“Wesley Crusher,” Nico says, beaming.
He’s replaced Zay next to Wes on the sand. His legs stretched out in front of him, one hand braced behind for support, Nico leans against Wes. He doesn’t smell like Zay did—smoky sweet mixed a mustiness from the weed. Nico’s scent is sweat and citrus and the sugariness of rum. Long strands of Nico’s flat hair lie across his forehead.
Wes’s heart beats like a summer storm—wild and unpredictable. He’s simultaneously cold from the breeze but warm from Nico’s proximity. It’s too much and just enough.
Nico whispers, “Missssssed you.” He’s tipsy, but not incoherent.
“I didn’t go anywhere,” Wes chokes out.
“You did,” Nico argues, then chuckles. “Stupid Italy. Gone, gone, gone.”
Voice breaking, Wes says, “I’m here now.”
“You are.” Nico rests his temple on Wes’s collarbone. The breeze carries the sigh he expels into the night.
Cautiously, as if the wrong move could disrupt this, Wes curls an arm around Nico’s lower back. Nico’s body tenses, then relaxes. Wes’s chin is perched on the top of Nico’s head. He revels in the fact that Nico’s hair isn’t stiff and gross with sand.
It takes Wes a second to identify the song Nico’s humming.
“Frank Ocean?”
“My boy Frank,” Nico confirms with a smile in his voice.
The breeze sweeps over them. Nico shivers. Reflexively, Wes tightens his arm. Nico’s warm breath skims the side of his neck. If he turned slightly, he could press a kiss there. And Wes knows exactly why he’s thinking about that.
This is the perfect place to tell Nico. But the vibe isn’t right. Nico’s intoxicated. And Wes doesn’t want this thing he’s been holding inside for so long to slip out when Nico can barely hold his head upright.
Nico. Nico. Nico.
He mumbles something in Spanish into the collar of Wes’s hoodie.
“What?”
Nico jolts a little, jarring Wes. “Nothing.” He shifts back, staring up at Wes. His lips are shiny, as if he’s just licked them. There’s a similar sheen across his eyes. “No es nada. I think I’m drunk.”
Wes’s eyebrows draw inward. “What did you say, Nico?”
“Nothing.”
“Nico…”
“You’re my best friend. Bestest friend.” Nico squeezes his eyes shut, then blinks them open. “I want… you’re my friend.”
Friend.
Wes hears that word loud and clear. It’s been attached to him for years and years, but it’s never stung like it does now. In his mind, Wes can see his list in perfect, hi-def quality.
Signs Your Crush Isn’t Into You!!!
3. If your crush constantly refers to you as a friend, THEY MEAN IT!
4. If you always ask, “Does my crush like me?”, FALL BACK!
“Is that what you—”
“No, no. It’s not.” Nico hiccups, then shakes his head. “I’m drunk. I’m messed up. No es nada.” He grabs the hem of his red sweatshirt, uses it to wipe his face. There are no tears there, only sweat.
Wes curls his fingers around Nico’s wrist. Under his fingertips, Nico’s pulse is a slow thump.
“Wesley.” Nico swallows. Wes studies his Adam’s apple, then the way his lips move as he whispers, “I’m tired.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Maybe I should go.”
Maybe you should. Wes’s breaths are shallow. He’s checked off two more items on his list. It’s a huge, screaming, blood-red sign. But something deep in his marrow keeps dragging him in another direction. Closer to Nico.
“We’ll go,” he says, pulling. “Me and you. I’ll walk you home.” It’s not that far from The Howls to the Alvarez house off Palisades Beach Road.
“No, no. You should stay. Chill,” insists Nico. He pushes to his feet. He’s just coordinated enough to straighten his sweatshirt and dust sand from his shorts.
“I’ll go with you.” Wes stands too. He wants to let Nico piggyback him, like Devon and Cooper, all the way to his house. Then he wants to crawl into Nico’s bed and hug him. Nothing else. He wants to protect Nico from whatever he can’t say to Wes.
Screw Stanford. Screw UCLA. Screw the future. Just Wes and Nico and their protective bubble. But that’s not possible. Nothing Wes wants is possible, except maybe saving the bookstore. At least he has that.
At least he still has Nico’s friendship.
“Come on.” Wes links their fingers together.
The slightest glint of hesitation registers in Nico’s eyes, but he doesn’t yank away. “What about the others?”
“Here.” Wes tugs out his phone. One-handed, he unlocks it, taps on his messages, and types. “I’ll let Kyra know. Anna too. We can call Ella on the way. She’ll take care of Zay and Cooper.”
“She won’t take care of Cooper.”
“You’re right. But Zay will,” assures Wes, leading Nico up the soft sand. The wind is heavy against their backs. That’s why Wes is shivering. That’s why his eyes sting. He’s not going to cry.
I can’t tell him. We’re just friends. This is what’s best.
That’s what he repeats to himself the entire walk back to Nico’s house.