Hard Facts by Penny Clarke

7

Summer

Part of my duties as philanthropy chair are to maintain community outreach. And yes, it is as boring as it sounds. It involves a lot of bothersome tasks my sisters would rather leave to me, which I readily accept, because let’s face it—I’m the only person I trust to get the job done. Which means my classless Friday afternoon is jam-packed coordinating with local businesses for upcoming events. Soliciting popular bars and food joints for donations. Chasing down vendor endowments. Haggling with unruly collaborators.

That all takes me two hours to complete. Tops.

Which means the rest of my afternoon is spent doing the parts of my philanthropy job that I like.

Visiting the local elementary school to check that the wheelchair ramp ABB helped fund was installed correctly. Brainstorm ideas with the teachers for the next school supply drive. Stop into the special education classroom, just to say hi. Then it’s onto the rescue kennel to drop off treats and toys and a bone-shaped kiddie pool from ABB’s Dog Days of Summer charity auction. And really, I very well can’t leave without tossing the rescues a bone. Or a cuddle. Or lots and lots of pets. After that, it’s a slew of more errands. Dropping off canned goods at the food bank. Feminine hygiene products at the nonprofit that works with a women’s shelter in the city. A simple cash check to the recreation center to pay for park upkeep. I round it all out with a pop into the retirement center, where I can kick off my heels and listen to Jack and Eddie, my favorite old timers, tease each other about misplacing their dentures.

It’s as I’m getting ready to leave for the ABB house, it hits me.

This—days like today, when I’m exhausted and I’ve run all over town and I feel more whole than I ever have at some sorority date dash—is what I stand to lose. If this deal with Grayson falls through.

It only makes me more determined not to lose it all.

So I drive back to ABB. Almost as soon as I get there and find Liz at the grand piano in the living room, I get a text from Grayson. That he’s here. Outside. Five minutes early from the time he’d texted this morning to say he’d pick me up.

I fight back a wide smile that’s impressed with his promptness.

Then, grabbing Liz’s key, I run to her room and change.

After an upbringing of Nolan’s many investor dinners and celebrity galas and charity auctions, one masters how to put together a striking look. And with an uncompromising philanthropy schedule and robust sorority social calendar, you quickly learn to prepare and accommodate for last-minute outfit changes.

So off goes the dress I’d been wearing for my errands, covered in a generous layer of dog hair. Goodbye, comfy t-shirt bra. Hello, strapless push-up. And once I slip on the thin, floaty floral dress and strappy pink pumps, it’s onto a quick face refresher. A brush of smoky eyeshadow, a smudge of eyeliner. Blends of bronzer and shimmery blush. Swipe of lipstick. Dab of gloss. Then, fluff my curls to life. Add a spritz of rose perfume.

All of that, in five minutes top. Two of which were spent searching the deepest regions of my purse for the underwear that goes with this dress—the ones I swear I packed before leaving my apartment this morning. Not finding them, I shrug and tuck the pair I had on into my bag with the rest of my volunteer clothes, deciding to just go without.

By then, even though I’m out of time, I use up one last minute. Stare at myself in Liz’s mirror, trying to force that beat in my chest to kick it down a notch.

“It’s not a date.” Grayson was pretty clear when he called me the other day. “It’s two people, meeting at a set time and predetermined location, for the sole purpose of reaching a mutually beneficial partnership.”

“Well, when you put it like that, Rowe,” I’d hummed over the phone. “Sure sounds like a date.”

“We’re just getting our stories straight—”

“Uh-huh. How about you predetermine the location. Surprise me.”

I hung up after that, as retribution for him making me wait by the phone for two. whole. freaking. days.

I remind myself that I ghost guys for less than that. That boys hang in anticipation for me, not the other way around.

Tonight, I will be at the top of my game. Grayson Rowe’s nothing but a nerd. He’s no different than any of the other egocentric smart guys I’ve handled in the past. I’ll get my mutually beneficial partnership from him, and I won’t be deterred by hard muscles or random facts about bees or my own burning desire to discover new information about him.

Firm on that, I return Liz’s room key and leave the house.

Only to find my resolve rapidly depleted when I spot Grayson on the curb out front, leaning on his car. The question flies out before I can tell myself not to ask it.

“When’s your birthday?”

His head snaps up from an article he’d been reading his phone. I catch a few buzz words—compositions and oxidizers and potassium nitrate—before the screen goes black. When I glance back up, that wrinkle’s formed between his eyebrows. “November. Why?”

I pluck the front of his shirt. Grayson glances down at the triangle on the faded blue fabric. With an odd-looking zero in one corner, a line running through its middle, and a simple sentence that asks, What’s your sine?

Eyebrow furrow deepening, he peers over the rims of his glasses at me. “You don’t seriously believe in that junk, do you?”

I roll my eyes. “That is such a Scorpio thing to say.”

My genius is wasted on his straight-faced reception. He shakes his head, and after shoving his phone in his pocket, he jerks his head behind him. I step forward—

“What is that?”

Grayson steps off the curb in front of a metal monstrosity. Keys in hand, he looks back at me. “A car.”

“Are you sure?” I rake my eyes over it. Trying to find that all the pieces are where they should be, holding everything in place. Because it looks like any moment, the wheels will collapse and metal bits and bobs will fly in all directions. “You have provable evidence to back that up?”

With a teasing quirk of his lips, he checks the rusting frame. “Four wheels. Engine. Steering and suspension. Looks like a car to me.”

“It’s missing a mirror. Does it even have seat belts?”

He mumbles something vaguely along the lines of, “In theory.”

I eye the metallic beast with uncertainty, longing for my electric car parked around back, with its certified structural safety features and airbags from this century.

When I make no move off the sidewalk, Grayson impatiently gestures to it.

“Give me a moment. I’m trying to remember when my last tetanus shot was.”

“It’s not as bad as it looks, I promise.” And then he rolls his eyes at me, the smart ass.

The corner of his mouth lifts. Opening the driver side door, he waves me to it. I move to the passenger side, and Grayson clears his throat, gesturing once again at his door. “That one’s, uh… inoperative.”

Sliding into the front seat, I see what he means about those theoretical seat belts. When I pull one, it doesn’t budge more than half an inch. “Sure, Rowe. Totally not as bad as it looks. Just much, much worse.”

Grayson turns the keys in the ignition, and I half-expect nothing to happen. But the engine roars to life, loud and chugging.

As he pulls away from the curb, he says, “Summer?”

“What?” And I almost expect he might tell me he told me so.

“It’s late November, by the way.” He keeps his eyes on a passing car before steering us onto the road. “I’m a Sagittarius.”

“Smart ass.” And to throw that hint of a smug grin from growing any wider, I ask, “Now where are you taking me?”

* * *

He keeps the answer to that question under lock and key, but from what I can only hope is a deep, abiding concentration on the road as he drives us further and further away from campus. Until the brick academic buildings and residence halls give way to golden fields of corn. I don’t say anything, either, fearing that any interruption to his focus may lead us into a fiery, corn-y inferno off the country bumpkin path we’re heading down.

Soon, though, the mystery solves itself. Grayson slows to a crawl behind a line of cars, and I crane my neck to read the giant sign up ahead. “A drive-in theater?”

“Yeah.” Grayson says. “I figured we’d have some privacy.”

At the mention of privacy, I don’t automatically think dirt field in the middle of nowhere. But I suppose it’s better than what did come to mind, which was, simply, bedroom.

Grayson fumbles to get his wallet out of his pocket at the ticket booth. I’m already pulling mine out of my purse. When I hold out my credit card to him, he stares at my hand.

And completely ignores it, opting to buy our ticket himself.

As he continues on the lot, I pick up his wallet from where he discards it on the seat between us.

“Here good?” He throws the car into neutral.

I survey the secluded spot he’s chosen, way at the back. Rows of cars in front of us all face toward a giant screen, starkly lit against a dimming sky. Off to the side is a small concessions stand, a line of people already out the door. No doubt prompted to do so by the retro commercial playing over the screen on a loop, encouraging viewers to visit the lobby for refreshing snacks.

I’ve been to star-studded, red-carpet blockbuster screenings. A few special focus group screenings for popular franchise movies. Week-long film festivals with snoozefest indie projects that critics raved as so deep.

But despite all the privileges that come from growing up born to wealth, I have never, ever, watched a cheap movie projected on an outdoor screen. From inside a car. In the middle of a field.

With a guy whose entire face comes to life when he rambles about numbers.

I smooth down the hem of my skirt to detract from the giddy racing in my chest.

So I tell Grayson it’s a good spot, even though I have no idea what constitutes such a thing by drive-in movie standards. I point out the path to the concessions stand. “But, if you think for one minute I’m getting these heels caked with mud for some popcorn, then you’re not getting a second non-date, Grayson James.”

I raise one leg on the scuffed dashboard, twisting my ankle to show off my footwear.

He ignores that, too. “How—”

I hold up his wallet. Tap on his license. “Had to make sure you weren’t lying about your sine.”

With an unamused look, he snags it out of my hand. “Can we just focus on why we’re here?”

“Right,” I cross one leg over the other. Fold my hands in my lap. Lift my chin in the air. “Let us commence negotiations on the terms of our fictitious relationship. Individual parties shall be henceforth defined as Prescott, the promisor, and Smart Ass, the promisee.”

One eyebrow raises behind his glasses, but all he says is, “Should we write this down?”

“And leave a paper trail? Rowe, don’t you know anything about business?”

“Do you?”

I stick my tongue out at him. And there goes the other eyebrow to join its twin.

“Now, shall we start by breaking down the facts? Or would the Smart Ass party like to interrupt again?”

With a half-smile, he motions for me to proceed.

“Okay,” I move on. “The facts: I need a tutor. You need money. I require confidentiality of said tutoring. And you, being an intelligent, ambitious, yet judiciously modest guy, have your heart set on an internship at Nolan Prescott’s company. Can both parties agree on those specifications?”

One nod.

“Great. So,” I take a deep breath. “Do you, Grayson Rowe, agree to tutor me, and in the process, hide that fact by pretending to be my boyfriend, on the sole condition that I, Summer Prescott, will not only deliver the funds for aforementioned tutoring, but also get your résumé to the top of the pile for Prescott Biotech Industries’ spring internship program?”

When I finish, I release another breath. I settle my hands on a propped knee and give him a moment to process. On the movie screen, an advertisement promises to satisfy my thirst. Yeah, right. I’ve heard that one before.

“Before I answer,” Grayson finally speaks. “Can we talk about what that would entail?”

“You want to get into the nitty gritty?” I turn to face him, just now realizing I’d been jiggling my heel.

He adjusts his glasses. “Yeah. What does a fake boyfriend do? What am I supposed to do?” Then, he makes another firm nod, revved by the question. “Because it’s my senior year. I can’t afford to spend every waking second to this. With classes and work, not to mention working on a thesis project and now getting my application ready for the internship, I’m already short on time to spare—”

“And I’m not? Do I need to whip out my philanthropy schedule? Or my sorority calendar?” I say irritably. “Trust me, this doesn’t have to be that involved. If we run into any of my sisters, or your friends, just make it look believable that we’re dating. Act all couple-y and shit.”

“‘Couple-y and shit’.” He still doesn’t look convinced. “You learn that in business class?”

“Look, Rowe,” I gesture back and forth between us. “In three years at the same school, the two of us have never interacted before a week ago. You know math. What are the odds that outside of our lessons, we’ll bump into each other? Our social circles are on wildly opposite spectrums. Or do you make it a plan to attend more Greek events after this? Because you sure as hell won’t see me at some robot dueling competition or doing that thing where you look for tupperware in the woods—”

“Geocaching. It’s called geocaching.”

“You would know what it’s called. What’d you find out there, a Rubik’s cube?”

“I know what’s it called, I never said I did it—”

“—but you’ve thought of it. We both know you totally thought about it—”

“—not to say I haven’t thought about it—”

“—now you have us completely off topic—”

“—navigational skills aside, you are literally treasure hunting—”

“Grayson James!” I clap. When that gets his attention, I throw my hands up in exasperation. “Yes or no. Will you fake being my boyfriend?”

After a hesitation, “Yes.”

I smack my hand on the dashboard like a gavel. “Then let it be known both parties are amenable to this agreement. Anything else you wanna add? Limitations? Caveats? Quid pro quos?”

“We did the quid pro quo part already.”

“Notice how I did not mention smart ass comments.” He snorts, and I wave us on. “If that’s all—”

“Wait, back up. Limitations.”

My leg grows numb, so I plant it on the floor and massage out the pins and needles in my foot. I glance over at him. “You have some?”

“Just one.” Grayson slips off his glasses. Wipes them clean on his shirt. “Kissing.”

I dig my nails into the faded, scratched leather. Tell myself to keep from dropping my eyes to his mouth.

He pushes his glasses back on his face and tightens one hand on the steering wheel.

“I know the other day you did it because you saw your archnemesis sorority sister and… acted fast.” Sure, let’s call it that. Definitely wasn’t sheer panic. “But if you’re so sure we won’t spend much time together outside of tutoring—and if we act couple-y enough—then I see no reason to prove the status of our relationship through public displays of affection.” I can see the logic in that. “This is supposed to be fake, right? But our bodies don’t know that. Kissing releases bonding chemicals that would only encourage the exact opposite—”

“Aw, Rowe,” I coo, spinning a curl around my finger. “Is this where I warn you not to fall in love with me?”

“That,” he is adamant. “Is highly unlikely.”

“How do you know—”

“I know.”

I’m not a fan of the glance he sends me. That detached, categorical once-over. Like one look is all he needs to firmly place me in the species of Not My Type, right under the classification of Never Gonna Happen.

That’ll be a hard swipe left on Summer Prescott.

Irritation darts into my chest. As he waxes on more about chemicals and kissing and not kissing, I tune him out. Wonder what kind of girl he would have taken out. On a real date.

Some girl with brown hair, probably. Which she always keeps in a neat, manageable French braid. Who also rocks tortoiseshell glasses and cutesy dinosaur-print shirts. The kind of girl who sits at the front of the lecture hall, with perfect grades in every class. Someone completely unnoticeable, until a guy like Grayson Rowe takes notice.

He would’ve picked up a girl like that tonight. In his rattling death mobile, which she wouldn’t have been a snob about. He would’ve actually admired her quirky outfit and told her she looked great, before driving her out to this very same drive-in. Where they’d spend the night tossing facts back and forth, entirely forgetting to watch the movie. After which, he’d drive back to her place. They’d stand on some cozy, dimly lit porch, leaning closer and closer until space ceased to exist. And he’d press her against her front door in one gentle, dizzyingly soft kiss. Then he’d pull away, and she’d ask, breathless, if he’d want to come inside.

And they’d fucking hump all fucking night long, I bet.

Generally, I am not prone to fits of jealousy. Honestly, I can’t recall a time when it ever reared its possessive green head. I am the queen of casual. A one-night stand majesty. Wearing a crown of no-commitments.

But I want to punch that imaginary girl in the tit.

“No kissing,” I slice a firm hand through the air so Grayson can stop talking about how much he doesn’t want to kiss me. “Say no more. Got it. Get it. We’re good.”

My clipped tone makes him frown. “Did I upset—”

“Nope.” I exaggerate an eye roll when he gives me a dubious look. “Please, Rowe. I don’t want to kiss you any more than you want to kiss me.”

That grip on the steering wheel grows tighter. He lets go, flexing his fingers before dropping his hand to his knee. Staring at the jumbo screen, now showing a preview for the fifth sequel in a series of action movies, he grits, “Fine.”

“Fine.” I petulantly respond. “Are we done?”

He asks, “When will it end?”

“Oh. Right.” I shift in the seat, adjusting my skirt again. As it’s said about all good things. They must come to an end. At some point.

I mean, it’s not like we need to fake-date all the way to graduation.

“I was thinking… you need to make sure your grades stay up, right? So why not finals? Just to see it through. All the way, you know.”

Works for me. And I tell him so.

“Now, let’s run down the terms just to be clear: Make it believable. No kissing. And, above all else, do not tell anyone.” I raise an eyebrow, and he nods. “Good, we’re in agreement. Now, in the event of breach of contract, the injured party will be entitled to damages—”

“What damages?”

“Just, you know, damages. Look, I’m going off of philanthropy vendor contracts. There’s always some clause about damages. Now, Grayson Rowe, do we have a deal?”

He stares down those glasses at my hand. Just as he had the other day, when I asked him the same question. Only this time, he readily shakes on it.

It’s done. Grayson Rowe and Summer Prescott are officially fake dating.

“All right,” Grayson twists in his seat, glancing around the drive-in. “Where’s the nearest notary?”

With an indulgent smile, I open my mouth to respond, but the opening credits of the movie catch my eye. That all went quicker than I thought it would.

Relieved that, for now, my philanthropy chair is safe, I settle back. Night’s fallen over the field, and the bushes near the concessions stand gently roll in a light breeze. Okay, so, it might not be a real date, but that doesn’t mean I can’t still have fun. Still make the most of a new, unexpected experience.

I turn to say something to Grayson, just as he pulls out a bag from the back seat.

His backpack.

I squint at it in the dark, then am blinded when he flicks on the car’s overhead light.

“Stats or chem?” he asks, retrieving two items from the bag.

Library textbooks. Specifically, the textbooks for my courses.

My mouth parts in confusion, staring from the movie screen to Grayson to the textbooks. I reach over and switch the car light off. “Uh, how about monster sharks?”

“Sharks,” Grayson states, choosing my old foe—statistics, we meet again, you arithmetical bastard—and flipping to the chapter we left off on at the beginning of the week. “Do not have to worry about passing their classes.”

He turns the light back on.

I turn it off.

“But look at that!” I lamely point at a montage of sloshing blood and guts and salt water.

“The odds of anyone getting attacked by a shark, unprovoked, are one in over two-hundred-fifty million.” He turns on the light and claps a hand over the button to keep me from extinguishing it again. “A probability you would understand, if you studied statistics. Now, you’re already behind. We need to catch you up.”

Taking the book from Grayson, I pout, “I can’t wait until we’re old and fake married and have fake grandbabies, so I can tell them all about how you made me do homework on our first fake date.”

“Why not write it in our fake wedding vows?”

“Grayson James, are you fake proposing?”

“I’m proposing we focus on math.”

“Fine. But I want a fake pre-nup.”

Grayson rolls his eyes and launches into an explanation on probabilities. At first, my focus keeps drifting to the movie, but soon, I’m attuned to Grayson. To the way he loses himself in speaking, so surely and confidently, about things he knows.

Somewhere between sampling and variables, the overhead light dims.

Grayson glances up at it, then decides it’s not worth the interruption to his lesson. After a moment, I scoot closer. He shifts the text for me to see, but still, the tiny font’s hard to read in this lighting.

I scoot even closer, and when Grayson shifts the book again, he elbows my side.

“Sorry,” he says when I yelp. Dropping the book but missing my lap, he shuffles to turn his body towards mine as I fetch the fallen text from the floor. One arm drapes along the back of the seat. I bump it when I sit back up. When my shoulders stiffen, he asks, “Is this okay?”

I nod, not trusting myself to speak, but settling back all the same as Grayson continues speaking.

Anyone else, I’d believe it was a maneuver to wrap his arm around me. To pull me closer. Maybe start making out.

But it’s Grayson. Meaning it’s not and he wasn’t and we won’t.

Which makes it worse when, his body shifts against mine the more he talks. Forearm brushing my spine. Thighs pressing. His face, inches from mine, staring so unaware at the textbook. His finger trails over one of its sentences, making me wish the damn thing wasn’t open on my lap. Because I’m suddenly conscious of the fact that I’m not wearing any panties, and if it wasn’t there, there’d be nothing between his hand and my—

The overhead light blinks out.

We glance up, pitched into total, sudden darkness.

Grayson swears under his breath, flicking the switch on and off, on and off. The light stays dark.

Redundantly, he remarks, “It’s burnt out.”

I hum a response, even though I’m sure he’s not paying attention. Otherwise, he’d realize that when he reaches over me like that, his chest crosses right into my personal space. I take in a sharp breath, the side of my breast giving softly against the fabric of his t-shirt and that hard, hard chest.

Almost too soon, he leans back again. I stay where I am, nestled at his side. Sure that if I make one move, take one single action—it will be to drag his body down on mine.

Right after we specifically agreed there would be no kissing.

Pulse points thrum on my wrists. My hands tremble with restraint. I cover it up by slamming the textbook shut.

Grayson jumps, only to catch me tossing his textbook in the back seat.

“Can’t study now,” I say with not an ounce of actual disappointment. “Now, about that popcorn—Um, what are you doing?”

I push his arm away from the keys in the ignition.

Looking down, he takes in my hand on his arm. Realizes just how close we’re sitting. How dark the car is. How this far back in the lot, there’s no other car around. No one to look in and see if he bent his head towards mine. Slid his hand up my dress. Laid me down on the seat.

Any other guy would take this moment. Take it and charge head-first into the opportunity to fool around with a pretty girl.

Grayson pulls away. Distances himself by squishing his body against his door. “We could go to the library.”

But even he sounds reluctant at the idea. Probably more because he spent money on a ticket, and not for the reason I think of, which is that no self-respecting college student goes to the library on a Friday night, after the first week of classes.

“Just a suggestion,” I offer a hand towards the big screen. “But what about deadly sharks?”

Light from the movie reflects off his glasses. He braces both hands at the top of the steering wheel. Lazily, he traces its ridges, until he drops them to his lap and nods.

“Great,” I chirp. “Now, does this thing have sound or—”

Grayson’s arm brushes my breast as we both reach for the radio at the same time. I gasp. He swears, muttering an apology under his breath as his hands fly back to the wheel.

After a moment, I twitchily dial to the station the film’s playing on, and we sit back to watch. Five minutes awkwardly pass where there is nothing but the sounds of on-screen beach-goers, happily unaware of the blatantly obvious shark fin lurking in the waters beyond the sand.

Until Grayson finally says aloud, “This movie… kind of sucks.”

“Oh, god, I was really hoping you’d say something,” I raise my hands in gratitude. “It’s so bad, isn’t it?”

He nods, grinning.

We fall into silence again, eyes forward.

After another five minutes of melodramatic over-acting and amateur directing…

“Except I’m oddly invested—”

“Right?”

“But it’s so ridiculous—”

“It’s so bad, it’s good—”

“Did you know,” he chuckles. “The shark in Jaws doesn’t even fully appear on-screen until almost an hour and a half into the movie?”

“Huh.”

“Hold on. Wait, what—” We pause to watch a massive shark skeleton wash up on shore. When it’s over, Grayson throws his head back, hands in his hair with disbelief. “Are you kidding me—Did anyone fact check this script? Sharks don’t even have bones.”

“They don’t?”

He shakes his head. “It’s all cartilage.”

“Then why do we have shark fossils?”

“Calcium deposits,” and he quickly explains minerals and fossilization and how it’s all related to sharks.

“Huh,” I repeat, because I don’t want him to know it’s actually a little cool that he can apply that knowledge to laughably horrible movies.

After we laugh over a lifeguard getting mauled by an obvious prop shark, I ask, “So, what’s with the facts?”

“You mean about sharks—”

“No, your facts. How do you know so many? Why do you know so many?”

That smug grin makes an appearance. I roll my eyes at it, even as it makes my own smile tug up in response. Cocky, I think again.

“Want to know a secret?” he asks.

Boy, do you have my number. I frantically nod, leaning in.

“I’m not a genius.” He laughs when I complain that’s not a secret, at all. “But it’s what most people assume, and I don’t correct their assumptions. Because it’s easier than explaining the whole story.”

“Which is?”

He pauses to take a breath, adjusting his feet until he faces me. I turn my body at the same time, slipping my heels off and dropping them to the floor. Folding my legs under my butt, I prop one arm on the back of the seat.

“Truth is, I work my ass off for my grades,” he says. “I struggled a lot when I was a kid. I switched schools so often that there were always gaps somewhere, and I could never catch up.”

“Because of foster care,” I provide context. “Can I ask…”

“Dad in and out of jail. Mom ran off. No other family. Twenty-one homes, from ages seven to eighteen.”

He states it, so plain and simple. Gives no more. No less.

How many times, I wonder, has he had to answer that question?

Enough, evidently, to boil it down to just the facts.

And though it’s not the same—not the same at all—I feel an odd sort of kinship with Grayson Rowe. Because how many times have I been asked questions that I get tired of answering? You’re related to Nolan Prescott? Can you get me his autograph? Can I meet him? Will you pass along my résumé?

So I ask no more, no less, and I listen.

“In most homes, foster parents set house rules. Simple things that all kids need to follow. Like using indoor voices or no hitting. One had mandatory church attendance.” A grimace tells me how much he didn’t care for that. “When I was nine, the family I stayed with had six children, including me. And every day after school, all six of us had to sit at this tiny table in the kitchen.” He draws a circle in the air. “We weren’t allowed to leave unless we finished our homework, and once we did, we could play until dinner. I never left that table before dinner.”

“One day, one of the older kids stuck around longer. He was working on this project for his science class. This paper-mache volcano, and he needed to test it.” He crafts the shape of a volcano with his hands for me, smiling in memory. “And I was getting pissed. Because he was taking up all the space on this tiny table, and usually, I have it all to myself by this point. But then—”

“Lava.” He mimes an explosion of his invisible volcano. Beaming ear to ear, and I feel my own lips curve in response to his transparent delight. “All over the table, my homework. Everywhere. And I didn’t even give a shit that we’d have to clean it up because I just wanted to know how thefuck did he do that? So he showed me.”

“Some baking soda, a splash of vinegar. An acid meets a base. Hydrogen ions react with sodium and bicarbonate,” he explains, hands in motion. “Until they fizzle and rise and rapidly, erupt. Creating water and carbon dioxide, carbonic acid and sodium acetate. Stimulating a chemical reaction. You break existing bonds. Form new ones. Produce something new. It was—It still is—just so fascinating.”

That’s a word for it, and I can’t help but think of the way Grayson’s entire face lights up as he describes a simple child’s chemistry experiment.

“For the first time, a subject just… clicked. Taking one substance. Changing its chemical and physical properties, making it entirely different than before. It made sense to me.”

Order in a world of chaos.Hadn’t that been what he said to me, in his rant about numbers? And something clicks into place for me. More understanding, more insight, into him. Twenty-one homes. Each with their own set of rules. Changing kids, changing parents. Breaking bonds and making new ones. All before he turned eighteen.

I can see why he would so instantly connect with logic and reason. How he would use it to bring sense into a world that never made sense in the first place.

“So how did all of that become your facts?” I ask, resting my chin on my hand to show I’m still listening. Still utterly transfixed.

That grin turns positively wicked. “I stole his textbook.”

“Grayson James,” I gasp, hand to my chest. “You rascal!”

“Kid was a dick, anyway. That was the only time we ever got along.” Something in his nonchalant shrug tells me that maybe that no hitting rule wasn’t strictly enforced. “He would finish his homework, and I’d take it out of his bag. Ignore all my other homework to read it. I’d only be able to do it for a short time. So I started memorizing what I read. Repeating everything I learned aloud to help me remember. After a while, it just became a habit, and I found that I—”

He glances up, briefly, as though to check that I haven’t fallen asleep or that I’m not dying of boredom.

And maybe it’s my imagination, or the light from the movie, but he looks a little surprised that I’m neither.

“I know people think they’re annoying or weird or nerdy,” he says quietly. Then, with conviction, “But fuck it. I like discovering knowledge for the sake of simply knowing it, and I won’t hide that.”

Silence falls softly between us. When the car fills once more with atrociously stilted dialogue, Grayson shakes his head at the movie. “What’s the name of this thing again?”

I pull out my phone, since I don’t see anything in our immediate vicinity that indicates it.

“Night of the Killer Shark,” I read. “Three.”

“Shit, there are three of these?”

“No,” I scroll through the information page. “There’s more.”

And I pass my phone so he can see proof. As he scoffs over the second title (Return of the Night of the Killer Shark), and hands back my phone, I say, “Grayson?”

My fingers brush his, and after all the facts I’d just learned about him—not least of all, how captivating he is when he’s thoroughly absorbed in an explanation—my skin jolts with warmth, and I blurt, “I like them. Your facts.”

For a moment, his stare is blank. Then, his whole face blooms in a smile. “Yeah?”

I nod, turning forward in my seat, clutching my phone tightly to my lap.

That smile. It’s—Wow—It’s very…

I’m transported only minutes ago, with him talking about vinegar and baking soda and chemical reactions.

Stimulating.

And it’s causing a not entirely unwelcome reaction in me.

I flatten my hands over my dress, subtly lifting and dropping the hem. Remembering, too late, I’m not wearing anything under there. That kindling heat between my legs gets a healthy dose of oxygen. Fanning the flames. Adding fuel to the fire.

“So, you and your dad—”

“Popcorn!” I slap both palms on the seat when someone passes in front of the car with a heaping bucket of fluffy kernels. I dig in my purse. Pluck out my credit card and hand it over.

Grayson’s smile fades fast when he sees the small bit of plastic. “I can get it.”

“And I would let you, if this was a real date.” I roll my eyes at his manly pride. “You already bought the ticket. Just take it, Rowe. Biggest bucket they’ve got.”

He nudges my hand away, but I thrust the card back into his hand. Kneel over him to open his door, ignoring any parts of me that come into contact with any parts of him. When he realizes I’m this close to pushing him, he gets out himself and slams the door shut. Only to instantly turn around, pull on the handle, and glare when he realizes I locked it.

I roll down the window two inches. (As in, physically roll it down. This monstrosity doesn’t even have power windows. Where’d he get it from, the stone age?)

“Theoretically, if this were a real date,” he huffs. “I’d buy the damn popcorn.”

“And, theoretically, I’d already be putting out in the back seat. Have you seen how much space is back there?” I sweetly say. “Extra butter, please.”

With a laugh at his saucer-wide eyes, I roll the window shut and watch as he heads towards the concession stand. Weaving around other cars. Hands running through his hair.

And after he’s gone, I force myself to get a grip. His bringing up Nolan should be reminder enough alone not to succumb to Grayson Rowe’s honest smiles.

Despite myself, I’m having a good time.

Talking about Nolan will only make it come crashing down.

I need diversions.

Patting the dark car for my phone, I find it wedged between the leather cushions. So when Grayson returns, with popcorn and soda and an assortment of candy because he didn’t know what I’d like, I hold it up and tell him, “You won’t believe this. In Night of the Killer Shark in Space, the shark is a robot.”

“Let me see.” I give him my phone, and he hands me the largest bucket of popcorn I’ve ever seen. I place it resolutely on the seat between us, and after we spend a good chunk of time discussing bad movies, I ask him to tell me every single fact about sharks—killer or robotic or otherwise—that he knows.