Page 39 of Ancient History

“Way to stereotype,” Amos said whilst slurping his cocktail.

“Be careful engaging with Mr. Zepowitz in the faculty lounge. No matter what you talk about, he’ll always bring it back to a thirty-minute rant on the latest conspiracy theory he’s obsessed with,” Everett said.

“Back in January, I asked him how his Christmas break was, and it somehow wound back to him trying to convince me 9/11 was an inside job.” Julian made the emoji cringe face. He was a sweet guy. I could totally see him being too nice to extricate himself from that situation.

“Mrs. Lucci will try to set you up with her daughter. She tries with everyone,” Chase warned me. “Even after you tell her you’re gay.”

“I’ve become a pro at getting out of those awkward setups. It happens a lot,” I told them.

“Humblebrag,” Amos muttered.

“What was that?” I shuffled closer to him. My arm nudged his, another bolt of heat hitting me. I didn’t plan for us to stand next to each other around the table…but neither of us were moving away. In fact, we had shifted closer.

“Humblebrag,” he repeated.

“What’s that?”

“You’ve never heard of the humblebrag?” Amos’s eyebrows twitched on his smooth forehead, bringing attention to his blazing eyes.

“I have not. Did you just make it up?”

“No. It’s like a thing, been a thing forever.”

“If it was a thing, I would’ve heard about it.” I flashed him a cocky smirk. Was I flirting? Perhaps.

It was Amos’s fault for being such a good sparring partner.

“A humblebrag is…I can’t believe I have to define it. It’s like…” He waved his hand at his friends searching for an answer. He reminded me of game show contestants looking to the audience for help. “Ugh, this is hard. This is why I don’t teach while drunk.”

“Thisis why.” I snorted.

Chase pushed his glasses up his nose. “A humblebrag is when somebody says a statement about themselves that’s meant to be self-deprecating but actually makes them look even cooler.”

“What he said.” Amos pointed at Chase. “It’s like if you complained that you couldn’t fit into your shirts anymore because they were too tight against your chest.”

A wave of self-consciousness hit me. I looked down at my shirt on my chest. Was Amos saying that my shirts were too tight? Was he noticing my chest too much?

“I’m not saying you—or that your shirts—it was just an example.” Amos bit into his straw.

“Are my shirts too tight? Because this is the largest size this shirt goes to.” I moved an arm to shield my chest.

“That’s a humblebrag,” Everett said.

We all burst into laughter. None of us knew exactly what was funny, but the good vibes around the table were so strong that we had to let it out. I hadn’t enjoyed myself with a group of friends like this in a long ass time. I was buzzed and happy and alive with the excitement of a Friday night.

And a little adventurous.

I leaned into Amos’s ear. “So does that mean a humblebrag is just a long-winded term for saying I have a hot body?”

I liked to push against my limits. That was how I became a good athlete, and it might be how I get myself kicked out of this inner circle.

Amos kept a neutral expression, but I could feel his body tense up with heat.

“Way to be modest,” he said back, through the strains of a held-back smile.

I kept pushing. I wanted to see more of his sparkling eyes, more of his blush sprinkled on his cheeks. We had such good chemistry. We were baking soda and vinegar: put us together in a confined space, and we’d inevitably overflow with flirtation.

This was like old times. Better than old times

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