Page 41 of One Happy Summer

“Where did you get James from?”

“It’s my grandpa’s name, and I’ve always loved him, even though he’s gotten crotchety in his old age,” I tell him, and then make a scoffing noise. “Why did I tell you that? I could have used it as leverage.”

“That was foolish of you,” he says.

I give him my bestwhat am I going to do with you?look. “I’ll figure out your middle name, you know,” I tell him.

“I have no doubt,” he says. “So, are you ready to get out of here?”

“Sure. What . . . exactly are we doing?”

“It’s a surprise, of course,” he says, a little twinkle in his eyes. I should have never told him that I hate surprises. But I don’tmind them so much when Briggs is behind them. And so far, they’ve been exactly what I needed.

“Okay, Briggsy, let’s get out of here.”

“You have a little bit of . . . um . . . chocolate on your face,” Briggs says, pointing to my mouth.

“Where?” I say, knowing full well there’s a big glob right by the corner of the left side of my lips. But I’m in a silly mood tonight as we sit by a gas firepit in his mom’s backyard, roasting marshmallows and making s’mores.

“It’s right here,” he says, pointing to the spot on his own mouth.

“Here?” I purposefully point to the other side.

“How can you not feel that? It’s practically half of a candy bar.”

I laugh before swiping the melted chocolate from my face with a napkin.

“So how is your first marshmallow roasting experience?” he asks before taking a bite of a graham cracker, marshmallow, and chocolate sandwich. The firelight reflects off his glasses and casts an orange hue onto his face.

“I like it,” I tell him. “Thanks for being a good teacher.”

Apparently, there’s an art to roasting a marshmallow, at least according to Briggs. You have to hold it just right, just above the flames, so that you get a nice golden color to it. The first time, I’d just gone for it, sticking the fluffy thing right into the fire and blackening the outside. It had a very bitter aftertaste—because of course I ate it. I wasn’t about to waste a marshmallow.

“Is this your first time having s’mores?”

“Of course not,” I say, my tone mocking. But then I think about it. “Actually, I . . . don’t know.”

He shakes his head. “How have you missed out on one of life’s greatest treasures?”

I hold my half-eaten s’more toward him. “I mean, this is good, but I don’t think it’sthatgood. I give this an eight point two out of ten.”

He feigns shock. “That’s sort of blasphemy, you know.”

“My apologies to the s’mores gods,” I say before cupping my hands with my mouth, angling my head toward the sky, and yelling, “I’m sorry if I offended anyone.”

Briggs laughs, and it makes me feel a little wobbly on the inside.

I pull my legs up, my feet now sharing the seat with my butt, my arms wrapping around my knees. It’s a stance that makes sense when I’m cold, to use my own body heat, but right now I’m not cold. Not with the warm, summer night weather and the low heat emanating from the gas fire. It’s more of a steadying posebecause I’m feeling things for Briggs. Bigger things than I should be feeling. Bigger things than I want to be feeling. No, that’s not true. I don’t mind the feelings. It’s just not the best idea. I will inevitably get my heart broken—or worse, I’ll break his. Because I think my feelings are reciprocated. It’s in the way he held my hand on Tuesday.

Or right now, as I look over to find him staring at me.

I try some levity. “What are you looking at?”

“You,” he says, no apology in his voice. “You’re just . . . surprising.”

“How’s that?”

He looks away, his eyes on the fire now. “It’s that you’re not like I’d expect.”

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