Page 33 of How to Be Remy Cameron

Either it’s curiosity or the ridiculous spike of caffeine from the Cold Body, but whatever it is, I stretch my foot out to nudge Ian’s.

He bites his lip. “When I was younger, I’d sneak down to the kitchen at night. She’d always be there, dancing by herself.” His fingers, long and thin, drum along to the backbeat. “Always to ’80s music. She’d dance and dance—” Ian pauses.

I tap his foot again.

“So happy and free. My mom’s never like that during the day.” Ian’s looking across the café. He’s drifting like a cloud skimming across the moon. “Sometimes she’d catch me watching and grab my hands. I’d dance with her.”

We exhale together. I’m there, in the kitchen, spinning under the light as if it’s a disco ball. Laughter squeezes my lungs. Soft hands hold mine. Tears soak my eyelashes. I can’t catch my breath and I keep hearing a raspy voice talking about a woman with Bette Davis eyes.

“The next day, my mom would pretend it never happened.”

I swallow. Ian’s still spaced out, on another planet. My heartbeat matches the fading song—rat-tat… tat. Warmth curls around my bones and latches on. I can’t stop thinking about my parents and the rains of Africa and dreamy looks I’ve never shared with anyone, not even Dimi.

“Wow. Deep,” says Lucy, startling both of us.

I take a giant gulp of cold brew, then wince at the bitterness.

Ian has a green mustache from his latte. “There are theories on word vomit. Studies that say the human brain expels so much information that the mouth cannot process and edit said info before its conveyed verbally. Real scientific stuff.”

“Fascinating,” says Lucy, deadpan, but with a lift to her lips. She motions toward the bar. “I’m gonna go chat with Trixie about hosting our next anime club meeting here. But, please, you two carry on with this—uh, word vomit stuff.”

She isn’t discreet when she winks at me. I know what she’s doing. I also know that once she’s disappeared, it’ll just be Ian and me, staring at our drinks in awkward silence. I try to convey that to Lucy with a look. It doesn’t work.

“So,” I say, exhaling.

“So.”

“Well.”

“Yeah.”

And here we are—two boys with nothing to say.

Another song comes on. I don’t recognize it, but I like it. Something about letting love open the door? Yeah, no. I’ll pass on the love part, but the melody and words are catchy. I’ll probably download it when I get home.

I try not to focus so intensely on Ian, but it’s difficult. Rainbow fingers from ink chalk pick at a rip in his jeans. The pinkish-tangerine afterglow from the sunset skims over his face and hair. Plush lips rest against the rim of his mug. The café lights glint off his earring. Ian is a visual maze and I’m lost, that is, until he looks me right in the eye.

“POP ETC!” I shout.

His eyes widen; his mouth goes slack.

After I reteach my mouth to work, I say, “Music. They’re a band and they make music. Epic music. POP ETC is my all-time favorite band.”

“Cool,” Ian says, slowly.

I drain the rest of my cold brew in one swallow. That seems like a good way to die—better than from the unbearable mortification assaulting my nerves.

“I need to get home.” I stand, shoulders tense. “I should spend some quality time with my sister.”

“Walk your dog?”

I grin. “She’s cute, right?”

Ian’s eyebrows lift, and I see a subtle twitch at the corner of his mouth. “She’s cute,” he agrees.

My heart tickles the roof of my mouth, which means I’m close to messing this up. He waits. I swallow, then signal Lucy. She shoots me a look. I don’t care. Ian cannot become a priority. He can’t be ananything.

Thankfully, his eyes are lowered, and the noise from the dude-bro group that just strolled in distracts from the fact that I trip over my own feet speed-walking to the door.

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