Page 85 of The Summer of Everything

“Dig in,” Manu says, offering a fork to Wes.

Their fingers brush. It’s an instant warmth to join all the other feelings wrestling around Wes’s stomach. Why hasn’t he said anything back to Manu?

Manu made it look so easy. But Wes is floundering, mentally kicking and screaming. He’s weighing the positives and negatives.

“Uh.”

No intelligible words escape the open hole that is Wes’s mouth. But his left hand scoots across the white linen tablecloth. It swims around the salt and pepper shakers and Manu’s forgotten coffee until his fingertips skim Manu’s knuckles.

Manu peeks down. Then, with icing drying on his bottom lip and mashed pastry on his tongue, he says, “It’s about time,” with a grin Wes will never forget.

The distance from Third StreetPromenade to the loft is minimal. Manu’s car is parked in one of the garages near the complex, but he insists on walking Wes home. It’s an entire bolded, asterisked, all caps bullet point added to Wes’s list. Second Street toward Colorado Avenue is oddly empty as they stroll, but it elicits just enough courage for Wes to let their shoulders brush and hands almost link. Santa Monica is very progressive, but Wes still hasn’t found that comfort level where he knows he can walk hand in hand with another boy down a sidewalk at night. He’s seen it, sure, but he’s not there yet.

Manu doesn’t seem to mind.

“Your turn,” he says, pinky catching Wes’s, then swinging away. “Fact or mortifying childhood incident. Your choice.”

“You pick.”

Manu hums, eyes forward. “I’m drunk with power.”

A burst of laughter escapes Wes. It eases his thoughts away from the fact that they’re creeping closer to Paseo Del Mar. The night could end in a kiss, or Wes could invite Manu upstairs. That might end in a lot of heavy groping—or playing video games. Wes isn’t sure which he’d prefer.

They pause at a crosswalk. “Fact,” Manu finally says.

“My brother’s getting married sometime next year.” Of all things, Wes doesn’t know why he decides to bring up Leo other than he got a text from Leeann about shoes while at dinner. “My future sister-in-law is so rad. But I don’t exactly get along with my brother.”

“I get that,” Manu says. He leaves it at that.

He doesn’t ask invasive questions or force Wes to spew his nightmarish childhood fights with Leo all over the sidewalk. He simply lets it go.

Another W in the Manu column.

“My mom loves books,” Manu says as they move down another street. “As a kid, I used to hate it. She’d bury her face in a book for hours, forgetting I exist.” A clipped laugh slips past his lips. “So I stole her copy ofI Know Why the Caged Bird Sings.”

“By Maya Angelou,” Wes says absently.

Manu bumps their shoulders. “Yup. At first I was just hiding it, but then I had to know what she loved about books. I decided to read it myself. And… fuck. I couldn’t put it down.”

The way he says it, eyes glazed as if he’s staring into a time loop, shoulders free and loose, Wes almost feels as if he’s there. In tiny Manu’s bedroom, holding a beat-up paperback novel. His heart races.

“I never stole from her again,” Manu whispers, coming back to himself. “Iasked. Whenever she finished a book, I asked to read it.” They stop at another crosswalk. “Some I probably shouldn’t have read, but my mom was just stoked I wanted them.”

The backs of their knuckles brush. Wes’s fingers dip into the spaces between Manu’s. He’s only testing the limits. But Manu never pulls away. He smells like woodsmoke and bergamot, but nothing like Nico’s grapefruit body wash…

Wait. No. No, no, no.

Wes can’t do this. He can’t be on an informal date with a guy who listened to Wes ramble about the hierarchy of Superman films and think of Nico. It’s the worst kind of self-imposed trap. Crushes are supposed to be temporary, fleeting. And yet Wes has allowed this one to become another organ—a necessity in order to function properly.

“Hey.” Manu slows down. Wes does too. “Something on your mind?”

They’re mere feet from the pastel pink building leading to the loft. Wes glances between the door and Manu and their hands, still playing a game of catch-me-if-you-can.

“No,” he whispers. The lie tastes familiar.

Manu looks dubious.

“It’s someone,” Wes finally admits, fighting against his brain. His shoulders wilt. “Kind of hung up on a person I shouldn’t be.”

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