OK Ok I wrote this. After folklore was released in July 2020. Because I loved cardigan & illicit affairs sm. That's where this came from.
In total this was like 32,000 words ?? And then I got incredibly stuck and I <3 gave up because I started working on an actual book a couple months later which, side note, is going very well.

I haven't written for this ship since I made this so. As always these are just characters I never shipped it & I never will but anyways this is separated into 3 chapters I believe so. Yeah. Here is is.

Chapter 1

"I know everything."

"What?"

"I said I know everything." I say as Dallon grabs his cup of tea off the table and holds it close to his chest. His fingers trace over the delicate blue design circling the pale and pristine ceramic.

"No you don't." He rolls his eyes and purses his lips to hide his amusement. "We have the same education and I am dumber than... dumber than a box of rocks."

"We may have the same education, but I read more and I know more people. Exposure is important."

He knows I'm just messing around but some part of his impulsive brain dares to challenge me. As he relaxes back against the arm of the couch to face me, I grab my own cup of tea and assume the same position. Our socks fight for the top spot and our knees bump together, Levi jeans against my pajama pants. "Who do you know that I don't?"

I shrug. "My mom works with some interesting people."

"Define interesting." He takes a sip of tea and keeps the cup close to his face so the steam will warm his cheeks. "I know a lot of people cycle through the DMV, but how interesting can they really be?"

"Well, one of them told me that if you inject a bubble of air between someone's toes through a syringe, it would trigger a heart attack and look like a natural death during the autopsy."

Dallon pauses. And blinks. And tries to process the murder method. "Okay, now I'm scared to hear what else you know. Is this gonna be the flashback scene in a murder documentary?"

The digital clock behind him flashes midnight in neon red. We shouldn't be up so late on a school night but the weather is breezy and warm and the days just keep getting longer. The nights last forever and the late night television just isn't as good anymore. The empty gaps in the stars suck as bad as losing my learners permit within the first week I earned it.

"Don't worry," I say, "they're all on different levels of weird. Not 'murder' weird either"

"Hmm. Do explain."

My tea is way too sweet. I tried to match his taste but I don't like Southern-style sweet tea. He lived in Georgia for barely six months and he adopted the taste like he'd lived there for six years. "One of them has been traveling the world, apparently. Another was a competitive fisher for a decade. One dude worked as an under-the-table drug dealer. When I have to stay there after school sometimes, I talk to the lady that takes the license photos. She knows a lot about life and... and the law and psychology and love."

He points a finger gun at me. "Knowing about life gets you nowhere."

"Yes it does."

"You ever met a psychology major?"

"Is all your life experience supposed to stem from psychology classes?" I know he's never taken a psychology class before and he doesn't plan on it either.

He swirls the tea in the cup. It threatens to spill over the rim and onto his grey shirt but it never does. He's too experienced to slip up so easily. "I never said that. I just said psychology majors know nothing."

I raise an eyebrow. "They could analyze my trauma."

"And then what?"

"Get their degree and... and do something with it."

The drink swings wildly around in his grip at the expense of his animated hands expressing his pride in being technically right. Muted lights from the silent television bathe his smirk in blues and purples. The wrinkles in his shirt create shadows all over his chest. "See? You don't know everything."

In one mouth-puckering gulp, I down the rest of my tea and slide my cup to the coffee table just a few feet away from the couch. "Yes I do."

Dallon sighs but smiles all the same. His chin rests on his fist as we lock eyes from across the couch. "What do you know that I don't?"

"Obviously the thing about the air bubbles between the toes."

A lone car passes down the streets and the headlights peer through the screen door of the window like a spotlight searching an empty stage. "Yeah, but you already said that and I know about it now. Feed me new knowledge."

I have homework and I'm tired. Nothing significantly draining happened all day, but I could still fall asleep at a moments notice.

"Did you know liquid ecstasy is a real thing? It's not just a funky phrase?"

He frowns. "No, I did not. Is that what the under-the-table drug dealer would sell?"

"No, actually it was the competitive fisher. They don't make that much money, surprisingly."

He sets his cup of tea down beside mine and crosses his arms. His eyes gleam like diamonds. "I'm impressed, slightly. But still not convinced you know everything."

My eyes start to grow heavy. Maybe I'm just weak, but I don't stay up past midnight on school nights. I have to wake up a six o'clock to have time to complete my weird morning routine. He has no issue with the early schedule because he doesn't even wake up until the tardy slips are being written out. The first two teachers don't even look for him anymore — it's an automatic absence and a late mark, in that order, every single time.

I think I'm in love, but I'm not sure. I think so because I want to spend every second of every day by his side. I think so because I can't imagine myself without him. The lingering doubt in the back of my mind said I'm not though, because we're just friends and this is a strong platonic love between us. Because we're friends — best friends.

"You should be," I say. "I'm a genius. Next month, I'll get my acceptance letters from every Ivy League school. Then you'll understand."

"That doesn't prove that you know everything."

"Yes it will. You'll see." I tell him.

He gives up and twists back to face the television. We've skipped at least half of the episode. The remote is across the living room and neither of us have the energy or desire to ruin our comfort. Oddly enough, the occasional bumps of our intertwined legs is nice.

"Alright." Dallon hides half his smile. "Show me then. I'll be watching."

"I will. You won't be able to look away."

He rolls his eyes and tries to catch back up with the fast-paced plot. We'll probably never go back and watch what we missed. Rewinding is for idiots.

I do know everything. I know everything about him and I know everything we could be and I know it would be perfect. I don't know everything but I do know everything we could be if we tried. The doubt in the back of my mind nips at the mere thought of us progressing into something more, but the feeling doesn't go away. It's never gone away. I think about it every time we're together.

"We'll see," he says simply, "we'll see."

Chapter 2

The perfect weather at midnight didn't last very long. I should've known February would turn on me at the flip of a coin. Monotonous clouds rolled in from over the mountains and brought rain with them. The rainwater is already ankle-deep in potholes and the royally fucked-up sections of sidewalks when I wake up. From my bedroom on the second floor, I can see the earthworms struggling to escape a watery grave.

It doesn't rain often, but when it does it sucks. The suburbs only seem to blur together under the sheet of rain in the most disgustingly average neighborhoods. The roads stay slick for hours after the final drop falls from the sky, and the threat of a landslide always looms from the steep mountains on the other side of town. I dread walking to my car and driving across roads slick with oil and water. Deep down I fear my tires will catch the asphalt wrong and I'll slide into a ditch and die in a faded 2004 Toyota Corolla.

What an unfortunate start to the day — for me at least. I know someone who loves to stomp through puddles like he's seven years old and craving chaos.

And stomp through puddles is exactly what Dallon does behind the science building during lunch. The downpour had stopped by noon and the clouds began to disperse soon after that. Rain or shine, we would've eaten outside anyways. It's the only downside to attending a school with a campus created predominantly outdoors. It reminds me of a jail, with the fencing connecting all the grey brick buildings, but I think I'm the only person that believes so. I've brought up the comparison before and the only person to understand it is Dallon. So I've stopped bringing it up.

He keeps his hands in his pockets as he jumps from puddle to puddle. The water isn't very deep but his socks still squish in his dirty grey converse shoes with every step. Stray droplets soak into his white shirt quickly and tease the body underneath. His jeans are too dense to leave anything to the imagination.

He's the only one not sitting against the back of the science building, hiding underneath the awning and watching the last dribbles of rain cascade from the ridges in the metal overhang. The cars on the other side of the fence zip past and disappear behind the baseball shed stupidly built near the road.

Josh squints against the few rays of sun slipping between clouds. He holds his sandwich in one hand and hangs on to Tyler's hand with the other. The dark roots of his natural hair have started to invade the highlighter yellow that he chose on impulse almost two weeks prior. "I hate the rain."

Tyler snorts beside him. I can practically hear him roll his eyes. "You say that every time it rains."

"Does it rain often in New York?" I ask. The black 'NYC' pin on Josh's backpack catches my eye as I flinch away from another untimely splash of rainwater.

Josh shrugs. "It depends."

"On?"

"What season it is, I guess. Sometimes it doesn't matter. I think weather is just a social construct."

Josh is okay. He's a reliable friend and he's very generous — his family is loaded and he's always trying to rid himself of extensive and unrelenting wealth. However, if I had the opportunity to hit him in the knees with a baseball bat, I would take it in a heartbeat. I would also instantly dive to protect him if someone was going to hit him in the knees with a baseball bat — and then I would hit him in the knees with a baseball bat myself. I think I platonically love him but I'm not quite sure. Like I said, it could go either way.

Dallon instantly ceases his activity to stare at him, in awe of the words that just left his mouth. "What? Weather isn't a social construct. You ever taken a science class before?"

"Does the weather dictate your outfit for the day?"

"Yes, but that's not what a so—"

"Did you see 'Geostorm'? The movie from 2017?"

"No." I say. Josh is so caught up in his defense that I pick off a bit of his sandwich without him batting an eye. I regret it almost immediately though, because it's just a few sheets of American cheese and some sriracha sauce. I don't know how he can keep two limited edition corvettes in his own personal garage and eat a sandwich like that.

"It's about this system that the government launched into the atmosphere that would control the weather. It was hacked and the whole point of the movie was regaining control over all the crazy natural disasters it created, but that's not the point. My point was, the government made a system to control the weather. The weather dictates the clothes you wear. The government wants to slow all concepts of self-expression so we'll slowly become numb to the government's daily antics."

A bag of nacho cheese Doritos falls from Tyler's hand and lands on his own backpack. His jaw drops and he glares daggers at his partner. "Ignoring the fact that that isn't even close to the definition of a social construct, that is the dumbest thing I've heard in my entire life. Who told you that?"

Josh proudly holds a hand to his chest, like his insane conspiracy theory is something to broadcast to the world. "I'm an independent thinker."

"You committed thoughtcrime." Dallon grunts. He lazily skims the toe of his shoe through a puddle "I'm telling Big Brother."

"Please shut the fuck up, I don't want to even think about 1984." Tyler scoffs. He's glued to his phone for reasons hidden behind a tinted black privacy screen. "Reminds me of my parents."

"That sounds like a personal problem. My mom trusts me. Brendon's parents trust him. Josh's parents are on good terms with him. Maybe you shouldn't give your parents a reason not to have faith in you."

Tyler sets his phone down on the cold cracked cement to glare at Dallon. He knows of many situations he could be referring to, and all of them involved sneaking out of his locked house and participating in illegal activities. Honestly, I can't blame him. Any break in the suffocating suburban lifestyle is refreshing, no matter how many cop cars pull up in the thick of it.

"You're a bitch." He spits from the shade after a minute of weirdly tense silence.

A spot of sun stains the picture; Dallon bringing up one palm to shield his squinting eyes, standing in a shallow puddle in his faded blue Levi's and old sneakers. Overexposed but still picture perfect.

"At least I've never been arrested." He points a finger at me and Josh. "They haven't either."

"They're boring and you know it." Tyler narrows his eyes.

His blue eyes dart between us, instantly weighing our personality traits against each other on an imaginary scale of boring. My heart starts pumping. I think I would disintegrate if he said I was boring, and that's not an exaggeration. My feeble existence would crumble, like dust in the slightest breeze.

After another minute in silence, the sun disappears again and his hand falls to his side. He takes a tentative step out of the puddle and underneath the awning, kneeling down and scooting backwards to sit beside me and his belongings. "Tyler, your boyfriend has the personality of a wet sponge soaked in scented dish soap. No offense, Josh."

"Offense taken," Josh scoffs, "that was uncalled for."

Dallon shrugs. "I'm actively trying to be as mean as possible."

"And you have nothing bad to say about Brendon? The dumbest bitch of us all?" Tyler leans forward to frown at the both of us. I can't tell if he's just playing along or if he's genuinely offended at the insult.

"Not really." He doesn't even look at me. "Sometimes he succumbs to road rage. And he uses a three-in-one bottle for shampoo, conditioner, and body wash. That should be a hate crime."

"It smells good." I say. "Like the ocean. Not to mention that it's cheaper than my other options."

In one quick swoop, his arm snakes around my shoulders and pulls me against his chest. He holds me there and takes an exaggerated whiff of my hair. He sniffles a few times and hums approval. However, he doesn't let go of my shoulders. The grip on my arm loosens but his chin settles on the crown of my head and I cannot bring myself to push him off. My heart skips a couple beats.

Tyler scrunches his nose. PDA is probably the only troublesome thing he's never outwardly done, somehow. "The verdict, please."

Dallon hums to himself for a second before coming up with his final answer. "Not bad, but could use some improvement."

"You are heavily biased."

He rolls his eyes. "Whatever. At least his personality isn't exclusively New York City with a side of plain mashed potatoes."

"With or without a pat of butter?" Tyler squints at us.

"Without."

Josh purses his lips at the indirect insult. "Fuck," he mutters under his breath.

In the glow of faint sun, small drops of rain begin to fall again. It's just a light drizzle, but the puddles ripple and the cars turn on their windshield wipers. A unanimous groan of disappointment echoes across the campus.

"I'm going to Circle K after school. Maybe the grocery store." Dallon grabs his backpack and starts to sling the straps over his shoulder. The plastic baggies from his lunch get swept up into Tyler's pile of community garbage. "If anyone wants to join me."

Josh scoops up his belongings and leans out from under the awning to watch the sky. "It's raining."

"Good observation. Circle K and grocery store or what?" He asks again.

Tyler checks the cracked watch around his wrist and glances to the cloudy horizon sky. "My parents would rip my head off. They barely tolerate Josh and I'd hate to imagine what they'd think of you."

"I'm an angel." Dallon holds his head high. "But fair enough. If you need anything, let me know."

Josh tears his gaze from the mesmerizing drizzle as soon as he realizes that was the end of the conversation. "You aren't gonna ask me?"

"The invitation was universal? Were you planning on going with me?"

"...No."

"That's what I thought."

"Are you going to ask Brendon or what?"

I tilt my head back and lay on his shoulder. We lock eyes and he knows my answer. He already knew what I would say before asking the question aloud, but confirmation is always a good thing.

Dallon nods. "Of course. Have you ever seen us apart? No. The answer is no."

The bell rings just as Tyler begins to gather up his trash pile and he gags, very dramatically. "That's disgusting. I'm glad I don't have to see either of you for the rest of the day."

"Ah," I tut, "for the next two days."

His eyes grow the size of dinner plates. "It's Friday? Really?"

Both Dallon and Josh nod, to his dismay.

"Huh. I've written the wrong date on every single assignment today. Josh, why didn't you tell me?"

Josh smiles and helps gather the trash quickly. With both of them working in tandem, the wrappers and bags are gone in no time at all. "We'll see you guys later. Have fun shopping."

"We won't." I call after them as they disappear behind the other end of the science building, hand in hand.

The rain picks up the pace a little. Luckily, the next class of the day is one of the few we have together, coincidentally in the very front of the science building. The semester is halfway over and we have barely completed a single worksheet; not a fault of ours, but the heavily distracted teacher.

Shoes scuffle in the open hallways just a few feet away. "What're you going to Circle K for? And the grocery store?"

He gives me one last squeeze and leans forward until he catches his balance and stands. I take the hand he extends to me and grab my backpack.

We pause at the corner, just out of sight. "Well, I've been jonesing for some spicy chips and noodle bowls. And Circle K has individual drinks for cheap and a much wider selection than the dumb grocery store."

"You know your mom doesn't hate you and she'd be willing to search the stores for whatever you want, right?"

"Yeah, obviously. I love my mom—"

"I never said you didn't."

"I'm making a statement. I love my mom, but there's just something about doing dumb errands on your own. Makes me feel... makes me feel independent."

He's been independent for a while now. Ever since he scored his license, he didn't have to depend on his mom when she wasn't on duty at the hospital. That was a rare occurrence on its own, and he'd already been used to skateboarding everywhere before he even got his permit. I remember him skateboarding to my house in the middle of the night to throw pebbles at my bedroom window even though we were neighborhoods apart. Dallon's been insufferably independent for years, but if solo grocery store trips solidify the feeling, then so be it.

The confidence in his permanent one-sided smile falters for a second. "Did... do you not want to go?"

I'd have to drop my car off at home and then have him take me so we can at least try to save gas. Neither of us are flush with cash and not a single business is hiring. "I never said that either. Contrary to popular belief, I don't hate you."

"Ah." He nods and the cocky smile graces his features again. "We'll do the usual pick up routine then. I'll come get you."

The commotion begins to die down and we start the incredibly slow walk to the classroom together. The rain patters against the metal awning and the puddles turn into shattered mirrors. "Sounds good to me."

"Alright," he says. "I'll see you then."

We both stop in our tracks in front of the chemistry classroom. I gesture to the door behind me. "We have the same class."

"Yeah, I know. It just felt like I should say 'see you then'."

"That's kinda dumb."

A sheepish blush rises to his cheeks. "I know. Let's just go inside and learn about nothing, okay?"

"Okay. See you then."

"See you then."

Chapter 3

Dallon sticks his head out of the rolled down drivers window, lifting up his sunglasses with one hand and gripping the steering wheel with the other. The sun gleams right overhead, directly into his eyes as he tries to properly park in the Circle K parking lot. The two fat minivans on each side do nothing to aid his shitty and underdeveloped parking skills.

He lurches forward just an inch, dangerously close to the left van and weirdly jaded about it. "I still can't see."

The memory of the day he got his driver's license floats to the top of my brain. I still don't know how the hell he did it. A blind dog driving backwards could maneuver a car better than he can. Not to mention he drives a fat hand-me-down SUV that can barely wedge in a normal parking spot, let alone a compacted space between two obnoxious vans.

I have to step over to the left side of his hood to watch him ease forward and try to straighten out the car. Slowly, I wave my hand to motion him forward. The engine revs and stills every time he moves and immediately brakes. I'm pretty sure the single cop in the car across the street is growing concerned. Everyone on the other side of the road can hear his shitty engine working overtime just to fuckin' park.

"Stop," I shout and he freezes. "You have to back up and straighten out again."

He sighs deeply, exasperated and exhausted from driving everywhere. The route isn't long but the traffic is. "Am I *that* close to the curb?"

"Yes." I pinch my fingers and separate them slightly, just a centimeter or two. He's not that close but same thing, right?

Dallon rolls his eyes for the thousandth time that day and relaxes back in his car. The gear shift kicks and he begins to reverse at the speed of a goddamn snail. Barely a foot away from his original predicament, he pauses and moves one hand off the steering wheel, slowly until it's out of sight. The gear shift jerks with the most inhuman sound I've ever heard and he slams on the gas pedal and 'straightens out' his parking job by pulling up half a wheel onto the curb and tweaking the gear shift again until it stays in park.

"Did I hit anything?" He calls out the window just before the seal of it sucks shut and he eases open the drivers door to cross his arms over and observe his park job.

"Almost." I say. I point to the bumper, a few inches away from splintering my shin like a shitty baseball bat.

He just nods and finally hops out of his car. He stuffs his keys into his left pocket, checks for his wallet in his tight pocket, and waits idly for me to regain emotions.

"You almost hit me." I say.

Dallon takes another step and pushes my shoulder with one finger so I'm at least facing towards the entrance to Circle K. "But I didn't."

"You almost did. You almost hit me with your car. Why couldn't you have at least told me to back up?"

He shrugs. "I... it was an impulse decision, really. I also have no depth perception and I didn't know how close you were."

"Pretty damn close!" I take a loaded step forward and he follows right beside me. "If you have no depth perception, how the hell are you allowed to drive?"

"If you drive fast enough, everyone gets out of the way pretty quickly and you don't really have to worry about it. Don't ask how I cheat at the depth test at the optometrist either." He gently nudges me forward again. I hate to give in but I do head straight towards the entrance and muscle through the heavy double doors.

The gas station convenience store isn't that big but the shelves hold every snack known to man, which I guess is why he likes it here. Two of the four walls are lined with refrigerator and freezer doors, encasing drinks and a small selection of frozen treats. The third wall is paired with a bar area with at least five different coffee dispensers, a large slushee machine, two hot water containers for the tea bags next to them, and a warm nacho cheese pot. The girl behind the front counter is half asleep but she guards all sorts of alcohol, cigarettes, and lottery tickets. She's either bulletproof or keeps a concealed weapon tucked away in her waistband.

"Since I almost hit you with my car, I'll fund your munchies today." He smiles innocently, like when he would get busted for fucking around with everything he shouldn't have been when he was in first grade.

"Great. Risking my life in exchange for five bucks of snacks." I grab the first thing readily available to me in the most exciting packaging I can catch a glimpse of. Whatever it is, the bright bag crinkles whenever a single muscle in my body moves.

"Naw, c'mon, I feel bad now. Get whatever you want, I mean it." He gives me a quick squeeze on the shoulder and picks up one of the sticky baskets near the door as he begins to roam the aisles. The crackle of bags follows behind every step he takes.

I stay by the entrance with the chips in my hand. I'm still kind of mad about the car thing, rightfully so. He didn't even properly apologize for it. However, he doesn't really apologize for anything, unless it's to his mom.

Dallon's head pops up from behind a stand of candy like a meerkat. "What're you doing? Come over here and look at this."

"You almost hit me with your car."

"That was, like, five minutes ago. Stop living in the past and come look at this."

"Five minutes ago is not—"

"C'mere and look at this."

The girl at the counter watches me weave past displays and wire racks of cookie packets to the candy aisle. It's packed with little cardboard boxes, torn open along perforations to showcase chocolate bars and gummies coated in sugar.

He's knelt at the center of the lane, right in front of a bombardment of M&Ms in every flavor imaginable. As soon as he catches me out of the corner of his eye, a grin creeps across his face and he holds up a little green package.

"What are those?" I scrunch my nose. Anything I have to see to believe probably isn't good.

"Jalapeño M&Ms. Doesn't that sound so nasty?"

"Yeah." My nose crinkles like I can sense the spice that would burn and linger for a few minutes after a bite. "They sound gross. Like abominations."

His eyes widen. "I have to have them."

As I get closer, I see the dark green pepper outlined in black amongst the chocolate. "I know chocolate and spices are popular in other cultures. One of my aunt's friends would make us chocolate molé sauce. That's a Mexican thing, I think. I'm not very cultured, so it's just an educated guess."

"Ohh." He nods slowly and turns the package to examine the cramped ingredient list printed on the back. "Was it good."

"No, but again, I am uncultured and dumb. And she was an awful cook. And I was, like, seven. My taste buds were babies back then. I couldn't appreciate food to the fullest at that time."

He laughs to himself and drops the M&Ms in the basket. As he keeps plucking bags and bags of chocolate, the smile doesn't fade. "I don't think you've ever told me about that."

"We were seven and it wasn't exactly the first thing that popped into my head when I saw you." I say as he stands and shakes his basket of junk food. "But you know now, so it's all good."

"Sure." He rolls his eyes. "Is that all you're getting or are you waiting for the drinks?"

I toss him my bag and whatever candy bar I grab afterwards. He catches them with no issue and drops them beside his haul. "I'm not that hungry or thirsty, actually. Nearly getting run over really takes it out of you."

He purses his lips and gestures to the wall of refrigerators behind him. "What do you think goes well with jalapeño M&Ms?"

I know he feels bad because he follows behind me as we sift through the drinks. He holds the basket like someone's about to smack it out of his grip and he uses his bright eyes to inspect everything instead of his hands. I said he didn't like to apologize but that's more of a stubbornness issue rather than stunted emotional growth problem.

"...They don't have your half and half Arizona." Dallon says quietly. He points to the cans of tea behind the glassy plastic doors, frowning when he realizes my favorite drink isn't there.

"It's okay." I say. "I have plenty at home."

"Yeah, but now I feel like shit for almost hitting you with my car."

I pause with my hand on a bottle of Monster to stare at him. He's so focused on the Arizona tea he doesn't even see me turn my head. He looks like a vintage photograph. "You thought I was further back. It's fine."

"Yeah, but—"

"Just promise you won't almost hit me with your car ever again."

The upset and concern in his eyes fades quickly, but it lingers behind the curtain of confidence. He glances back to the tea cans one more time. "Are you sure?"

"...Are you planning on hitting me with your car again?"

"I'm planning on hitting Tyler with my car. If you're with him when the deed is done, that'll be your own fault."

I know he's just joking but I feel like he could mow Tyler down like a flimsy fence if he wanted to. A lot of people probably could. The thing about Tyler is he doesn't know when to shut up and he has no morals. He'd do anything, no matter if he had a chance of getting caught. A lot of people currently want to mow him down with a semi truck, I bet. If I had to speak with him individually for more than fifteen minutes, I would probably join the club.

I grab my final drink, a plastic bottle of cherry coke, and hand to Dallon as he starts to head to the register.

"I've got an essay to write," he starts as he fishes his wallet from his pocket, "about that dumbass book by F. Scott Fitzgerald."

He pulls out his ID and holds it behind a twenty dollar bill. "The... The Great Gatsby? The timeless classic that's been around for, like, a hundred years?"

"Yeah. It might be a classic but half those words were incomprehensible. Not even a dictionary could save me. And don't even get me started on all the fucking symbolism. Insufferable."

"What's the essay about then? Maybe I could help."

"With all due respect, you cannot help. It's hopeless. It's dumb. I just need to complain about it."

"I've read the book before, I can help."

"Hold on." Dallon stops me as we reach the front and he starts unloading the basket. His gaze is focused on behind the counter though, at the barred case of alcohol and cigarettes. His eyes dart from section to section quickly, scanning the labels.

The girl smacks her gum and scans every item at light speed. She tosses the candy in a thin plastic bag with no regards and squishes the chips with the drink cans. "It'll be an even twelve bucks if you opt to donate to charity." She taps a laminated photo taped to the register for some obscure organization.

Dallon doesn't respond. He keeps reading and searching for something behind her. I try to pry the cash from his grip but he clutches it firmly.

She sighs. There's no way she's being paid enough to deal with anything remotely close to this. "You want anything from the back counter, I'm gonna have to see some ID."

Without tearing his gaze away, he hands her his license. She squints at it and I hold my hand out to take it back. He's not even eighteen yet; that's a few months away.

She glances to my hand and then back to the card. "What're you doin'?"

"...Taking the card back?" 

"For him? I think he can do it himself." She sneers and slides the card across the table to him instead of me. It's just out of reach. "What d'you want? Don't have all day."

"Marlboro's. Just one." He says curtly and trades her the license for the twenty as she unlocks the case and picks out one pack of cigarettes.

I quite literally can't speak as she adds the pack into the bag, hands him his change, and watches as he has to drag me out of the store. I honestly cannot process the fact that he has a fake ID. Dallon bought a fake ID. Whether it was from Tyler or some corrupt dealer searching for a larger audience, he still went through the process to get one and he visited Circle K with the intention of purchasing cigarettes.

"God," he huffs as soon as the double doors shut behind us, "you're acting like I just killed a man."

There is an irrationally rational anger that grips my brain and squeezes the life out of it. I've known him since first grade and I feel like I missed a subplot in the film. I know we're growing up and trying to branch out and break a few rules, but really? "Y-You have a fake ID. And you bought cigarettes. Cigarettes? What is this, a shitty coming-of-age movie? A John Green book?"

"Brendon—"

"You gonna put the killing thing between your lips but not give it the power to do the killing or whatever the fuck? Your mom is a nurse and you—"

"Okay, wow, don't bring my mom into this." He scoffs and marches off to the car, leaving me paces behind. "It's not a big deal. I know people a grade below us that do cocaine and smoke weed in the school bathroom."

"Obviously. That's all Tyler does." I run to the passenger side before he can jump in and lock the doors on me, which he's done before. "That doesn't mean you should start doing it. I think you may have forgotten that lung cancer exists."

He clenches his jaw and reaches for his sunglasses as soon as I hop in the car and buckle my seatbelt. "Whether or not I choose to smoke a cigarette is none of your damn business. I just want to try it anyways. Let me live. It's not a big deal."

"It is. Because my parents will crucify me if I come home smelling like smoke, secondhand or not."

"Alright, alright. I won't do it around you."

"Yes you will. We might as well be conjoined twins."

He ties the plastic bag closed and drops it on my lap as he starts the car and jerks the gear shift in reverse. In one quick slam on the gas pedal, we lurch off the curb and back out of the parking spot in one perfect motion. He didn't even need to look out the back window beforehand, even though he probably should've because suburban drivers are unpredictable and complete assholes.

The sudden brake as he hesitates turning on the main road would've sent me through the windshield if I didn't have my seatbelt on. Dallon doesn't even flinch. "That still doesn't mean you can tell me what to do. We aren't seven years old anymore. We're going to college soon. If I want to try a cigarette, I will. And I won't act like the quirky love interest from a John Green novel. I promise."

I'm not saying I know what's best for him, but that's exactly what I'm saying. I've been around him long enough to recognize this is a mistake he will regret within twenty-four hours, I guarantee it. His mom will bust him immediately for reeking of smoke, he'll despise the way it toasts his lungs, the crippling fear of lung cancer will finally kick in, whatever. Realization will kick in sooner or later and he'll recognize it was a devastating mistake. Maybe he has to learn from it, but he shouldn't have to. Usually I have to fight the urge to kiss him, but now I have to resist my desire to slap him into next week.

It's a short drive to the grocery store and it takes significantly less time to pull into a parking spot. The store we frequent, Herschel's, is close to home and it specializes in European cuisine. My favorite aisle is whichever one has the packages of Biscoff cookies, and Dallon usually spends his time looking through the boxes of tea bags.

He shoves the gear shift into park and pulls the key from the ignition but he doesn't make a move to get out like I do. I can't see his eyes through the sunglasses. At just the right angle, he's an open book. My view from the passenger seat is not one of these angles.

"I think I'm gonna try it right now, actually." He says softly. His hand slips down the side of the door and he lifts up a dingy red lighter between two fingers from the compartment near his shoes.

Before I can grab the bag and hold it out of his reach, he snatches it with freaky reflexes and picks through the knot in the handles to get the item he wants. "You really shouldn't."

"I'm gonna."

"I'm shaking the Magic Eight Ball and it said you should put it down."

"Tell the Magic Eight Ball to suck it."

"You're disappointing Herschel."

"Herschel is a fictional cartoon horse."

"The way you used the word 'fictional' to describe a cartoon implies there is a non-fictitious cartoon."

He nods quickly in immediate agreement. "Yup. Who Framed Roger Rabbit from the eighties, and roughly a dozen live-action muppet films. Maybe more. The Muppet franchise is an ever-expanding empire."

Despite the jarring exchange we just had, I advise him not to again but that just makes him rip the plastic off the box a little quicker. The smell of nicotine hits me like a brick wall instantly. I'd get out and wait on the curb but I'm intrigued by how he'll react to it, so I ration my breaths and wait.

"You remember that dude my mom dated a while ago? The one that showed up to our middle school graduation ceremony in a wolf tank top and jean shorts? Jorts?"

I shudder. "Terry, yeah. I'd blocked him from my memory until now. Thanks for rekindling that."

Terry was an ass. He was decently tall but obscenely wide, and he wore thick wrap-around sunglasses like they would offset his shiny bald head. Jean shorts and strappy sandals were the backbone of his style. The last time I saw him, he had just gotten a tribal tattoo inked on his arm despite being entirely white and having no connection to any native group ever. He was nice at first until he started hurling insults at his mom, but she kicked him out quick after he threatened her child. We never heard from him again.

"Mhm." He flicks the wheel of the lighter twice and a flame sparks and fades out quickly. "He can rot. Anyways, I distinctly remember that he was addicted to these suckers. He'd blaze it outside but he'd always track smoke back inside."

"And you have the audacity to smoke and remind you of that jerk?"

Dallon grins at the comment as he shakes out one stick into his palm. He lifts it to his lips and holds it there, flicking the lighter on and letting it die, flicking it on, letting it die. "Y'know, I actually thought he was so awesome for a while. My perception of fatherly figures was really fucked in middle school."

"We know."

"Yup. Thought he was cool as hell when he'd stomp these things out under his shoes. Then he got a tribal tattoo, blew a load of cash on gambling, physically fought the neighbors, whatever. And then he threw one plate at me over dinner and he was gone within the hour. You remember that, right?"

I nod. I remember when he called me right after it happened. That night I was studying for a test and I put it off for hours so I could stay on the line and talk while his mom kicked Terry out. Props to her for being on top of it, but I always wondered why she hadn't kicked him out when he started the verbal shit. She'd never put up with anything like that before and she still doesn't, which is the only reason why I can't help but wonder what took so long. He was never a standup father figure or boyfriend, and he was always begging for money.

The mere thought of Terry makes me want to puke my guts out and feed them to dogs. "Heard he's in jail."

"Pft. Jail's too good for him." Dallon spits. "I hope he's dead."

I face straight ahead and watch him in my peripheral vision as he holds the flame to the end of the cigarette. Two fingers hold it in place as he inhales and slowly exhales like he's been going through the motions for years. He leans his head back on the head rest and sighs deeply. He looks like the token bad boy in the greatest romance film ever made. I can't help but stop and stare, savor the image and try to permanently seer it into my brain.

"Fuck you, Terry." He says quietly.

The least I can do is roll down my window and try to wave the smoke out before it sets into my clothes and jeopardizes me before I even make it into my neighborhood.

The smell is suffocating and disgusting, weighing heavy with death and the looming threat of lung cancer. I almost gag on it. "Christ almighty. You done that before or what?"

Before he can even open his mouth to tell me to fuck off, a coughing fit takes the reins and he smacks his forehead on the edge of the door trying to scramble into fresh air. He jiggles the handle and it swings open after what seems like hours, nearly falling headfirst out of the car as he hacks out the smoke from his lungs. Even after the coughing subsides, I hear him spit on the lot and heave a few more times like he's about to puke.

"Never mind I guess." I open my own door and shut it behind me before heading to his side to either help him up or perform CPR.

Before I make it halfway around the front of the car he stumbles out and drops his keys into his left pocket, checking for his wallet and tossing the lighter back into the compartment.

He holds the cigarette like it's a rusted needle he picked up from beach sand. "Thought I was alright at first."

"Clearly not."

"Mhm." He drops the stick to the ground and crushes it underneath the ratty old shoe that was just jumping in puddles hours before. "Goddamn. Terry had lungs of steel."

"Terry was a douche."

He nods and starts towards the grocery store entrance, keeping pace with me at his side. "Yeah. A mega douche with lungs of steel, a tribal tattoo, and a walnut for a brain."

Chapter 4

I have to explain everything to my parents when I get home, because the smoke sticks to my clothes more than I had anticipated. I hadn't realized it until I stepped through my front door into a world of air fresheners and little scented humidifiers occupying every open shelf in the house. The smoke was ridiculously easy to pick out.

And yes, my parents crucified me. They hopped on the computer and tried to sign me up for both rehab and Jesus camp. They ranted for hours and didn't let me say a single word to defend myself because in their minds, there was no good or valid way for me to excuse the scent. They're great and I love them, but the vague idea that addiction runs in the family is enough to trigger a freak out — rightfully so, too. I should have been able to explain myself though.

So needlessly said, they were surprised when I told them I would swear on a bible that I never smoked. Then they didn't believe me because I hadn't stepped foot in a church since I was nine years old and crying, so I had to pick up my dog and swear on her instead. Being so high off the ground scares her, so I swore fast even though we were sitting on the couch.

And then they handed me a Bible and made me swear on that too. I believe in my dog more than the events in the Bible, but whatever. What ever floats their boat, I guess.

The dog sheds her final crocodile tears and scurries off to go hover over her food bowl the second I set her down. I feel the glare from my mom and dad and I honestly can't bear to look them in the eyes.

"I'm sorry." I mutter. At least they won't be mad at me for smoking.

Mom puts her hands on her hips and eases down beside me. My dad does the same but he pats my shoulder and let's my mom take the lead. They balance each other out well except for during disagreements. My mom is the fiery one and my dad takes the backseat. Somehow, I inherited both of those traits.

"Do you even understand why we're upset?" She whispers. Her voice is quiet and on the verge of breaking.

"Smoking is bad. I know, believe me. It all just happened so fast. And I really tried to convince him not to do it but you know how he gets sometimes."

"We know and we love him to pieces, but this is seriously unacceptable. Oh, what's that guys name..." she taps her chin and stares off, digging through buried memories, "...that ass of a man we met at your eighth grade graduation. No hair, no sense of humor, no human decency. He smoked. We thought he'd learn after seeing all of *that*."

"Terry. Yeah, he brought him up but he was weird about. He was like, 'agh, I hate him' and then he said smoking reminded him of Terry and then he did it anyways. I don't know what to tell you guys."

Mom and Dad share a concerned glance. "Is he... is he trying weed again?"

"Not since his mom found out." She called every single dealer in a fifty mile radius and threatened to rat them out and dox them all if they ever sold to Dallon ever again. It was really damn difficult for him to get ahold of anything following that. "Mom, I'm not going to try it or anything like that. You have to trust me on this."

"Brendon, I don't know—"

"I almost threw up like three times. And I don't even have the money to sustain a habit either." I think I'm twenty bucks away from owing money to Discovery Bank. "You guys just need to trust me on this. I would never do something like that, ever. I mean it. He's just having another episode or something."

"An episode of...?" My dad asks. He furrows his brow and clasps his hands together on his lap.

God, I don't know what it is this time. I've never been able to pinpointing. They should know this by now. "A mental breakdown? I couldn't tell you. This happens at least once a year. Y'all know the routine by now."

They sigh and bite their cheek because I'm right. It isn't bad, usually, but it happens. It's an event. His mom takes a week off work and everything when she realizes and my own parents keep a closer eye on him than usual, but nobody ever explicitly points out the circannual rhythm to him. He really is the quirky love interest in a John Green novel. I'm the bland and eternally-suffering protagonist. Now I wonder where our explicitly eccentric and unique best friend with a quirky habit could be.

"Can I go now?" I lift my wrist and tap an invisible watch. "It's seven o'clock and I have homework to do. And I really need to take a shower too."

Mom purses her lips like she wants me to stay and wants me to admit I did something wrong. I think she's just waiting for the day I step out of line. "Sure. We'll be down here if you want to talk."

"I already explained myself."

"I know, but—" she grits her teeth and smiles out of frustration. I do that to her sometimes and I'd do it again. "We'll check in at around midnight."

They won't check in at midnight. I hear them talking quietly amongst themselves as I walk upstairs to my room, planning the film they'll watch together and what snacks to make. They fall asleep on the couch every single time a movie is put on the television, and I know that for a fact. They're such heavy sleepers, I could probably sneak out and they'd be out when I came back in the morning. However, I don't do anything. I'm not Tyler.

Speaking of Tyler, as soon as I reach my room, my phone buzzes with a FaceTime request from his boyfriend.

My room is a complete mess so I set my phone against the desk so the dirty laundry and dumb little knickknacks are all just out of frame. When I answer the call, I find him in a similar setup, but actually tidy and well kept. I wish he was the messy type too.

"What do you want?" I ask.

He feigns offense immediately, holding a hand to his chest. "Wow. Can't I just casually talk with one of my best friends after a long day?"

"No."

"Okay, fine." Josh sits back in his expensive cushiony chair. "Tyler is out and about and I'm bored out of my mind. Nobody's home. Not even my cat."

I almost feel sympathetic, and then I take another look at the pricey decor and the drum set in the corner of his room. Huge movie posters occupy half of the wall. Part of his California King bed sits in the frame. Suddenly, I wish my parents were rich too. I don't sleep on the floor with a muddy sheet and two tatty pillows, but I don't have a shrine of guitars and signed drumsticks above my massive specially-made waterbed.

I try to brush off the thought. "Where is everyone then?"

"My parents are working overtime at the office. My brother took the cats to get groomed for some reason. I thought one of the benefits of having cats was they didn't need haircuts. Fur-cuts. Whatever. Anyways, everyone is gone and I'm here alone."

He has a room of pinball machines and an indoor jacuzzi. Granted he didn't ask for those, but they're still at his disposal. "What's Tyler up to?"

There's just something about risk and danger that intrigues Tyler to a terrifying extent. I've known him for only a few years but I was immediately handed front row tickets to watch him actively try to ruin his life like it was a shitty and worthless painting. I never understood why, but it was entertaining from time to time. He hasn't died yet either, so clearly he knows what he's doing and he's doing it well.

Josh purses his lips. "He's... he's driving with some people down to Coffee Creek. Remember when he got arrested for loitering and the usual last Halloween?"

He was the only one missing from the sad Halloween party at my place. We stayed up and watched horror movies and threw popcorn at the screen for hours, and then we went to bail Tyler out of jail at two in the morning. Dallon had to dress in a suit and pose as his father while Josh and I waited in the car and fed him appropriately adult lines via a pair of AirPods. Tyler rambled on about what he could remember from the previous hours and slandered at least six people until he passed out like he was a long-suffering narcoleptic. In the news the next morning, we got to read about the vulgar vandalism on the side of Taco Bell and the Coffee Creek wildlife reserve sign. He claimed he never touched the signs, but we knew that was a total lie.

"Those people? Again? I could've sworn he blocked their numbers." The image of him announcing the deed played through my mind. He's never been known for his faithfulness though. It's almost a miracle he's been with Josh for almost two and a half years. I couldn't put up with him for more than two days.

He just shrugs. "I thought so too, but obviously not. Do you... do you think I'm being ridiculous by being upset about this?"

Everyone has the right to be pissed off at Tyler, whether or not they've met him before. The entire Australian population should have the overwhelming desire to fight him. "Not at all. Bad people, bad decisions, bad substances, bad driving... shall I continue?"

"No, I get the point. Thanks though." The knife of betrayal sinks further into his gut with every second of silence between us. "Just not sure what to do about it."

I wish I could ask him the same. Not that he would know what to say, but talking it out usually helps. Unless it's to your parents. That tends to make everything worse, depending on what their parenting style is. "When was the last time you sat down and talked about it with him?"

His focus drifts off the further back he has to remember. Clearly it's been a while. "The... after the Denny's incident."

"The Denny's incident was in June of last year. Are you telling me you haven't spoken to him about this for almost seven months?"

"Eight months." He mutters.

"Whatever. 'Months' should not be included in the answer at all, in my opinion. He did this last weekend too. Isn't this a little too frequent?"

"He always complains about being stressed and anxious. Apparently committing felonies and ingesting so much shit you puke is some sort of bandage for him. I don't know what to tell you, man. Just let me complain."

I would have a breakdown if that was how my significant other acted on a consistent basis. Feeling like Josh would not be an ideal situation for future Brendon. "Fine. Whatever. Tell me what else he's done. Rip him to shreds, Josh."

He falls silent. "That was all I wanted to rant about, actually. I don't really have any other complaints. Everything else about us is peachy."

"Why'd you call then? Would it have been that difficult to text me a paragraph? Dude, I need to shower so bad."

He rolls his eyes. "That was all I wanted to complain about, not discuss. I'm not finished speaking with you."

"Can it wait until after my shower?" I ease up off the chair and wait for the cue to sprint for the bathroom but what he says is much more important than washing my grease pile of hair.

"Spoke to Tyler before he left and he said he saw you guys outside of Hershel's. And I sincerely hate that he could pick them out, but he said he saw a thing of Marlboro's. Y'know, because he has eagle eyes, but only when it's in his best interest."

Of course he did. Of course he passed by on that side of town, looking at that side of the street, catching that moment of all the moments. Great. Knowing how Tyler gets on his nights out, everyone in a ten-foot radius knows about it already. "Yeah, I was debating if I should ask for your advice on that. Kinda lost my spirit after learning it's been eight months since—"

"Okay, I get it. Haha. Josh sucks at communication, whoop-de-doo. Let's not talk about that anymore."

"And talk about...?"

He freezes like his WiFi connection dipped out. "Uh... I have nothing else, actually."

"Okay. Well, I'm going to take a shower and do my homework. You're more than welcome to call back if you think of anything but I reek." I just have to pray the smoke comes out of my clothes in the washing machine. I kind of liked my shirt, even if it was a little plain and simple.

Josh nods and waves as he ends the call, leaving me alone in my room. I wish the silence wasn't so loud.

I gather my pajamas and spare towel and head to my parents bathroom. They have the best water pressure in the house and I haven't used the shower in my bathroom in years. Nobody has ever forbidden me from using their shower, so it's just routine now.

The only sound that echoes in the house is the commercial on television, and that's blocked out when I close the door to their bedroom, again leaving me in uncomfortable silence. It sucks. I hate it. It's so quiet, I go to my Spotify and turn on Dallon's public indie shit playlist. Some funky tune from Hippocampus pours from my speakers and gradually chips away at the edges of the void. 

FINISH ENDING MOVE ON DONT GET STUCK

Chapter 5

It's nothing special to drive through the suburbs of Atherton at two in the morning. It sucks. It blows. It's so boring and empty, the scattered signs along the roads fall dark and the orange streetlights are the only source of light besides the ones in the front of my car. There aren't even cars parked in front of the McDonald's near Dallon's house, the one that's supposedly open all day and all night. I don't think they close the McDonald's in San Francisco or Sacramento, which are just a short drive away but are also too far away to just pop in for a Big Mac and fries. If I was sad enough I'd do it though. It'd be worth it to get out of the ocean of dull white people for even an ounce of personality. I think I'm one of those dull white people, but whatever. I need a break from myself.

But it's boring. Atherton is boring. There's nothing special about it. Cookie-cutter families move into plain homes and sign their kids up to attend plain schools where they learn plain information and eat plain food at home and school. There is no flavor. White people don't use too many spices.

When I pull my car up along the curb of Dallon's house, he's already outside and sitting on the steps of his ratty old porch. The wooden swing seat has finally collapsed and the remains slump in a heap behind him. The lights are off in his one story house, spare the front light. He picks up the backpack between his feet and slings it into the back as he hops into the passenger seat. The scent of smoke still lingers, but it's faint and instead I can smell everything he ate for dinner from the stains on the hem of his shirt. It's kinda disgusting, but it's not that bad.

"I see we're driving in luxury tonight." He slaps a short beat on the dashboard of the 2004 Toyota Corolla that refuses to quit. It's cheating death on a daily basis, it's walked out of eleven separate car wrecks without a single scratch, and if you turn the air conditioning temperature too cold then the engine will fry instantly. It's a good car. It's my car.

"Only the finest to pick up a cross-faded dickhead stranded on the side of the road." I say. I wish he'd never called. I still have to pick up Josh and find Tyler's coordinates. Being the driver is the worst.

He leans down and fumbles for the handles on the underside of the seat. Once he finds them, he cranks them back and slightly reclines his seat, bucking his seatbelt and tucking his hands behind his head.

"Sure, get comfortable," I kick the gear into drive and flip the car around to go back to the main road. "Not like I needed directions anyways."

"To Josh's house? From here..." He sits up slightly to pull his sunglasses from his back pocket. "...go right as soon as you get out of the neighborhood. Follow the road for about a minute, make a left right after the middle school, third cul de sac on the left. He's got the thing on the lawn, y'know, the dolphin statue. And a bronze statue of an alpaca."

I follow his directions and keep an eye out for the middle school sign. It might be hard to see because it's a stone sign with no lighting, but they also have an obnoxious LED news board behind it so I'll look for that. "Since when did they get a bronze alpaca statue? And why was I not informed earlier?"

"His brother had it specially handcrafted two weeks ago."

Josh doesn't talk about his older brother often so that's probably why I never knew. Anything that man says or does will never have any association with Josh. They didn't get along as kids and they don't as adults with a mere two-year age gap between them. I don't even think their personalities are that different, but maybe it's because I've spoken to his brother for five minutes over a year ago. It's none of my business, but I have always wanted to know why they hate each other so much. "How did you know about it then?"

Dallon points out the window to the LED sign and then to the road I should turn down directly after it. "A nightly stroll. Took my skateboard, threw rocks at his window. Broke his window. Helped him replace it at midnight in total silence. I also clogged his toilet that night."

I always wonder what he gets up to at night and whenever I unearth one story of many, I can't help but wish I left it in the ground. Oh, how I miss the fruitful life I lived when I didn't know those events had ever taken place.

"That's... so disgusting."

"Yes it is. It was like flushing a military-grade stink bomb. Turn here." He says quickly and almost smacks me while trying to point in the direction I should be going. His hand didn't lower from my peripheral vision until I reversed a few feet and pulled into the cul de sac of large luxurious houses occupied by either exclusively white families or stingy old people.

Josh is also standing outside of his house, but seeing him hanging out on the fanciest porch of a mansion is an experience all on its own. His house is the same size of my two story place combined with Dallon's one story home, with an extra stand-alone guest building hanging out in the massive yard near the pool and jacuzzi. His porch is the size of my entire backyard, complete with a delicate stone dolphin fountain and the now infamous bronze alpaca statue. All the lights are off except for the lamp to his bedroom, right above the first door for their six car garage.

I know Josh hates living in such a needlessly extravagant environment, but every time I even glance at the exterior I start fantasizing about how similar my life could be if I had any exploitable talent or trait. I wish we could switch living arrangements, even for just a day or two. That bitch has a sauna in his second bathroom.

Josh stares at his phone the entire trek down the driveway and even as he buckles up his seatbelt in the back of my car. The screen lights up the focused frustration on his face. The radio plays softly while we wait for him to acknowledge us and possibly provide directions.

After a painfully long minute of silence, Dallon turns to look at him. "If you would be so kind to spare some directions in this trying time, we can get on our way and pick up your stupid fucking boyfriend."

"I'm sending the directions to you now," he mutters and Dallon's phone pings immediately. "If he doesn't stop this shit soon, we won't be dating much longer. I guarantee it."

"I'm sure if you talked to him about it then everything would work out." Dallon yanks open the sticky glove box handle and pulls out a knotted aux cord. He plugs it into the console and the little screen lights up with a map and directions. Australian Siri starts to direct me to the freeway that will dump us out at the entrance of Coffee Creek's wildlife reserve, about a twenty minute drive out of the Atherton and another thirty through rural land and the edges of the reserve.

"Sure, I'll talk to him. I'm sure he'll change his behavior immediately with no complaints. It'll be just like asking Brendon to leave this godforsaken Toyota Corolla death trap at home and take the Nissan."

The Toyota Corolla is technically still my mom's car, but I learned how to drive in it and it was supposed to be mine anyways. But when the engine started to crap out, my dad didn't want my mom to get stranded on the side of the road whenever the car wanted to lay down and die, so they handed it down to the illiterate sixteen-year-old Brendon. My mom and I just decided to switch off between who would take which car — the Corolla or the moderately new Nissan. It was way easier than pawning it off and finding another new and slightly used car to replace the loyal Corolla.

"Don't slander her. She's sensitive, Aubrey."

Josh rolls his eyes. "I'll literally go out and buy you a brand new car. All I ask is that you send this one to the car graveyard."

"No."

"Okay, but don't come crying to me when you spontaneously combust in this hunk of junk."

"Anyways, what are the vibes tonight, boys? Pick a playlist, any playlist except for the super sad one." Out of the corner of my eye I catch him sitting through his collection of mood playlists full of songs he had illegally ripped from the depths of the internet. It's a miracle he didn't download a virus.

The light from Josh's phone turns off and he stares longingly out the window as we pull on to the freeway ramp. "Anything but your indie shit."

"Indie shit it is." His indie playlist starts to blast through the speakers, like he had it queued no matter what either of us would request.

Josh sighs deeply in frustration. "Alright, I'm going to sleep then. Wake me up when we're close."

"Have a good nap. I'll make sure to take the speed bumps at full speed." I call back to him over the music.

"If you hit a speed bump on the highway, I'll get out and walk home."

"Promise?"

I glance in the rear view mirror to see Josh roll his eyes and smile. He checks his phone for any new notifications and quickly curls up into himself for a short nap.

Dallon and I sit in silence for the next ten minutes. He stares out the window and watches the uniformity of Atherton taper off to lush trees and the occasional green sign covered in reflective tape. It's absolutely gorgeous if you can stop and look for a moment. I'd like to take a hike in the reserve someday, I think. The vast landscape is terrifying but oddly inviting. However, I had an isolated cabin with WiFi and air conditioning, I would leave Atherton without a second thought. Townhouses and condos pale in comparison to the seclusion of the wildlife reserve.

As soon as Josh starts snoring, Dallon ticks the volume down a couple notches. "Let's find some speed bumps just to fuck with him."

"No. You're not the one driving. And besides, I'd rather pick up Tyler before he gets killed."

"God, you're no fun."

"Well, that's what you've been saying since we were seven and what do y'know? You're still here. By choice? By force? Doesn't matter."

The streetlights gleam in the dark sunglasses lenses. He looks like a douchebag, wearing sunglasses at night. "Well, I can't really beat getting twenty bucks from your mom for every hour I hang out with you. I'm working overtime right now, believe it or not."

Not a single car passes us on either side of the road. "Huh, what a coincidence. I've actually been getting twenty five from your mom for every hour I hang out with you. I've been working overtime for the past three years."

"Wow," he says, "now I know why she's at work all the time. That rate is brutal."

"I have to be properly compensated for spending time with you. I don't think I'll step foot out of my room again if I come home smelling like cigarette smoke again." I shoot him a dirty look and turn back to the road quickly. Driving is scary.

He snickers into his hand and bites his tongue before he can absolutely lose it. "Haha — they really lectured you?"

"Oh my god, they almost boarded me up in my room and signed me up for Jesus camp."

The stifled laughter is what really irks me. He knows damn well that my parents are psycho about those types of things, and I even voiced my concern about them to him before he lit the cigarette. Anything related to Jesus camp would've been his fault and I would've been the one to take the heat for it. I don't think my parents truly believed what I told them either, even though it was completely true and they know exactly the type of person that Dallon is.

He smiles, that dumb confident smile he always reverts to. "Well, I'm glad you're here with me and not at Jesus camp."

"I'll be sure my parents know that when they try to grill me like an undercover spy during the Red Scare. Jesus camp will be off the table completely, I'm sure."

"As long as you haven't colluded with Russia, you'll be fine."

"This may be a bad time to catch you up with my political affairs." I mutter. He snickers and leans his head against the window, grinning at the possible scenarios that stemmed from that single sentence.

The last of the neighborhood homes whisk by the windows and the scenery morphs into wilderness on one side and rural land on the other. Independently constructed houses spot the left side of the empty road like sparse stars in a dying galaxy. The only indicator on each plot is the front light and the few lamps still holding on. I'd kill to live out there as well. It's moderately isolated while still near all the things that provide any sort of comfort. Examples include fast food joints, Waffle House, and the only bowling alley in Atherton.

I do question my ability to live in a rural area, though. I've always sucked at mowing the lawn and keeping my garden alive. Maintaining a large plot of land would be stressful and I would hate having to hire a service to make sure the greenery stays healthy. Other people messing around with my property sounds like a nightmare taken straight from the circles of hell. To combat the nightmare, I've promised to ever trust anyone but yourself to do your chores. Then there's the possibility they won't get done the way you like and you're back at square one.

And that's why I probably shouldn't own a house on rural land. I think I'd go inside if I lived in the suburbs forever, and busy urban life would drive me to my limits within the first week of taking to the roads. Maybe I just won't own a house ever. I'll live with my parents forever and blame my living situation on them even though I could certainly fix it at any time. Placing the blame is easier than taking action though.

With fifteen minutes left in the drive, Dallon turns off the indie playlist and lets the radio cut in and out with some lame late night talk segment that only gets airtime because nobody is listening.

"Got rejected from San Francisco State yesterday," he says blankly.

The words bounce around in my head and fail to connect for at least a minute. For a whole minute I look like a fool, and then I realize what he said and what that meant and my heart sinks. "What? Why didn't you tell me?"

He shrugs. I catch a glimpse of his face in the window, expressionless and tired. "Felt like shit about it. Obviously."

If I remember correctly, that was his dream school. "I'm really sorry. They don't know what they're missing out on."

"I think they do and I think they're glad to be missing it," he runs his hand though his hair and stares down at his shoes. "It just sucks. They have a seventy percent acceptance rate and the other two colleges I applied to have way lower rates. I thought I was in the clear for at least one of them."

"We've known the system has been fucked for a while now. Students from out of the state get admitted because it'll get the university more money. The in-state kids get the short stick. It's not your fault, it's the money-hungry education system."

He doesn't laugh. "Mhm."

"I'm serious."

"Yeah, I'm sure you are." He muses.

"Come on. You watched The Kissing Booth with me, the first one and the second one. You can't tell me the system isn't rigged if Noah Flynn got into Harvard with essentially no athletic career, no extra curricular activities, severe anger issues, and probably an expulsion or two. Not to mention he almost failed his senior year. He only got into Harvard because his mom was goddamn Molly Ringwald. The system is rigged. You are a Marco Peña, not a Noah Flynn."

"Those were the worst movies I've literally ever seen, please never bring them up again." He pinches the bridge of his nose. "I'd rather jump out of a moving car than watch them again."

"I won't bring them up again, but I'll sleep well at night knowing you cried during the second one."

"I cried because it was bad."

"No you didn't."

Josh stirs in the back. "Why the fuck do you guys talk so loud?"

Dallon switches off the quiet hum of the radio as I exit the freeway and turn onto the scariest and most desolate paved road known to man. The car crunches with every rock and twig it mows over. "We're talking about how easy it would be to ditch you out here."

"You're going to have to try harder than that." He says. "My brother has tried to assassinate me seventeen times. I'm used to it by now."

The cogs in Dallon's brain short-circuit for a second. "Seventeen assassination attempts? There's... there's a lot to unpack there."

"Yeah, Josh, seriously. Do you need to talk that out or what? Tyler's gonna rant as soon as he gets in the car. It's an impromptu therapy night."

"We do not have time to discuss all seventeen incidents. That would take hours, and they're all connected so I'd have to start at the very beginning, and I'd have to explain how my brother knows a hitman and — hey pull over here. I see him."

I pull off to the side of the road immediately and brace for impact in the overgrown weeds. Dallon and I squint and watch as Josh sprints down the path and darts into the tree line.

"He's gone," Dallon whispers like he's still in the backseat, "let's skedaddle."

"I'd hate to see what you'd do to him if you didn't like him."

"I would never have taken seventeen assassination attempts to get the job done, that's for sure. One and done, baby."

The way he says 'baby' makes my cheeks burn. I'm glad it's dark outside.

Tyler comes stumbling into view with Josh holding him up under his armpits, eyes wide and covered in dirt and sticks. His jeans are torn at the knees and one of his Adidas sneakers is nowhere to be seen. I could've mistaken him for a bankrupt vagabond if he wasn't holding a baggie of glimmering gold rings and watches. Actually, maybe I still could.

Josh shoves his boyfriend into the backseat and climbs in beside him, slamming the door shut and buckling both their seatbelts. He's so out of breath, he has to put his head between his knees and start counting his breaths.

"What's up Tyler?" Dallon lifts his phone and snaps a quick picture. The flash goes off just as I complete a two-point turn and head back towards the freeway.

He holds up the plastic bag full of jewelry. It's so heavy, it slips out of his hand and hits the CD box with a loud clatter. "I collected that for you, Dallon, you beautiful broke bitch."

The diamonds and gold glisten in the streetlights zipping past as we jump back on the highway. The drive is shorter to get home, somehow. Maybe I'm just speeding, or maybe it's just Tyler's energy fueling the gas tank.

Dallon opens a corner of the ziplock seal and pulls out a silver ring encrusted with small rubies. That alone must be worth a small fortune. "Holy shit. Who does this belong to? How many of these did you take."

"I found a... found a graveyard. And a shovel. So I went a-digging. I actually," he rustles around for a moment, "I have something for you, Brendon. And I have a surprise later for you, Josh, it is a surprise. A real good surprise. Because I love you so very much, my dear."

I feel Tyler's hand on my shoulder and I take whatever he hands to me. I feel a cold and thin metal chain and hold it up to the light. It's a little necklace with a heavy pendant on the bottom. In the dim light, it looks like a stone. "Thanks Tyler. I'll ignore the fact that this probably came from a dead body."

"It's pretty cool, right?" He says dazedly. "There used to be another one but it started bleeding."

"What the—" Dallon snatches the necklace from my hand. He pulls out his phone and triggers the flashlight, shining it on the thick glass of the teardrop. We ride in silence for a moment while he squints and stares.

Tyler's phone rings and before Josh can snatch it from his hand, he answers the call and somehow puts it on speakerphone. "Thank you for calling me. Unfortunately, I don't have the emotional capacity to speak on the phone right now. I'll get back to you in three to five business days."

"Haha. Ewww." Dallon snickers. He drops the necklace into the empty cup holder and wipes his palm on his jeans. "It's filled with fuckin' blood."

"It's filled with what?!" The car almost swerves off the road by my own hand, and I wish I had committed to it so the necklace would be destroyed. I want to cut off my hand and dissolve it in bleach. I touched my steering wheel after holding it. Maybe I should get rid of my car after all. "Tyler, what the fuck? Where did you find that?"

"Shut up. I am speaking with my second best friend." He murmurs.

"He gave you a blood necklace." Dallon points at the cup holder, then behind my seat to wave a finger at Josh. "Control your boyfriend. Search his pockets like this is the TSA."

Josh sighs deeply and finally sits up to stick his hands in every shirt pocket he can reach. Tyler slaps his hand away when he reaches his jeans, which ticks Josh off and encourages him to swat harder, which only furthers the chain reaction until there's a slap fight going down in the backseat and suddenly everyone is screaming.

I said I hate being the driver and I meant it. There's really nothing I can do about it either, because I'm sure that removing either of my hands from ten and two on the steering wheel will swerve us off the road instantly and kill us all.

"You're acting like babies! Stop it and sit up! Stop hitting each other!" Dallon twists the bag of fancy rings between his fingers and starts swinging.

"I'll stop when Tyler stops!"

"No! Not until we go pick up my friend!" Tyler holds out the phone, still on the call.

"You never mentioned picking up anybody else!" Josh reverts to holding his head between his knees. "Please, oh my god, I am so tired. Lord, give me strength."

Dallon leans back into my peripheral vision. "Are we gonna go get his friend?"

I really don't want to. I want to drop everyone off at their respective homes and get into bed. It's a Saturday night. Saturday nights are for casual activities, not illegal antics. "Where are they?"

"Taco Bell," Tyler says, "the good one. The blood necklace will tell you where to go. It's like a compass."

I try not to think about the stolen blood necklace. It's a tragedy that the cursed object is even in my beloved vehicle, ruining the purity of the cup holder forever. "Fine. We'll go get your friend. Just go to sleep."

"Go to sleep? Never slept before in my life. I'm too strong, too powerful and outspoken. Sleep is a social construct created to sedate us for a certain amount of time so the government can replace the birds."

"What?"

"The birds work for the bourgeoisie, Brendon. Common fucking knowledge, you ingrate." He takes a deep breath to continue his rant, but it never comes. Instead, he snores loudly and unevenly, so disturbingly sticky that I fear he's dead and I just learned what a death rattle sounds like.

Dallon holds up the map app on his phone a few feet away from my state so I can glance at it easier. "The Taco Bell is right out of the Churchill exit ramp."

"Like right after I exit the freeway?"

"Well, you go to the right a little bit but the physical building should be directly in front of us."

He keeps track of the signs and lets me know when I should pull off the highway. The streets are still vacant so it's no problem when I pull into the wrong parking lot and I have to make at least two illegal turns to get where I want to go quicker.

The Taco Bell is one of the very few places that are actually open. There are three cars parked out front of the double doors, two empty and the other with someone sitting on the back trunk. I pull through rows of parking spots to sit on the opposite side of them, flashing my lights and rolling down the passenger window. Dallon calls to them and they hop off the car and start our way.

Maybe I'm just blind, but as soon as she gets closer I can actually see her, and I know everyone else in the car has their jaws drop as hard as mine. Her jeans fit her legs and the shapeless windbreaker only leaves more to the imagination. There's a smile on her red lips and the blue in her eyes twinkle in the pale lights. Her pupils are blown to the size of the full moon, but every other aspect of her looks like she just walked out of a modeling gig.

She stands at the passenger side window, tall, gorgeous, and dangling her delicately manicured hands inside the car. "I'm not gonna die if I get in this car tonight, will I?"

I'm speechless. Maybe I should start hanging out with Tyler more often, if this is what his friends look like. How have I lived my life without knowing she exists? "I-I sure hope not. We— I— The car doesn't— No."

She bites her cheek and stares at each of us like she's about to rip us to shreds. "You two are adorable." She holds out one of her hands for us to shake. "I'm Taylor."

"I-I'm Brendon," I point to myself and then to the passenger seat, "and this is—"

"Dallon." Voice smooth like caramel, he takes her hand in his and presses a kiss to her knuckles. "Very nice to meet you, Taylor."

"Oh, look at you," she purrs. "I've met boys like you before."

"I don't think you have, sweetheart."

I think she has. He is different in a variety of ways, but there are so many white boys with issues and a self-destructive personality, I could stroll into Target and pick out six in one go. Anyways, that's my white boy with issues and a self-destructive personality and she can't have him.

Taylor's eyes linger on him for just a second too long. Her smile is sly as she climbs into the backseat, scooting Tyler over and buckling both of their seatbelts.

"I live near the high school." She says. "I can pay for the gas you used to come pick me up. Really appreciate it by the way."

There's no reason for me to be ticked off, but I am. Maybe it's because it's almost four in the morning, maybe it's because everything I think I could be with Dallon may have just slipped through my fingers like dry sand. It's my fault for never making a move or never even hinting at the concept, but I always thought it would be a simple but gradual process. I was a fool for thinking it would ever be like that. I was a fool for thinking he would be willing to change the dynamic of our relationship when someone like Taylor just exists.

"Mhm." I turn the radio back on as the Toyota Corolla rattles out of the Taco Bell parking lot. "Any time."