Page 69 of Caught in a Bad Fauxmance
I really don’t want to get involved. I was already a split second away from having Stella’s elbow shoved in my face. But I think I’m the saving grace here.
“Just tell me where they are,” she snaps, the two of them staring each other down.
“No.” Without breaking eye contact with her, Julian reaches for my hand. “If you know where they are, you’ll start stealing them again.”
There’s a gentle pressure on my hand, his thumb against my palm. Along with making me a tres leches cake, Julian had entrusted me with the hiding spot for his beloved snack collection that same day. Turns out they’re just under his bed.
They continue glaring at one another as I head toward the door. “I liked you two better when you were pretending to date,” Stella says once I’m at the top of the stairs.
I’m sure Julian can handle arguing on our behalf, so I close the door behind me. The top-secret location isn’t very top secret at all, but I still check over my shoulder to make sure I’m not being followed. I don’t think our fledgling relationship could survive me accidentally giving up his choco pie hiding spot.
Wrenching out the plastic bin from beneath Julian’s bed is easy enough. I push aside the old tennis trophies to grab two green tea and three plain (four for me and Julian, one for Stella), stuffing them into my pockets. Shoving the bin back into place is another story. It’s hardly a fourth of the way in when it snags on something. A closer look confirms my suspicions that Julian isn’t one of those rare teenagers who actually keeps their room neat. He just shoves everything under his bed. The culprit is a box that’s slightly bigger than thehidden stash bin. It takes two good pulls to yank the black box free, sending me tumbling onto my butt.
When I sit up, I’m surrounded by small slips of paper, the box knocked onto its side. They’re not like the note cards Julian sometimes writes his recipes on. They’re smaller, edges jagged and creased. Notebook paper and Post-its, phrases scrawled hastily. I pluck one out from beneath my foot, a bright blue Post-it.
Mint chocolate
Is this like some kind of culinary mad lib? Curiosity piqued, I grab another one, a crumpled piece of paper with the spindly bits of the notebook still attached.
Allergic to pineapple and almonds (nonlethal, gives him a rash)
My throat tightens while I read, as if I’ve swallowed either of those things. What’re the odds that someone else has those two specific allergies? I pick up another slip of paper.
Wakes up at 7 for training. Done by 10, sometimes 10:30 if he has extra laps. Usually nobody leaves the house past 9.
Okay, what the fuck is going on?
I collect every scrap and note I can find, gathering them into a pile. At first I try to keep count, but I lose track after thirty-three. They remind me of the flash cards I would always make before midterms. Thinking of myself as a subject worth studying makes my stomach churn. Despite my unease, I don’t jump to conclusions yet. It doesn’t look like his siblings wrote any of these—it’s that same familiar chicken scratch. As much as he’s grown on me, Julianiskind of a weird dude. This could be romantic, maybe. He cared enough about what I had to say to write it all down, so he wouldn’t forget.
But then I find a new slip of paper, a list instead of a fact, and realize this is anything but romantic.
Winter Games Brainstorm
Find fishing wire to trip them during the 5K
Devin’s afraid of spiders. Sneak them into his backpack before the 5K?
Tie their shoelaces together before the three-legged race (how would I distract them?)
Replace their marshmallows with cotton balls? (they’d probably notice)
