Chapter 2 Cole

The Annual Spruce Spring Crafts Festival is my favorite event of the year—just don't try saying it five times fast. I love it more than the Halloween Pumpkin Hunt or Christmas at the Strongs'.

And the reason I love this festival more than Nadine Strong's pecan pie is the beaming smile on my sweet grandma's face right now as I walk her down the bustling, colorful streets of downtown Spruce, arm-in-arm.

South Texas this time of year is an up-and-down rollercoaster of short-lived cold fronts and warm sunlight—often at the same time. So the air is just perfect as my grandma and I peruse all the kiosks and see what's in store for us this year. Quincy and his wife are showing off a collection of woven hats festooned with bright ribbons. I chat with them for a bit, asking how their son and his girlfriend are doing. Then there's pink-sweater-wearing Penelope, selling her usual (and colorful) homemade candles. I chat with her for a bit, too, of course. It looks like Lena and Tiff are proudly showing off their handcrafted dolls made totally from recycled materials, including the cute little outfits—an endeavor they used to do with their gal-pal moms, but now have taken over to do on their own. I pick one of the dolls up and make her perform a silly little dance on the table, which causes a shy girl nearby to giggle, come out of her shell, and beg her mom to get her one. Tiff gives me a wink of appreciation, and I wink playfully back.

I can't help it. I just love people.

Though my sweet Nan's face radiates glee the whole time, she is exceptionally choosy about whom to purchase from. "Lovely!" she says to a young woman who sits at a table full of colorful soaps in a variety of eye-catching shapes. "But did you use a cold process or hot process method to make these? Can I trouble you to know what essential oil is used in these ones? Smells like cedarwood …"

Also, my grandma is crazy smart.

"I adore your tiny metal sculptures," she says at another table. "This is polished nickel, right? Not silver? Did you solder all these yourself, young man? Using lead-free solder wire or a lead alloy?"

"I love your work," she exclaims later as she searches through a rack of handmade skirts and dresses. "You've sure got an eye for color, Georgina, but of course you do, dancin' on those ballerina toes of yours in your sparkly outfits, as light on your feet as a feather. Speaking of, are these real feathers? I admire your double herringbone stitch, great technique. Do you ever collaborate with Lance at Goodwin Designs? Who supplies your textiles? Or do you print them yourself? I've got my eye on this chartreuse halter dress over here but can't tell if the cotton's blended with acrylic or rayon. Do you know, honeybun?"

Her questions and knowhow are always peppered with smiles, sweetness, and compliments. No one ever feels interrogated, even if they're left standing with wide eyes and jaw slackened. I learned everything I know from this woman—far more than I learned from my own parents.

"But enough about me! How's your grandson here?" asks Ms. Ducasse. She passed my Nan on the street and stopped for a chat. They go way back. "Look at him! He's so stunningly handsome! Too handsome. Even when he was a student in my class just a few years ago … my, how he's grown, still the lady killer! Have you caught yourself a special gal yet?" she then asks me directly.

I smile politely. "You're so sweet, Ms. Ducasse, but I've just been keeping busy and—"

"He's gayer than a sack of Blow Pops, Irma, have you been livin' under a rock?" cuts in my grandma.

Ms. Ducasse swallows her mouth. "I—I suppose I must've—"

"And sadly, no," Nan goes on, her voice turning into molasses the next breath. "I doubt there's a man or woman fitting enough to date my little prince." She pats me on the cheek like I'm still six-and-a-half, tugging on her dress and begging to taste-test her cookies before dinner. "Do you know that Nadine tried settin' him up with a boy from Fairview? Didn't work out, no it didn't, but my grandson is so noble, he didn't let it break his spirit one bit. Look at those eyes. They call him Mr. Perfection, and I can't think of an eligible bachelor more deserving of such a title in all Texas."

I give an apologetic grimace to my paralyzed former math teacher before nudging my grandma. "I'm sure there's one or two flaws somewhere in me if you look close enough."

"Not a chance," states my grandma proudly.

Ms. Ducasse leans forward and lowers her voice. "Come to think of it, I do know a single young man in town. I don't know if he's gay, but goodness, he sure could use a nice friend. Are you close with the Myers? They just had to put down their family dog last fall, and—"

"It's been lovely catchin' up, Irma, but we're here on a mission and there're only so many hours in the day. Why, have you done somethin' with your hair? I love that look for you!"

Ms. Ducasse beams at once. "It's bangs! I have them now!"

The women give a quick hug, then part ways. My Nan hooks her arm into mine, and under her breath she whispers, "I love you, Cole, but you've gotta set your bar higher than the Myers."

I bite my lip and suppress a few possible responses, settling with: "Thanks, Nan."

Despite what most of the population of Spruce apparently believes, I've never seen myself as an attractive person. I'm always staring into mirrors wondering what the heck others see. Maybe I'm seen as handsome on the outside, but inside, I am nothing but a tangled knot of insecurities and second-guessing. Should I wear a white shirt today or will I be eating something that can stain it? Should I plan my lunch ahead of time so I know? How should I fix my hair? Will the wind sabotage my efforts anyway? But isn't it important to look my best for my job at the gym? Will my bosses Jimmy and Bobby think less of me if I relax my efforts just a little, if even one strand of hair is out of place or my pants aren't ironed?

It's a lot of pressure, to be forced to uphold such a standard—especially one I never wanted in the first place. I can't say whether I've always been like this, or if it's others' expectations of me that made me so neurotic inside. A classic chicken-or-the-egg question. Even my Nan started calling me by that cheeky nickname that somehow got around and stuck to me: Mr. Perfection.

Some days, I wish I could just leave my house with my natural bedhead and twenty cowlicks. Shirt untucked. Mismatched socks. Face greasy and unshaven.

Honestly, that sounds like heaven.

A kid races past us, nearly knocking over my grandma. "Sorry, sorry!" he shouts over his shoulder before disappearing into the crowd ahead. He's pursued by a couple of other kids, who scurry right on by to catch him, playing a game of tag to amuse their bored and restless selves, I have to guess.

"Goodness … kids these days. Where are the parents?" My Nan lets out a breathless laugh. "Cole, my dear, while I do appreciate you taking me out today, I could have come here by myself just as easily, you know. I'm sure you have more important things to do with your day than walk an old lady around town."

"Wouldn't trade my time with you for the world," I assure her as we turn the corner onto Main Street, passing Biggie's Bites, everyone's favorite burger joint. On the curb, a guy named Mick is wearing a sandwich board promoting festival specials. "Nothing's needed on the cousins' farm, and I'm off from work today."

"But you know, Cole, Ms. Ducasse had a point. I just hate what you went through this past Christmas, bein' pushed at a boy who already had his heart set on another. And it has been an age and a half since you've had anyone knockin' on your door."

"Nan, you don't have to worry about me one bit."

"You could be walkin' arm-in-arm with some sweet handsome fellow instead of an old bag like me."

I give her a harsh look. "Please don't call yourself that."

"Fine. An old Louis Vuitton handbag. My point's the same no matter what kind of bag I am. You know, if I had a dying wish, it'd be for you to find your Mr. Perfection and go to this festival with him instead."

I can only imagine the impossibly long list of prerequisites my grandma has for what signifies a suitable enough partner for me. "Maybe someday," I decide to answer vaguely.

"Goodness, that's Dorothy Shannon!" sings my Nan. "I haven't seen her since she came back from visiting family in Louisiana over the winter. Her husband, too. Tell you what, I'll catch up with you later, Cole, just go along and do your own thing. I'll be a while, our conversation will be mighty boring. Hey, Dorothy!" she calls out, bee-lining through the crowd to the other side of the street.

I watch her hurry off, a smile on my face. I love to see her out and about, in her element, her happiness bubbling over. I wish we could have a festival every day, if just to make all her days as light and happy as this one. The weather is simply perfect, too, which is only possible this time of year before the unforgiving summer season takes hold. I thrust my hands into my pockets and smile up at the bright sky, feeling indescribably good.

When I bring my eyes back down from the heavens, they land on a couple standing by a table full of wood carvings—all of them miniature horses, from the looks of it. It's a couple I know from my high school days, Jeff and Kim. The two are picking out a wood carving together, smiles on their faces. Kim chuckles and whispers something to Jeff, which makes him put a big kiss on her cheek, surprising her. He draws a leaf out of her hair, she smiles, and the two gaze adoringly into each other's eyes, tiny horses forgotten.

I watch them a bit too long.

What my Nan mentioned earlier isn't difficult to imagine. Me with a sweet guy by my side, looking over little wooden figurines, bickering playfully over where we can put it in our house or why we need one at all. "Because it's cute," my boyfriend would say with a little laugh. "You'll put it on a shelf or use it as a bookend and won't even remember where you got it," I'll tease him back, because I know him so well. We finish each other's sentences. And sandwiches. I'll get him the horse anyway, and he'll cherish it with all his heart, hugging it to his chest as we continue strolling down the street, our hearts as light as butterflies, our eyes happy.

I don't even know what he looks like. I don't know his name. I just know we're joyfully sharing the world with each other, and there will never be an unhappy day for either of us ever again.

It's easier to imagine than it is to believe.

"Take the shot!" shouts someone right next to me.

I turn to find another bright soul I went to school with, a girl who I remember could always be found around the auditorium or the costume department by the theater storage room. She backs up to the curb, appearing to be communicating to someone across the street with mounting urgency, her hands cupped around her mouth as she repeats: "Take the shot!"

I glance over my shoulder, curious who she's talking to.

The crowd seems to part before my eyes, creating a path to the other curb, where I see a young guy with a camera in front of his face. He seems preoccupied somehow, camera slowly lowering, appearing to be in some kind of a daze. Sunlight shines over the lenses of his glasses. His lips hang slightly, parted.

A trio of kids dart behind him, chasing each other—the same ones who nearly knocked my grandma over.

But it isn't my poor grandma they bump into this time.

It's something behind the camera guy: a tall and mighty stack of oversized picture frames—wooden ones, metal ones, clunky and decorative ones, all of them stacked higher than they ought to be, towering over him like a giant.

And that giant is now tipping over.

The guy doesn't even notice. He just stands there in a strange, silent stupor, camera hovering somewhere in front of his face, his lips slack, unaware of the doom about to descend upon him.

I bolt from my spot and charge at him with all of my strength.

I don't think. I don't calculate whether it's possible to reach him in time. I don't watch my feet. "Move!" I shout. "Behind you!" But he doesn't hear me. I'm not a kid racing a friend; I'm a man racing against the slowly tipping tower of heavy wood that's about to crush this entirely unaware guy—this happy day turning tragic, an innocent festival giving way to an unforgettable nightmare.

One second, I'm in the road.

The next, my body is against his, and the pair of us go flying.

One arm wraps around his body. The other cradles his head.

For all the force I put into pushing him out of harm's way, he doesn't even cry out in alarm. In this moment, the two of us are one—weightless, airborne. The whole town of Spruce around us, once lively and full of music, now swallowed away into silence as we float through the universe. His face hovers in front of mine, two shiny lenses reflecting nothing but sunlight. I see all of this in the split second that seems to stretch on forever, this second that we spend in the air together.

Then all the grace and beauty is lost the moment we crash to the ground—me on top, him below.

Not a second later, behind us, a cacophony of wooden frames, metal clangs, and shattering glass erupts.

He's still in my arms. My hand somehow found the back of his head before we hit the ground, as if protecting him from the less-than-gentle meeting of the pavement we both just experienced.

I stay right where I am, covering him, for fear of any splinters of wood, glass, or metal flying at us from the crash.

My body shields the sunlight from his face at last.

Behind the lenses of his glasses, I see two soft, kind eyes.

Soft, kind, and terrified.

They stare up at me, as if still trying to catch up to what just happened—and to what almost happened.

Wait a minute. Those eyes. The cute glasses. His messy hair. An adorable look of timidity saturating his every expression.

Noah Reed.

At once I'm transported to our days at Spruce High. Each and every time I passed by him in the hallway—and neither of us said a word. Whenever I walked by the science lab and saw him inside wearing his cute white coat. That one year when we had the same homeroom teacher but didn't once share a word to each other due to being on opposite ends of the classroom, all the desks and other people's heads between us. Every long day that clambered by, still having not said a word to him, still not mustering up the courage.

Our story started long before we were estranged classmates. Once upon a time, we lived on the same street, and our parents were friends. We spent afternoons as begrudging playmates in one of our messy yards while the adults stayed inside and drank wine. Despite the fun time our parents assumed we were having, mostly all we did was sit around. I think I tried to initiate a game of catch once or twice, but he wasn't into it. I was bored with him.

That changed when we became teenagers.

And I realized it wasn't girls who held my attention.

That's when I started seeing Noah Reed in a whole new light. I noticed his timid sweetness for the first time. His innocence. His cute face and kind, soft eyes. Even the way he'd sit in the cafeteria and gently open the sack lunch his mother packed him every day. Or how he would stand back quietly and let others go ahead of him in the snack bar line, even if it meant they might be out of what he wanted, even if no one ever thanked him or appreciated it.

But I was watching. I saw the kindness in his heart, even if no one else did. I can't explain why, but I grew protective of Noah. I felt connected to him, even if I was the only one who knew it. Was it because of our parents' friendship and our fleeting childhood moments? Maybe I saw him as a missed opportunity. A potential friend I'd let slip away. What would've happened had we hit it off better as kids? Would we be best friends by now?

Or more?

Someone that pure, he needed to be protected. I just knew the world was going to prove too harsh for him one day.

Of course, I could never have predicted this would be how we would reunite: me, throwing the poor guy to the ground like a wrestling opponent in broad daylight.

For a small town, you'd think we would have run into each other several times since graduating. But he's been a ghost, hiding away, like a mystery. I could have believed he moved to Antarctica were I not staring down into his eyes right now.

"N-Noah …?" I finally manage to say. "Noah Reed?"

He only continues to stare back at me, paralyzed and silent.

Maybe the fall scared him. It was rough. "You okay? Close call. You almost got buried by an avalanche of pretty picture frames."

He still remains silent.

Eyes unblinking.

He looks so adorable right now. His innocence literally blooms from his sweet, tiny eyes. Even his lips look innocent somehow. Slightly parted. Their plush, heart shape.

Is it terrible that my very first instinct right now is just to kiss him? To know what his lips feel like, after all these years?

Is it just my current frame of mind that has me so charged up and yearning for things I have no right to yearn for?

And those lips combined with his wide-opened eyes behind the modest frames of his glasses. It almost hurts to look into them, to realize I'm a potential source of his frightened state right now, to have slammed him to the ground so harshly. Perhaps I could've been more gentle. But it all happened so quickly, there's no telling whether I had even a fraction of a second to spare.

I should probably ignore my inappropriate desire to kiss him for now. "Are you hurt?" I ask. It's a question I silently asked in my head countless times throughout our high school careers. From across cafeterias and crowded classrooms. Are you hurt? Are you okay? Can we please have a second shot at being friends? All of these questions swam laps in my head for so many years.

He must be a hell of a lot more spooked by this than I realized.

He can't even muster up a single word.

Shadows fall over us. I look up to find a crowd having formed around the picture frame debris—and us. Phones are out. Cameras, too. I wouldn't be surprised if half the festival came to a halt to investigate what happened on the curb in front of Biggie's Bites.

I grimace. "Sorry, Noah, but … it seems like we've just earned ourselves the attention of the entire town."

Noah's lips flinch—but no sound comes out.

Perhaps I couldn't hear him. I lean my face in closer. "What was that?"

His eyes grow wider. Terrified. Am I terrifying him? Is all of this too much? Is the sweet guy even breathing?

"D-Did I hurt you? Are you injured? I'm sorry for pushing you the way I did, but I—" I'm getting concerned. I'm rambling. All the words spill out at once. Am I still thinking about kissing him? "I just saw that enormous pile of picture frames tipping over, and I needed to get you out of harm's way, and no one was watching those dang kids, and everything happened so fast, so I just—Wait. Can you even move at all? Did I paralyze you? Did I break you in half? Oh, no … I swear, I don't know my own strength …"

His lips flinch once more. Again, no sound.

Why do his lips insist on looking so damned kissable?

"You gotta speak up," I beg him. "Tell me if I hurt you. Did I hurt you, Noah?"

His lips stretch wide. Then they go crooked.

Then, in the tiniest of squeaks, he speaks.

And I still don't understand what he says.

We've been on the ground for a while now. "Don't worry," I quickly decide. "I'm gonna get to my feet and help you up, okay? The clinic is just down the road, and I doubt lying on the sidewalk is comfortable for you."

I gently release my arm out from under Noah's head, find my footing, and take hold of his hand. We rise from the pavement with surprising ease.

Our hands still clasped, I gaze down at his camera. I am rather horrified to find part of it smashed up. "Noah, your camera!"

His eyes, however, are elsewhere: "Cole, your arm."

I blink, stunned by his first words, then peer down at my arm.

At first, I'm honestly not sure what I'm looking at. It's like I just acquired a wide, jagged tattoo all in red and black across my forearm. I don't know what this tattoo even is. An animal? Tribal mark? Dramatic interpretation of Sagittarius in the starry night sky? All I know is it's the same arm I swung around the back of Noah's head to protect it from hitting the cement.

My mind doesn't compute that this is actually my forearm.

This red nightmare I'm staring at.

Here's a little-known fact about me: I'm virtually fearless. Not squeamish about spiders, cockroaches, snakes … you name it. I can stand on a mountaintop with outstretched arms. I can hop in front of a crowd, dance terribly, and sing at the top of my lungs. I'll head into a haunted house without reservation, explore a dark cave, go swimming in the ocean, or even try skydiving. I have no fears.

No fears—except one.

"I, uh … oh …" I blink as I stare at my forearm. It's not blood. How can it be blood? We totally didn't hit the ground that hard, right? "That looks, uh … very red."

Noah gazes at my face. "You look very pale."

I peel my eyes away. I see two of him standing in front of me. Two Noahs. "I look very … what …?" I ask, confused.

Noah's face reflects worry—both his faces. "Are you … Are you afraid of blood, Cole?"

Just the word sends an unconscious part of me into a panic, some part I can't control. Even still, I ignore it with all of my might as best as I can. "No way. What'd make you think that? I'm dandy! Aren't you dandy? I am quite relieved the fall didn't pancake you."

"You look clammy," says Noah quietly. "Are you okay?"

"I'm great, there's nothing to worry about, wow, this stings," I say all in the same breath—then make the mistake of gazing down at my arm again. It's a whole lot of red. Like, a lot-a lot.

"Your wound looks quite severe," notes Noah, and suddenly he becomes Dr. Chatterbox. "I think you need to get it bandaged up so it doesn't develop cellulitis. If left untreated, bacteria can easily spread to your bloodstream or other parts of your body … or even worse, it could become necrotizing fasciitis."

I stare at Noah, unsure whether to be impressed or terrified. Is it a weird time to point out that the bigger the words he uses, the more adorable I find him? "N-Necromancer what?"

"Commonly known as the flesh-eating disease. Sorry. I … read too much. I'm not a licensed professional. Just a weirdo with too much free time on his hands. You look even paler now. I … think I may not be helping your situation. You really are afraid of blood."

I keep my eyes glued to Noah. "I'm afraid of nothing." My voice went really high. I'm trying hard not to glance at my arm again. Crap, I just did. "Oh. God. I might pass out."

Suddenly there are other people next to us. "I'm so sorry!" It's a lady whose name completely escapes me at the moment. "This is all my fault! My stupid husband, I told him not to stack them so high, but then he—"

"What're you talkin' about?" comes a man's voice. "It wasn't our fault, don't go takin' liability all loosey-goosey like that! It was Kirk and Bonnie's kid, Kirkland Junior! He's been runnin' around the whole festival with his friends like it's their playground! I saw that little rascal ram into our table!"

"But if we hadn't stacked the frames so high …"

"Honey, it was that dang kid!"

I don't know what comes over me. I take hold of Noah by his arm and pull him close, too close, our faces nearly together, and I stare right into his eyes. "Do you mind if I just do this?" I ask him. "If I only look at you, I won't be tempted to look at my arm."

His eyes grow double. Somehow, they still look little and cute, even when stretched wide open.

"It's a long story," I ramble nervously on. "My blood thing. Embarrassing. Has to do with an … ‘accident' that happened when I was little. Or at least I think that's where it comes from. I'm not sure. Is it really as bad as you said? Am I gonna get a flesh-eating disease? Never mind, don't answer that. Just stay here with me."

He seems to oblige me by not saying anything at all. He does not indicate whether he minds me clinging to him with our eyes in such an uncomfortably close proximity. I don't know if my idea is working, but I just realized I can't hear any of the bickering and chatter of the excitable crowd around us. I don't even know if the husband and wife are still arguing over who's at fault. All I see is Noah in front of me. All I know is the drumming of my heart.

And how that drumming is gently slowing down.

A sense of calmness enters me. Is it through Noah's soft eyes that I feel this peace? Or the touch of my hand on his soft arm as I hold him close? What can I thank for this much-needed serenity?

My idea is working. It's totally, completely working.

Also, I really, really want to kiss him right now.

I smile into Noah's eyes, my heart fluttering happily. "Thank you," I say sincerely—before all the blood drains from my face, my eyes rock back, and I slump against Noah's stiff body, sliding like a sack of Blow Pops to the ground.