Page 45 of What I Like About You

In between passing plates and humming along to the Ed Sheeran song on the radio, I learn that Nash has a scar on his right palm. It begins at the midpoint between his thumb and pointer finger and runs down the center of the palm, following the curve of the lifeline crease. Every time I pass a plate to him, I steal a glimpse of that scar, fixated on a flaw I never knew, and nevercould’veknown, as Kels.

“What happened?” I ask.

Nash’s eyebrows scrunch together. “Huh?”

My eyes point to the scar. “Your hand.”

“Oh.” Nash coughs. “Bike fail when I was seven. I hit a rock and flew right over the handlebars. Thought I was ready for the training-wheels-free life. Clearly, I was not. Stitches in the palm suck, by the way. Do not recommend.”

I pass another plate to Nash. “That is tragically generic.”

Nash laughs. “Oh, for sure. But it was still traumatizing! For my mom, at least. I don’t remember much of it.” He holds out his palm so I can see the full extent of the damage. “I don’t remember my hand evernotlooking like this.”

If I were Kels, I’d trace his scar with my thumb.

But if I were Kels, I’d never know there’s a scar to trace.

What else don’t I know about Nash?

It’s just a scar, I remind myself.Anyone can fall off their bike. YouknowNash.

He curls his fingers into a fist and returns to drying dishes and we revert to a more comfortable quiet.

“Do you bake?” he asks.

I blink and my heart skips a beat. “What?”

Nash stacks the dry plates. “I am clearly the master of segues.”

“And bicycles.”

He clutches his hand to his heart. “Ouch. Too soon, Upstate.”

I ignore his theatrics. “Sometimes,” I say. “But I like eating cupcakes more than baking them, I think.”

Nash nods. “Dude, same! My friend and I argue about this, like,allthe time. She bakes cupcakes that areart, cupcakes that could winFood Network competitions. I know it’s her brand, but sometimes I wonder why she—whypeople—put so much effort into a product that is temporary, you know? At the end of the day, cupcakes are meant to be eaten. But if you love them, you have to see these.”

His phone displays One True Pastry’s Instagram page and I am dead.

Nash scrolls through my most recent #CupcakeCoverReveals and shows me his favorites—zooming in to point out the details of my artwork. I chew on the inside of my cheek because Nash is so proud of One True Pastry, so proud of Kels.

I’ve never heard anyone I’m not related to speak out loud about the work I do.

Nash doesn’t just speak, hebrags. Like,This girl is my friend, how lucky am I?Just like how Molly and Autumn talk about REX. It’s surreal but also wonderful. It makes everything about our online friendship feel valid.

It also makes me feel like the biggest liar.

“They’re okay,” I say, focusing on scouring one of the mixing bowls.

Nash talking to Kels about Halle is one thing. Ican’tlisten to Nash talk about Kels. It’s too much.

“I was just trying to—”

I cut him off. “Nash. Stop. I have work to do, okay?”

This mixing bowl is going tosparkleby the time I’m done with it.

“You’re right.”

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