every petal, every swirl of color, every playful detail captures the exact kind of joy I try to bring to everything. He’s been watching. Really seeing me.
My heart does something complicated in my chest. Because this is exactly what I’ve been afraid of – the way he notices things about me, the way he pays attention, the way he somehow sees past all my defensive brightness to something real underneath. The way he makes me want to let him.
I don’t need this. Don’t need the way my pulse jumps when he rolls up his sleeves.
Don’t need the flutter in my stomach when he remembers tiny details about me.
Don’t need to rely on anyone else for anything.
Not after finding out how Mom and Troy thought I needed protecting from the truth.
Not after spending so long proving I can handle things myself.
Except... maybe with Alfie, it’s not about needing. Maybe it’s about wanting. Maybe I want to know what other beautiful things he keeps hidden in that sketchbook. Maybe I want to be the reason he creates something this bright and hopeful.
“Alfie, this is...”
“Too much?” He examines the drawing intensely. “I know it’s not very sophisticated. We can do something else—”
“It’s beautiful.” I look up at him, this boy who pretends to be all sharp edges but apparently has this much softness inside him. “I had no idea you could...”
“Draw flowers?” His laugh is self-deprecating. “Yeah, doesn’t really fit the image.”
“No, I mean...” I trace one of the flowers with my finger. “Create something this... alive.” I study the design more closely, an idea forming. “Though you know what would make it even better?”
His eyebrows lift. “It needs something?”
“Butterflies.” I point to an empty space near the corner. “Like, a whole swarm of them, rising up from the flowers. You know how butterflies sometimes all take off at once? It could be like that, but in pinks and purples, getting lighter as they go up...”
“Tara.” There’s a warning in his voice. “The design is finished.”
“But imagine it! They could look like they’re escaping the wall, like they’re actually flying away. We could even make some of them metallic, so they catch the light—”
“I can’t draw butterflies.”
I actually laugh out loud. “Are you kidding? You just drew the most beautiful flowers I’ve ever seen, but you’re trying to tell me butterflies are beyond your artistic abilities?”
“Flowers don’t move much,” he mutters. “Butterflies are different.”
“Different how?”
“They’re more delicate. More alive.” His ears are definitely pink now. “I can’t capture that.”
“Bullshit.” I grab his pencil, pressing it into his hand.
“The Alfie Spencer I know doesn’t back down from a challenge.
And besides”—I lean closer, unable to resist teasing him—“I thought you were ‘very good with your hands’? But, if you’re willing to admit you’re in fact not good with them, then that’s your decision”
His eyes darken at the callback to the other night. “You’re impossible,” he mutters, but he’s already bringing the pencil to paper.
“I might add one, just one.”
I watch his hands move across the design, hesitant at first, then with growing confidence.
Each stroke adds life to an already beautiful piece, and something warm unfurls in my chest. Because maybe this is what it means to let someone in - not needing them to make something complete, but pushing them to create something they didn’t think they could.
“You’re staring,” he says quietly, not looking up from his drawing.
“Just... surprised. I didn’t think you even liked pink.”
“Maybe it’s growing on me.”
He’s watching me with a keenness that makes my skin tingle.
“So,” he says, still not looking at me, “should we start?”
I clear my throat, trying to sound normal. “Yeah. Yes. Absolutely.”
He picks up a brush, and I definitely don’t watch the way his forearms flex as he opens the first can of paint. Definitely don’t think about how much I want to know every hidden part of him, even the parts that terrify me with their softness.
“This looks more like a deformed starfish,” I mutter, frowning at my attempt to copy one of his flowers. The lines are all wrong, too harsh where his are delicate.
“Let me see.” He leans over my shoulder, close enough that I catch the faint scent of his soap mixing with something distinctly Alfie. His breath stirs my hair. “It’s not that bad.”
“Liar. My petals look like they’re having an existential crisis.” I try to focus on the paper, not on how the heat from his body seems to seep into mine.
His laugh vibrates through me, low and rich. “You’re pressing too hard. Here—”
He moves behind me, and my breath catches. His chest is solid against my back, one arm bracing on the table beside me, effectively caging me in. When his hand covers mine on the pencil, his fingers slot between mine like they belong there.
“Like this.” His voice drops to nearly a whisper, sending shivers down my spine. “You have to be gentle.” He demonstrates, guiding our joined hands in a delicate arc.
“Please. I’m great at handling delicate things.” The words come out breathier than intended.
“Are you?” His thumb strokes over my knuckles as we draw another petal. The touch is barely there but it sets my skin on fire. “Show me.”
I try to focus on the drawing, but all I can think about is how his body curves around mine, how his chest rises and falls against my back. The lines flow smoother now under his guidance, but I couldn’t tell you what we’re actually drawing.
I swallow hard. “Very hands-on teaching method.”
Testing the tension between us, I lean back slightly into his chest. His fingers flex on my hip, pulling me infinitesimally closer.
“Show off.”
“I believe in thorough instruction.” His nose grazes the sensitive spot behind my ear, and my eyes flutter shut. “Wouldn’t want you to miss any... important details. See?” he murmurs, his lips so close to my ear I feel them brush my skin. “It’s all about control.”
His free hand finds my hip, fingers spreading possessively.
“Pressure.” His grip tightens slightly. “Patience.”
“All about control?” I tilt my head slightly, just enough to feel the warmth of his breath against my skin. “Interesting. You sometimes seem… to lose it.”
His fingers pause for the briefest second, just a twitch, but I notice.
He knows what I’m referring to.
Alfie exhales slowly. “I don’t lose control around you.”
I blink. “Oh?”
He shrugs, casual. Too casual. “You don’t affect me like that.”
A slow grin spreads across my lips. He’s lying. I know he’s lying. And now, I want to see how long he can keep up the act.
I shift slightly in his hold, just enough to close that last sliver of space between us. I feel the way his breath hitches, the way his grip tenses against my hip like he’s bracing himself.
“You sure about that?”
His jaw tightens. “Yes.”
Liar. What a little freakin’ liar. Fine, I’ll prove it to him.
My fingers trail lightly down his forearm, feeling the tension coiled there. He doesn’t move, doesn’t stop me—just watches me, jaw clenched like he’s waiting for something inevitable.
“Interesting.” I reach up—just slightly—and fix the collar of his shirt, my knuckles grazing his throat.
His breath catches.
Oh.
Oh, this is fun.
“Completely unaffected, huh?” I murmur.
His eyes darken.
“Tara.”
I lean in, just enough to watch his pulse jump.
“Say it again.”
His hand grips my waist.
Hard.
He doesn’t say it again.
For a moment, we just breathe.
Then, just as fast as he let himself slip, Alfie steps back. The loss of warmth is almost jarring. His eyes flick to mine, stormy, unreadable.
“We’re done here,” he mutters.
He turns before I can say anything else.
And for the first time, I think I just won.