Page 91 of A Disaster in Three Acts

“I saw you like that.”

“You’re, I don’t know, you’re you. And it’s not like I had a say in the matter because you just showed up.” I awkwardly stand there. “Where do you want me? Here?”

“Let’s start at your desk,” he says. “With the documentary up? It’s your natural element. It’s like your Batcave.”

I raise my eyebrow.

“Your Fortress of Solitude?” he tries.

“How has it taken me this long to realize you’re a DC guy? We can’t be friends anymore.” I sit down at my desk, stiff, and stare at him. “Now what?”

“I don’t know,” he says, shrugging. “Just work?”

I face the computer with a sigh. “This is awkward.”

He clicks a few photos and releases a low, rumbly laugh.“Only because you’re making it awkward.”

“Says the guy taking pictures of me doing nothing.”

“How about you decide what you want to do and then do it? Like, choreograph it?”

“This isn’t like dancing.”

He stops, looks around my room, and then darts beside my bed, retrieving my camera. He hands it to me and I accept it, frowning. My rental was due back to PSH today. Fuck.

“What do you want me to do with this?” I ask, holding it as if I’ve never held one before.

“Film me.”

“Excuse me?”

“You just smile more when you’re behind a camera.” He lifts his own. “Film me.”

He knows me he knows me he knows me.

“Holden?” My voice cracks. I lower the camera and then chicken out and lift it, partially blocking my face.Five-six-seven-eight.

“That won’t work, I can’t see your face.” He lowers his camera and squats in front of me, so I have the high ground sitting on my computer chair. “What’s up?”

“I—I, um, I don’t know.” My hands are shaking, breathing is hard. I keep getting flashes of last night, and the visceral hatred I had for myself threatens to spill out of me. We’re almost done with the documentary and the headset and his class assignment and then we’re done. We’re done. “I...”

“What is it?” He puts both of our cameras on the bed and, with a quick glance at my face, places his hands on my bareknees, sending waves of goose bumps up my skin. He stares at me, lips parted in the shade of First Kiss, and I just go for it.

“I know it went horribly the first time and you’re not into me like I’m into you, but I really want to kiss you.” My words come tumbling out at warp speed.

He clears his throat and his words come out gruff. “I’m into you.”

Something clenches inside me. My heart? My stomach? Lungs? I think I’m dying one internal organ at a time, and the process is definitely not slowed down any by his fingers pressing into my skin. “You—no, you aren’t.”

“Why would you think I’m not? I’ve beenflirtingwith you. Just... been waiting for you to get the hint.”

I back away so I can see his whole face, because hunched over is really not the way to have a life-changing conversation. “Why didn’t you kiss me back, then?”

His mouth drops open. “You were drunk! You said so yourself!”

“Drunk actions are truth actions or whatever!”

“Not always!” His eyes flick to my lips. “I didn’t want to take advantage of you or something.”

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