𝙾𝚌𝚝𝚘𝚋𝚎𝚛 5th, Tuesday
Parkers POV

I ease my Audi into a rare open curb spot, the steering wheel gliding smooth under my hands. Parallel parking is easy enough. What wasn't easy was waiting for this dumb spot to open up. Tuesday traffic is a nightmare, and it's worse today with everyone out soaking up the first real taste of fall. I suck on my cheek and hope Miles can get here easily as I grab my backpack, jumping out of the car.

It beeps in farewell as I step onto the sidewalk, automatically locking for me.

As I weave through people and walk towards the café, it takes a lot of self-control not to groan and flop over onto the sidewalk like a sunbathing dog. Maybe I'm a whore for great weather because today is perfect. No humidity, a slight breeze tousles my unruly hair, picture-perfect blue sky, the ocean waves crashing in the distance. I kick myself for not making plans to meet Miles at a beach or park instead.

Glancing up at the store signs lining down the sidewalk, I catch sight of our destination down the street. I adjust my backpack straps as I walk, smiling politely at any strangers that make eye contact with me. Some of them greet me or throw out a kind sentence, recognizing me from the front of headlines for football.

"Hey, man."

Those two words alone bring me to a grinding halt. It takes a lot not to smile like an idiot as I turn around, taking in the sight of Miles as he steps up onto the sidewalk. I think my whole I need to force myself to dislike Miles tangent from yesterday is done. It doesn't help that I forget to hate him each time he speaks.

"Hi. Ready to get this project started?" I ask casually. All day, I gave myself a pep talk that circulated around not making a fool of myself this afternoon. Yesterday's mix-up with my 'I'm not gay' shit and my awkward rambling from Sunday is enough to make me want to sprint back to my car.

"Yep, I was born ready!" Miles proclaims, giving me two thumbs up before he motions to my backpack. "You got the goods?"

I snort and continue to walk towards the coffee shop, looking over at Miles as he falls in step next to my side. "The goods? Are you talking, like," I lower my voice as I tease, "drugs?"

He laughs, catching my tone. He bounces in front of me as we reach the storefront, grabbing the door and holding it open for me.

"No, not drugs. Calm down frat boy," Miles shoots back. "A laptop or something else to access the internet."

I dip my head at him in thanks as I walk in the café, the smell of burnt coffee beans stinging my nose. Now that I've spent some more time with Miles, I'm slowly figuring him out.

To give him more flack, I spin around on my heel and walk backward with a raised eyebrow, acting offended. I point back to my backpack. "Frat boy? Come on. I've never touched a drug or alcohol in my life, can you say the same?" I tilt my head and grin at Miles to show that I mean no ill will.

He scoffs and shakes a finger at me, although I can tell he isn't offended by the audible prod.

"I'm not gonna answer that. You could be a cop in disguise, and I ain't going to no damn jail," Miles retorts, throwing a light punch at my face as he walks past to go find a table.

I laugh and duck under his punch. "First, the correct phrase is, 'I am not going to jail.'  Second, I'm definitely not a cop. I left that gig a few months ago."

Miles laughs again, drawing the attention of the young baristas behind the counter with the sound. I glance at the girls and then back to my new friend, grinning as his laugh makes my skin prickle. I don't have time to focus on my rushing emotions as he's quick to reply.

"Aww, what? C'mon, tell me then, did they kick you out or did you quit?" He asks with a lop-sided grin, shouldering off his backpack as he sits at a table in the shop's back corner.

I bite the corner of my cheek and make a big show of looking over both my shoulders before leaning close to him. So close that I can smell his cologne.

"I got fired for sleeping with the secretary," I whisper and wink before straightening up and sitting across from him, another flustered blush pulling at my cheeks.

Miles scoffs and smiles as he looks away, distracting himself by pulling a wallet out of his pocket. I selfishly wish that he wasn't so dark-skinned because I want to be able to tell if my burst of self-confidence shook him up enough to make him blush.

"Oh well, if you weren't fired from the academy, then you never would have been able to go to school, and we wouldn't have met. Speaking of school, let's get this show on the road. I'm a busy man. Do you want any coffee?"

I smile as he mentions our meeting, but it falters as he changes topics. Right. We're here for homework.

I shake my head as I unzip my backpack and pull out my laptop. "No, I'll be fine. Unless they can do iced mochas. I'm fine with whatever flavor."

Miles grins as he gets up. "A mocha? Christ, I dunno if this friendship will work if you drink girly drinks, Park. But your wish is my command." He salutes mockingly, swivels on his heel, and walks to the front counter.

I flick him off in response, even as my intestines do thirty summersaults. Park. Oh, God. That is a new one. The way that his accent catches on the R in my name is almost enough to make me—

Before I can finish the thought, I quickly grab my kneecap and squeeze it so hard that a sharp, painful shock volts through my legs. I grit my teeth and shake my head, but it had to be done. My emotions surrounding this kid lately have been all over the place, and I can't ever let them stretch to that extreme. I don't dare to touch that box in my brain.

I slowly exhale as I open up my laptop. My fingertips clack over the keyboard as I enter my password and log in. As I finish pulling up a blank powerpoint and documenting our names and the title, Miles comes back over double fisting two cups.

I smile gratefully as he sets down the ginormous cup in front of me, tan foam soaking down into the dark coffee. Call me a basic white boy, but whatever he ordered for me looks decadent.

"Sweet. Thanks, man," I say appreciatively, grabbing the cup and taking a sip. The flavor is seriously so out of this world that I need to ask him, "What did you even order?"

Miles beams. "I have no idea. Some sort of marble-mocha-espresso-macchiato. I'm surprised that I didn't summon a fuckin' demon while ordering it."

A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. The stuff that comes out of his mouth is so ridiculous.

"Huh, yeah, this certainly wouldn't have been my first choice. It's really good. Although, I'm starting to worry that you want to give me diabetes," I say as I spin the cup and read the list of ingredients in here.

He grins and shrugs. "More like watching out for you. I had them put—uh, cómo se dice?—extra coffee stuff in there. This project is gonna sap all of our reserves, so I decided we need backup cafeína. Should we start?"

"Probably, yeah," I agree and click the spacebar to wake up my screen. I peer up at Miles for a moment, and more goose flesh slides over my skin as I catch him checking me out. He looks away fast, pretending to be reaching for his coffee. A small smile spreads over my lips as I look at my laptop, pretending I didn't catch him in the act. I clear my throat as I change the background color on the first slide.

"Do you want to come over here?" I tentatively ask, not daring to look up again. There's no way that he can see the screen from where he's sitting across from me and I can tell he's itching to help.

"Sure, scoot over." Miles stands, grabbing his chair underneath himself and awkwardly waddling over to my side. I shift my chair and oblige, making sure that there's plenty of space between us.

He sets his chair down and immediately sits, taking a moment to sip whatever he bought. I distract myself by pulling up a text box and typing in The Haymarket Riot.

Miles leans back in his chair and grabs the packet we were given, flipping past a few pages. "We need to make a ten-slide PowerPoint, but the title and reference slides count, so technically there's only eight. How flexible is Mr. Miller about grading?"

I chuckle at how professionally he pronounces my uncles name, which makes Miles give me a funny look.

"What's your problem?" he asks lightly, cracking a smile at my laugh.

"Nothing, it's funny to hear you say 'Mr. Miller'. He's usually really good about grading as long as—"

Miles quickly jumps in and cuts me off, his eyebrows furrowed. "Wait, why is it funny for me to call a teacher that?"

Caught off guard, I look up and over at him. Then it dawns on me. Of course, he doesn't know that Miller is my uncle.

"Oh, shit, I'm surprised you didn't hear it from anyone. Greyson is my uncle. I usually just call him... Greyson." I explain with a shrug.

Miles eyes widen as he puts together the pieces. "So that other dark-haired fella you hang around isn't your brother?"

I choke on my coffee. "Griffin? That little shit? No, he isn't my brother." I chide. "He's actually my cousin, although we get mistaken as siblings sometimes. His sister, Rose, is in our history class actually. She's also—"

"Your cousin." Miles finishes my sentence for me. "Wow, I feel like a fool." He presses a hand against his eyes and laughs dryly. "Here I was, thinking you were interested in her since you guys all sit at the same end of the table."

Bile rises in my throat at the thought. I tilt my head and squint at him. "Really? Yeah, trust me, that is not a thing. Besides, Rose has a boyfriend. I don't have the time to see anyone between school and football."

Miles sips his coffee and gives me a quizzical look. "You really aren't dating anyone? Do you not have time, or do you not want to date anyone in this school?"

My heart rattles as we shift onto this topic. He really caught me in the headlights with that question. The gears in my head spin as I try to format a good response, but honestly, truth rings in his words. "I don't know. Maybe a little bit of both. Everyone is just the same," I admit quietly, glancing over at him.

Maybe not everyone is the same, anymore.

Miles nods and sets his cup down, smacking his lips. "I get it. Pretty privilege."

My forehead creases as I examine him, confused. "What?"

Miles crosses his arms thoughtfully, looking at me as he talks. "You and I, we have pretty privilege. We're both too damn hot, and out of everyone's league."

His words are so goofy that I can't think of any good way to respond except to laugh. "Uh, yeah, I suppose. You can call it what you want. You should make shirts with that slogan."

"Thanks, I might. Would navy look hot on me?"

"Shut up. I'm not answering that," I grumble, gaining a snicker from Miles. We spend the next half hour honing down on the presentation until my phone vibrates in my pocket, pulling me out of my zone.

I pull my phone out and read who the message is from. Joshua.

Damn it all. I only go to these big parties because my friends always needed a designated driver. I don't mind the get-togethers where we all played games and had fun, but standing around smoking dope and drinking cheap alcohol never seems fun.

Miles reads my pissed expression and questions, "What's going on?"

I shut my phone off without responding to Joshua and slide it next to my laptop. "Nothing. I guess the seniors rented out a beach on Friday night, they're hosting a big party... again."

I notice how his eyes brighten at the word party, but he holds his composure.

"Gotcha. Is every Texan high school a party school, or is it just you guys?"

Scoffing, I type a few more things out on the slideshow. "It's never like this during the school year, actually. Homecoming is coming up in a few weeks, and the seniors have the leeway every year to plan events every weekend through October leading up to it. They usually start with something small and generic, like that capture-the-flag game night last weekend, and end with raging parties."

"That's right. I remember you mentioning that the first day we met." Miles pauses to take another sip of his drink. "But something tells me you don't attend those ragers."

I cast him a cool look. "What makes you say that?"

Miles shrugs again. "Just reading the room. Hey, if you go, I'll go. We can chill."

As tempting as his offer sounds, I know he's sugarcoating it. Upon first look, it sounds like he'll be playing Sober Suzy. I have a feeling that that's not his actual intention, considering he dipped out on me for Turner and his crew last Saturday. On the other hand, he might be fun to hang around, even in a party setting. It's like my mom said: he is his own person, and I can't control his actions.

I also can't control the next words that come out of my mouth.

"Sure, let's make it a plan. I'll go."