Chapter 17
ETHAN
Aclatter of mixing bowls yanks me out of my post-all-nighter haze.
Downstairs, the house sounds like someone let loose a pack of caffeinated raccoons. I pull on sweatpants, shuffle to the landing, and peer over the banister.
Freddie’s in the kitchen wearing his mom’s floral apron, aggressively dusting cocoa powder over something that might be brownies. Troy’s sprawled on the sofa, constructing what looks like armor from aluminum foil while Delilah FaceTimes instructions from her architecture studio.
Alfie hunches over the dining table with a hot glue gun and determination. Beside him sits Greg, my monstera, sporting a tiny cardboard wizard hat complete with silver stars.
“Dude,” I croak, descending the stairs. “You turned Greg into Gandalf.”
Alfie glances up, glasses sliding down his nose. “Technically, more Merlin-esque. Gandalf’s hat has a different cone angle.”
“He looks distinguished,” Troy calls out. “Very wise. Very leafy. Oh, Eth! Freddie’s trying to make better brownies than me. Come down here and tell him he is completely wrong.”
I shuffle into the kitchen where Freddie offers me a chocolate-covered spoon. “Taste.”
“What is it?”
“Brownie batter 2.0. My secret ingredient is too much espresso.”
I taste it. Sugar and caffeine hit my bloodstream like a defibrillator. “Jesus, Fred. This could wake the dead. But, it’s delicious.”
“That’s the plan.” He gestures at my hair with his whisk. “You figure out your costume yet?”
“Yeah, about that...” I hold up my thrift store find—a garland of fake ivy and autumn leaves that looked way less ridiculous in the store. “This is happening.”
Troy sits up. “Just... just the garland?”
“And boxers. White ones. Very sexy, yes?”
“Very arrested,” Freddie corrects. “You realize there’s a line between ‘creative costume’ and ‘public indecency,’ right?”
“It covers everything important. Besides, Piper said I’d look like Adam from the Garden of Eden.”
“Piper said—” Troy exchanges a look with Freddie. “Oh, this makes sense now.”
“What makes sense?”
“Nothing. Just interesting how you’re taking fashion advice from your ‘tutee.’”
“We’re shopping buddies now. It’s totally normal.” I drape the garland around my neck experimentally. “Think she’ll be impressed?”
“Impressed or terrified when she sees you in white boxers,” Alfie mutters, hot-gluing another star to Greg’s hat.
My phone buzzes. Piper’s name lights up the screen.
Pip
Costume crisis. Is this too much?
An image loads. Piper in her dorm mirror, wearing a black tank top and matching skirt, both covered in carefully wrapped fairy lights.
She’s literally glowing, the lights catching on her glasses and making her look like some kind of electric fairy.
Her expression is uncertain, one hand adjusting a strand of lights near her shoulder.
I stare at the photo longer than strictly necessary.
“Ethan?” Freddie waves a hand in front of my face. “You’re drooling on my brownies.”
“I’m not—” I clear my throat, type back.
You look incredible. Like a walking constellation.
Too nerdy? I can change.
Don’t you dare change. You’re perfect.
I realize what I typed and quickly add
The costume. The costume is perfect.
“Smooth.” Troy reads over my shoulder. “Really subtle.”
“Shut up.” But I’m grinning as I pocket my phone.
The next few hours blur into party prep. Freddie’s brownies emerge from the oven looking suspiciously professional. Troy’s aluminum foil armor slowly takes shape, held together by duct tape and delusion. Alfie strings fairy lights across the ceiling.
I slip upstairs to change, staring at myself in the mirror. The garland covers my chest (mostly), the leaves strategically placed to maintain some dignity. The white boxers are... well, they’re boxers. This seemed like a better idea when I was trying to make Piper laugh in the thrift store.
“You can do this,” I tell my reflection. “You’re a confident guy who makes bold choices.”
My reflection looks skeptical.
Downstairs, the party’s starting to fill. Alex arrives in what appears to be recycled newspaper, Tara sports bubble wrap and determination. The music thumps—Troy’s signature mix of everything from Swedish House Mafia to Taylor Swift.
Troy, of course, chooses an outfit just as crazy as mine, black jeans, no shirt, and a cape made of silver emergency blankets.
He flexes. “Whatcha think, Lilah?”
“I think my boyfriend is a shiny fire hazard,” Delilah mutters, but her smile betrays pride.
Troy cranks the music louder. Someone starts a beer pong tournament in the kitchen. Alex drags Tara into an impromptu dance circle.
And I’m standing here in my underwear and leaves, thinking about how I can't wait to see Piper, about how it doesn't feel like I'm waiting for my fake-date.