Famous in a Small Town(33)

“Why do you want to be a better person? You’re already—” He shook his head. “You’re good.”

I shrugged. “Everyone can be better.”

His eyes were suddenly serious. “Do you really think that?”

“Sure.” I leaned against the railing, peering down into the ditch below. “Your turn.”

August was quiet for a moment, until: “I hate bacon.”

I looked back over at him.

“People put it in everything, and it sucks.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“What?”

“We are speaking from the heart, August.”

“My heart hates bacon. And in the long run, it’s probably a good choice. My heart is smart.”

“I told you—I just—You were the one who said you wanted to do this whole thing for real, you said—”

I pivoted away, ready to leave, but August grabbed my arm.

“Okay. All right. Sorry.”

I turned to look at him.

“But the bacon thing is real, and I’ve never said that out loud.” A pause. “Okay. I …” He sighed. “I, um. I like staying with Kyle and Heather. And the girls.”

“That’s it?”

“I haven’t said it out loud. But it’s … in my … whatever.”

“But that’s not even like … That’s normal. You should like living with them, and you should say it out loud. To them.”

“What did you want? Some deep, dark secret?”

“No, geez. Just … something …” More vulnerable. “I don’t know. Whatever. Never mind.”

“Sometimes I miss them,” he said.

“Like … when they’re not home?”

“Like when they’re sitting next to me. When we’re watching TV or doing something random.”

“Why?”

He shook his head, and I didn’t know if it meant he didn’t know or that he didn’t want to say.



* * *



Late Sunday afternoon found August and me on our very last “Gave You My Heartland” mission in a field tucked away behind school.

We spread a blanket out on the grass and lay down. Enough space stretched between us to satisfy my Sunday school teacher, though I don’t know how thrilled she’d be about the whole situation in general.

Then again, I went to school with her kids, and if rumors served, I knew they had done way saucier stuff than lying on blankets in an effort to re-create “Gave You My Heartland.”

I glanced over at August, and I couldn’t help but think of what he had said at Miller’s on Monday—Of course I listened. Do you think I’d go into this unprepared?

That meant that he must’ve known what was coming. He wasn’t entirely unaware of the final verse: Out in the field on the blanket, your lips on mine …

“So,” August said. “What now?”

“Well.” I spoke carefully. “We’re supposed to kiss. I guess. Technically.”

He looked over at me. “What do you think?”

“What do you mean, what do I think?”

“Should we?”

“Should we?” I repeated. Was he serious?

“For research,” he said. “Or authenticity, or whatever.”

“I …” I took a moment. Really looked at him. A hint of a smirk played around his lips, and amusement flashed in his eyes, which were very warm and very bright from this distance. If Flora were in my place, she’d probably write a poem about something like the kaleidoscope of colors in those eyes, and Brit would probably make fun of her for it.

There was something else in his eyes too, something I couldn’t describe any better than I could the kaleidoscope of colors. August seemed nothing if not self-assured, but he looked away after a pause, his Adam’s apple bobbing on a swallow, and maybe I doubted it for just a moment.

“Yeah, okay,” I said.

This was a bad idea, and I knew it. Like Brit trying to dip-dye my hair in seventh grade. But it was borne of wanting. I wanted pink hair. I wanted August.

He smiled and moved closer, but paused at the last moment, very close.

“Just for research, okay?” he murmured, voice uncharacteristically serious.

A bad idea for sure.

I nodded anyway.





twenty-one


I have no idea how long August and I made out. If you told me seasons had changed, a dozen Super Bowls had come and gone, society was now on the iPhone 54X—I’d believe it. Because it was impossible to mark time, to gauge it, to even care, with August’s mouth on mine, my hands in his hair.

This was not how I saw this going. But I wasn’t complaining.

Eventually, August’s phone rang.

I pulled away. “Should you get it?”

“No.” Kiss. Kiss. “Phones don’t exist here.”

“It could be something important.”

“Nope.”

The ringing stopped. We kept kissing, for another few minutes, or through the rise and fall of the digital age.

Then it rang again.

“August.”

He made a noise equivalent to SFDLKJDFSKHJ and sat up, pulling his phone from his back pocket. I could see HEATHER flashing across the screen.