Bentley’s kitchen table is small and pockmarked, and my rain-soaked legs stick to a vinyl chair while he flips grilled cheese sandwiches at the stove. I run my finger across a table groove that’s smudged with green, like it was drawn in with Magic Marker that couldn’t be removed.
“Where are the twins?” I ask, not really sure what to talk about. Bentley and I haven’t exchanged more than a handful of sentences at any given time since we were twelve.
“New board game. They’ve been playing it all morning,” he says over his shoulder.
I stand, not for any reason other than it gives me something to do. I lean my hip against the counter near the stove. “Do you take care of them a lot?”
“Sometimes,” he says. “Yeah.”
“Where’s your mom?”
“Work,” he replies and breaks eye contact, not offering an explanation.
The conversation lulls and we both stare at the frying pan. It’s weird—after all the effort he put into getting me over here, I thought he’d be the one driving the conversation. Maybe it’s just awkward because we’re in his house? Or the unthinkable . . . could Bentley actually be nervous?
“Where did you learn to cook?” I ask, trying again at the worst small talk of all time.
Bentley laughs. “If you think grilled cheese is cooking, then I totally know what I’m making you for our next date.”
“Our next date, huh?”
He looks back at his spatula, his cheeks very slightly pink under his tanned skin. Only it’s hard to tell if it’s from standing in front of the hot stove or from embarrassment. “I learned to cook because of the twins. They were weird toddlers. You couldn’t just give them apples and bananas. They only liked super flavorful stuff. Still do. They can scarf down Thai and spicy Mexican with the best of them.”
He plates the grilled cheese and holds one in each hand. In an effort to help, I reach for the one in his left hand, but he offers me the one in his right, and we both apologize.
“Here.” He tries again, and this time I take the correct one.
Before I can say thanks, Trevor and Maisie tear into the kitchen, yelling.
“Whoa. Whoa,” Bentley says.
“Trevor took my game piece and wiped his butt on it,” Maisie yells, giving Trevor a death glare.
“She totally cheated!” Trevor counters.
“Did not!” Maisie exclaims. “I was about to win, when he stole my horse and stuck it down his underwear right in his booty crack!”
“Okay. Got it,” Bentley says. “Game over.”
“What!” they both yell at once.
“Games are for fun. You two are at each other’s throats like piranhas. No fun there. So, game over,” Bentley says in an adult voice I’ve never heard him use, and just like that the steam goes out of their argument and they start promising it’s not a big deal and they’re definitely having fun. He makes them agree they won’t fight and offers them his grilled cheese. They each grab half and disappear back into their bedroom.
“Sorry,” he says.
“Don’t worry about it. I like seeing you with them. You’re surprisingly mature,” I admit.
“Wow, really?” He chuckles. “You might be the first person to ever call me that.”
I shrug, even though if someone told me I’d be in Bentley’s kitchen today complimenting him, I’d have bet money against it. “Yeah, well, you cook for them and settle their arguments. And . . . you wear an apron.”
His grin is so big that it takes over his face. “You like my apron?”
“I mean, a little. I’m not gonna lie.”
He looks down at his chest. “Well, damn. I wish I’d known that sooner. I may never take this thing off now.”
Another silence descends, and once again I feel the need to fill the space.
“Maybe, just maybe, you’re not who I thought you were, Bentley,” I say and then clarify with, “In a good way.” My pause unintentionally makes it sounds significant, and I instantly feel blood rushing to my cheeks.
“Funny,” he says. “Because you’re exactly who I thought you were. In a good way.” Each word carries the weight of a real compliment.
We make eye contact and my empty stomach does a small flip, nothing life altering, but also a feeling I’ve never had before with Bentley.
Unsure how to respond, I slide onto a vinyl chair at the table, expecting that he’s going to return to the stove to cook a replacement sandwich, but then I spot the empty bread bag on the counter.
“Want half of mine?” I ask, pushing the plate forward.
He sits in the chair next to me. “You eat.”
“I have bread at my house if you want,” I offer.
Now his cheeks flush. “We have food.”
I fidget in my seat, realizing he totally misunderstood me. “I just meant that if you want to make another grilled cheese and you’re out of bread, I’d be happy to grab some from my house.”
“So,” he says, quickly changing the subject, “what’s your thing with August?”
“My thing?”
He leans back in his chair, balancing it on two legs. “I mean, you’re always with him.”
I look at him sideways.
“I just mean . . . don’t you get tired of only hanging out with one person?”
Whatever fuzzy feeling there was between us vanishes. “You’re asking me if I get tired of my best friend?”
“You’re taking it wrong,” he says and attempts to clarify with, “All I’m saying is . . . think of him as a video game. You might love the game, be obsessed with it even. But there are more games out there to try. Fun games. Better games.” He says this casually, like I wouldn’t die defending August’s honor.
“There’s no better than August. Period,” I correct him.
“You’re not understanding me,” he says.
I sit back in my chair. “Okay, then tell me, what would these better games be? Are you a better game?”
He sighs, like it’s me who made this conversation weird. “Maybe. Maybe not. But how will you ever know if you don’t try to play?” He opens his arms like an invitation.
Now I roll my eyes.
“Relax, Valentine. It was just a question. You’re the one who’s getting so serious.”
I take a breath. “Why can’t you . . . why do you have to say obnoxious things? Always.” But what I mean is, Why do you have to say obnoxious things right when I was starting to like you?
“It’s called having a sense of humor,” he says, like my ability to laugh is the problem. “I know August doesn’t have one, but I thought you did.”
I know I should leave, but I’m pissed—the sharp kind of anger that comes from disappointment and makes you want to punish the other person for getting your hopes up.
I cross my arms. “All right, Bentley, I changed my mind. Let’s see this game of yours.”
He scratches the back of his head. “That’s how you’re gonna—”
“Girls love this game, right?”
“No complaints yet,” he replies, but his tone is wary.
“Then show me what you got. I want to see what everyone fawns over.”
His eyes widen. “Now?”
“Right here. Right now.”
He sits up and pushes back his hair. We stare at each other for a long second, and he leans forward. Oh shit. Is he going to kiss me? He wouldn’t really, would he?
But then he stops.
“Is that it?” I laugh, mostly out of relief, but he stiffens like I slapped him.
He breaks eye contact. “Are we done here?”
“Yeah. Very done.”
He tries to hide his hurt by looking down.
And in the stillness of the sticky summer kitchen, I have a flash of regret, wondering how things got so heated and why I fought so hard.
My phone dings and a message from August lights up the screen.
August
My heart jump-starts and I stand. My first thought is that I don’t want to have to explain to August why I’m here. My second thought is how awful that first thought was.
Bentley looks from my phone to my obvious flight response and then away.
August
And so I leave. I sprint back across the grass feeling defeated and unsure, flinging open my porch door.
August smiles, which at the very least means he didn’t see me leave Bentley’s.
I kick off my wet flip-flops. “So what’s up?”
He laughs. “Why do you look like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like your parents just caught you drinking?”
“Pshhhh,” I say but my heart isn’t in it. I brush back my wet hair that’s currently stuck to my cheeks.
He tilts his head. “Something I should know?”
I wipe off my damp arms, avoiding his eyes. “Nope. I was just looking for one of my notebooks in the garage,” I lie and instantly regret it. Covering it up only makes it seem like I was doing something wrong. And I wasn’t. Plus, I never lie to August. So I divert the conversation. “How was job hunting with your mom?”
“Same as always,” he says with a resigned shrug.
I open my mouth, wanting to fess up, but the words don’t come. Luckily, he doesn’t see the indecision on my face because he’s scrolling through his phone.
“Here.” He hands me the phone with his screen open to a conversation with Ella.
I abandon my thoughts of admitting my lie and dive into the welcome distraction of reading their conversation.
“Nice,” I say when I finish, and grab my keys from my purse on the table. I toss them to him. “Go work your Star-Crossed Bestie magic.”
August catches the keys midair, and as he heads for the door, I plop down on my couch, all the air whooshing out of me in an audible huff. I grab the fuzzy blanket and pull it over my head, where I plan on staying for the rest of the afternoon.