Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 100612 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100612 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
For a few beats, we work in silence, the only sound the quiet swish of paint and marker against cardboard. It’s awkward but not unbearable.
Then, out of nowhere: “I accept your apology, by the way.”
I pause mid-stroke, glancing at her. “Yeah?”
She doesn’t look up, just keeps painting, her voice even. “Yeah. I don’t want to dwell on it.”
Amazing.
I love that for myself.
I nod, swallowing the last of my guilt. “Okay. So…what are we doing with this?” I pick up a strip of crepe paper and start stretching it across the wall.
“Nothing.” Harper is bending at the waist, moving pieces that still need paint to the center of the floor. “My mom bought a bunch of random stuff at the dollar store thinking we could use it—I’ll bring those to school when we decorate, but…”
“I love streamers,” I tell her, fiddling with the roll.
“That’s a really random fact.” She giggles, watching as I start unrolling the bright pink streamer and toss it to the open roof trusses above our heads.
When it falls back at my feet, I toss it up again.
“Dude—what are you doing?” She sounds horrified.
“Decorating.”
“Oh jeez,” she mutters, but doesn’t object, watching me for several more seconds, biting her lip like she’s holding back a laugh. “You’re doing it wrong.”
I cock my brow. “What makes you the expert?”
“Years of birthday parties,” she says with a grin. “Watch and learn.”
Harper takes the roll from me, fingers brushing against mine for a moment too long. Long enough to send a jolt of electricity up my arm and down my leg, and I’m pretty sure she felt it, too, because she hesitates before looping the streamer in an intricate pattern from wall to wall.
“Impressive,” I admit, watching the bland garage go from drab to fab. It’s a total waste of our time, but hey—whatever. “Show-off.”
She glances over at me, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Maybe a little. We should probably take this down before my mom gets home. I don’t want her to be pissed.”
“Why would your mom be pissed? It’s only streamers.”
Harper shrugs. “She’s been moody lately.”
I don’t ask her to clarify because I understand; my mom can be moody, too—mostly directed at my dad.
“We should get back to work.”
I nod. “Probably.” The sooner we get this over with, the better, ’cause then I only have that promposal to get through.
“Are you in the mood to paint?”
Am I ever? “No.”
Harper nods, then walks to the workbench and grabs a small bottle. Tosses it to me.
“Of course you want to use glitter,” I say, eyeing the bottle warily. It sparkles and shines as I turn it this way and that in the palm of my hand. “Why do I feel like me, using this, is going to end badly?”
“Because it probably will.” She giggles. “Try not to make a mess.”
I pop the cap off and start shaking glitter onto my knight, doing my best to hit my intended target—but the stuff has a mind of its own, and suddenly there’s glitter everywhere.
“Shit!” I yell as silver sparkles fill the air, the glitter bomb going off without warning. “Help!”
Glitter goes up like a cloud…and comes back down.
It’s everywhere: on the knight, on the floor, in my hair, and in hers.
“Oh my god, Easton—it’s not like a saltshaker!” Harper bursts out laughing, doubling over, face turning a color I’ve never seen it turn before. “You don’t shake it, you sprinkle it!”
“How the hell was I supposed to know that?” Like, how did this even happen? Glitter rains down on us like tiny flakes of snow or confetti at a parade—and all I did was shake that shit. “Warn me first, jeezuz!”
“I said this was going to be messy, and now we know why. Glitter is the worst.”
“You handed it to me!” Nay—she tossed it. And like a damn idiot I fell into her web of lies.
I spot a broom in the corner and go to snap it up, sweeping what flecks I can off the concrete floor; the last thing I need is her parents blowing a gasket, what with her mom being pissy and all.
As I sweep, Harper makes a show of bending to fluff her hair, speckles and sparkles falling to the ground.
Then it’s back to work.
We fall into a rhythm—I cover the larger areas of the few unpainted knights with a fresh coat of paint (silver, if you’re wondering), and Harper is the clean-up crew who adds the fine details with a Sharpie. Soon our men begin to look like something you might see guarding a medieval castle…if the castle was made of cardboard.
“So.” Harper looks over at me with a casual curiosity that instantly puts me on edge. “What’s the deal with you and Maddie Miller, anyway? Is she the reason you want to learn how to talk to girls?”
My stomach drops at the mention of Maddie’s name.