Page 64 of From Now On

The jerseys on ice disappear, replaced by a commercial for a fast-food restaurant.

“You didn’t feel like hot-tubbing?” I ask Hunter.

That was tonight’s after-dinner activity. Aidan suggested it. He, Rylan, Harlow, and Conor are all out there, laughing and playing music.

One corner of Hunter’s mouth lifts an inch. “Nah,” he replies, glancing over. “What are you drawing?”

“Uh, the beach we went to.”

“Can I see?”

I hold my sketchpad toward him. As soon as it’s gripped in his hand, my stomach starts performing an acrobatic routine. My teeth worry against my lower lip.

If he flips back a few pages, he’ll see the drawing I did of him in the car. Sadly, I’m not sure that would be themostembarrassed I’ve been around Hunter. But it would be a close second.

Hunter doesn’t flip through the pages. He just stares at the sheet it’s open to.Stares, like he’s really looking, not just taking an obligatory glance. Long enough for me to feelveryself-conscious.

I roll the pencil between my fingers nervously. Chew my lip until I’m worried I’ll break skin. Clear my throat. “It’s not finished. I was just?—”

“You drew this? Just now, after dinner? You just sat down and drewthis?”

“Um, yes?”

“Wow. Fuck. I mean, you’re good. You’re really talented, Eve.”

“Thanks,” I say softly. My stomach is a riot of butterflies right now.

He’s still studying my drawing.

It’s not my best work. It’s not even completed. But Hunter is looking at it like he’s genuinely impressed.

Compliments are always nice. But something about Hunter’s praise hits differently. It feels…earned? Like he wouldn’t say something he didn’t mean.

A few seconds later, he hands my sketchbook back. “I draw a mean stick figure, you know.”

I smile. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yep. I use a ruler to make sure that all the arms and legs are the same length. My first-grade teacher was so impressed bymy technique that my family portrait was picked for the spot of honor above the whiteboard.”

“Whoa.”

Hunter nods somberly. “I know.”

“Were there a lot of stick figures in the portrait?” I ask, then shake my head. “Sorry. That was a really weird way to ask about your family.”

He props a socked foot on the coffee table. “All good.” His knee bounces once before he continues. “And uh, not really. Just me, my parents, and my brother.”

“Your mom and dad are still together?”

“Yeah. They’re kinda like those guys.” He nods toward the commotion coming from the patio. “Lovey-dovey. Grossed me out as a kid, but now…it’s nice.”

I would have guessed that Hunter comes from a traditional family. He has that settled ease I associate with a more stable home situation than I experienced. A mom who baked cookies after school and a dad who built a swing set in the backyard one weekend.

Hunter lifts his arm and rotates his shoulder a couple of times. “Think I messed my shoulder up paddling out earlier,” he says.

It’s a casual comment. But it also occurs to me that he’s deftly steering the subject away from his family.

“How was surfing otherwise?” I ask.

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