Page 20 of As You Walk On

“Ignore him.” Jay smirks, eyes on the road. “You look... swell.”

“More like swol,” I mumble into my hand.

For his part, Jay’s playing the casually wealthy role—white boat shoes, rolled-up khakis, and a loose-fit T-shirt with a very distinct green Lacoste crocodile on his chest.

“I’m a ten,” Darren says, slouching back in his seat.

“An eleven,” Jay affirms. “Theo’s just jealous.”

“Of what?” I scoff.

“That D’s going to smash with Mack tonight,” Jay declares, merging onto Interstate 65. Chloe lives on the north side of Jefferson County, in Prospect. It’s a cool thirty-minute drive from Brook-Oak on a good day.

“Makayla?” I peek at Darren in the mirror. He’s red-faced, looking down at his hands.

“The one and only Swipe Right Mack,” Jay answers for him.

“Makayla,” Darren firmly corrects. Then he’s back between our seats, phone in hand. “And we’re not going to, you know... But she followed me back!” He scrolls through his notifications to confirm @theonetruemakayla is now following @funko_dj.

Makayla’s profile photo is one of those semiprofessional masterpieces: a sunset beach in the background. Golden light kissing her shiny cheeks. Wind-wrecked ponytail sweepinghoney-blond strands across her smile. Just enough It-White-Girl vibes to explain her nearly four thousand followers.

“Congrats,” I say, passing back Darren’s phone. “Are you gonnatalkto her this time?”

“Doubt it,” mumbles Darren, wiggling into his seat.

“Oh, ye of little game.” Jay guffaws. “It doesn’t take much with her.”

I roll my eyes. While Darren might be the king of unearthing gossip in our group, Jay feasts on the rumors and garbage takes like a raccoon. He treats Sharpie-written messages on bathroom walls as facts.

“Whatever,” says Darren. He grins conspiratorially. “Theo’s the one destined for action tonight. Right?”

I slouch low, knees pressed to the dashboard.

“No comment.”

“We should be worried about someone walking in on Theo making out with Christian tonight, bro,” Darren continues, shaking Jay’s seat.

In the corner of my eye, I see Jay bite his lip. He’s quiet for a minute. Fingers tightening on the wheel. Finally, he cracks a smile. “Now, that’d be a sight. Make sure to strap up, Theo.”

He cranks the volume on another Drake song, bobbing his head along.

Discussion ended.

An anxious feeling crawls beneath my skin. It’s not that IwantJay’s analysis of my romantic—or sex—life. But I get weird when he acts like this. As if there’s a comfort level he hasn’t reached yet.

With my sexuality.

With... me.

Just then Drake is interrupted by a phone ringing through Jay’s Bluetooth. It’s his mom. He answers on speaker, the sharpness of Mrs.Scott’s voice echoing through the SUV as she says, “Hello! Jay, sweetie!”

“Yes?”

“You’re answering hands-free, right? You better not be holding the—”

“Mom, no.” His jaw flexes. “You’re on speaker. The boys are here.”

“Hi, Darren!” she says. Then, an octave higher, “Hey, Theo, sweetheart. Miss you!”

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