Page 39 of People Like Us

I sat, hearing Wyatt huff on my other side. He gripped a large binder, jaw tight. Angelica queued a video on the TV: a misty forest, fireflies flickering as Celtic music drifted. Evan switched off the lights, and the room glowed green.

Wyatt’s voice rumbled beside me. “When we left off last week, the party was deep in the ruins, low on torches, and even lower on patience.”

I glanced at August, eyes wide. He was already looking at me with the most beautiful shade of coral spreading across the peaks of his devilishly handsome face.

I hadn’t known nerd hobbies could be this fun.

I learned Angelica was a lesbian—Evan had told me “just in case I knew any others.” Penelope suggested that there weren’t many gay people at our school.

I shrugged, “You’d be surprised.”

Angelica practically drooled when she begged, “Please tell me one of the Barbies is gay.”

I flashed her a conspiratorial grin.

“No!” she nearly tipped the table in her excitement. “I have to know who.” I pretended to zip my lips shut and tossed the imaginary key over my shoulder.

She leaned across her brother, jostling Penelope’s shoulder so hard she yelped. “I’m going to fuck one of the cheerleaders before we graduate,” Angelica declared like she owned a new planet. Ben gagged theatrically, and I laughed.

My Barbie lost a boot to quicksand, but August’s Aasimar swooped in and pulled her free, so not a total loss. At the end of the night, Wyatt said I’d done okay, which was more than I had expected from him.

The girls begged me to come back the next week; I said I’d think about it. Evan leaned in, whispering that August ought to buy a ring soon, and August blushed before asking what size ring I wore, teasing.

I ignored the image in my mind of me in a white dress, meeting August in his cargo jeans at the end of an aisle.

As August pulled out of Wyatt’s driveway, he asked: “Did you have fun?” The leather seat was warm beneath my hand where I’d been tracing its seam.

“I think that was the most fun I’ve ever had sober,” I admitted, and the engine’s hum felt cozy in the quiet.

He laughed, low and easy. “Do you usually drink with your friends?”

“Sometimes,” I shrugged; the sleeve of my denim jacket rustled.

“Don’t drink and drive.” He sounded half-joking until I caught his gaze flicking between my face and the dark road expectantly.

“I don’t.” I offered a small smile.

He exhaled. “You can call me if you ever need a ride.”

“I wouldn’t do that to you, August.” My voice was soft.

“Do what?”

“Make you drop your Saturday plans to pick me up from a party full of people you hate.”

He shrugged, eyes on the road. “I’d rather show up at a party I hate than have you wrapped around a telephone pole.” I winced at the mental image of twisted metal and shattered glass.

“Do you ever party on weekends?” I ventured, watching raindrops collect on the windshield.

He glanced at me like I’d asked if he ever grew a third arm. “I’ll be doing laundry tomorrow—and probably every Saturday for the rest of my life.”

I smiled, picturing him sorting whites and colors, folding each pair of jeans with military precision.

He flicked on the turn signal. “What are you doing tomorrow?”

“The girls and I have a nail appointment in the morning. Then shopping, maybe a party Andy mentioned.” I pressed my forehead against the cool glass.

He nodded. “I love your nails.”