Love, After Dark

Chapter 37

SIRI

Saturday mornings weren’t meant to smell like paint and glue. At first, everyone complained. Loudly. Mrs. Parks had handed out assignments like party favors- sorting fabric, building props, painting backdrops, organizing costumes- and for a solid twenty minutes the auditorium had echoed with dramatic sighs and exaggerated suffering. But eventually, the whining died down. Now the space buzzed with focus and scattered laughter.

Nala and I had been stationed at a long folding table near the edge of the stage, surrounded by strips of newspaper, bowls of paste, and what felt like a never-ending pile of half-formed leaves. Paper mâché leaves. Assemble. Set aside to dry. Place in the bin once fully dried. Repeat. “At this point,” Nala muttered, shaping another leaf, “I feel like I’m personally responsible for deforestation.” I snorted. “We’re rebuilding it. One soggy leaf at a time.” We dissolved into quiet laughter, hands sticky, fingers coated in drying paste.

That’s when I felt it. That strange awareness. Like someone was watching me. I looked up. And there he was. Brice. Standing several feet away near the auditorium doors, just inside the dim light spilling from the hallway. He wasn’t smiling. Wasn’t frowning either. His expression was unreadable. Tight. Almost strained. I lifted my hand and gave him a small wave, offering a polite smile. He didn’t smile back. Instead, he walked toward me. Fast.

My eyes widened slightly as he stopped directly in front of our table. A few nearby students glanced over, clearly curious. Brice’s gaze flicked around the room, noticing the attention. “Can I talk to you?” he asked. His voice was low. Serious. I blinked. “Uh… sure?” Confusion swirled in my chest. Why would he need to talk to me? And why privately? But since he hadn’t just said whatever it was in front of Nala, I figured it must be something he didn’t want broadcasted to half the school. I wiped my hands on a rag and stood, following him toward the side of the stage where it was quieter. “Hey,” I said lightly. “What’s up?” He cleared his throat. Once. Twice. His jaw flexed like he was forcing himself to speak. “I—”

“Mr. Westin.” Mrs. Parks’ voice sliced cleanly through the air. We both turned. She stood a few feet away, arms crossed, oversized glasses sliding slightly down her nose as she peered over them. “I don’t believe I have you scheduled to be here today.” Brice straightened. “I just needed to speak to Siri for a minute.” Mrs. Parks didn’t even blink. “Siri is busy contributing to my production.” She gestured broadly to the stage. “You may either exit immediately… or pick up a paintbrush.” The three of us stood there in a strange standoff. Mrs. Parks stood stern and immovable. Brice was flustered, clearly not used to being challenged. And there I was, trying very hard not to laugh. She lifted a box of paintbrushes and held it out toward him. Brice sighed, then reached in and grabbed one. Mrs. Parks smiled triumphantly. “Splendid.”

He walked back over and sat beside me at the table. He set the brush down almost immediately. Mrs. Parks cleared her throat. Brice looked up. She was still watching. He picked the brush back up. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling as he grabbed one of the paper mâché leaves and began painting it in slow, lazy strokes.

“So,” I said casually, dipping my own brush into green paint. “Brice, this is Nala.” Nala looked up, taking him in with open curiosity. “Brice,” I continued, “this is Nala.” They exchanged a look. “Hey,” Nala said. “Hey,” he replied. Something unspoken passed between them that I couldn’t quite read. “Well,” Nala said after a moment, standing up and wiping her hands, “I’m gonna take a bathroom break. Siri, you need anything?” I shook my head. “No, I’m good.” She gave me a look- one of those I expect details later looks- before walking off.

The moment she disappeared, the air between Brice and me shifted. “So,” I said, turning toward him. “You needed to talk to me about something?” I held his gaze. For a split second, something flickered across his face. Pain. Actual pain. My stomach tightened. He opened his mouth when a loud thud exploded behind us. I jumped. “I don’t know what happened!” some kid called out in panic. We both turned. A full can of paint had toppled over, splattering across the tarp and coating a large slab of plywood in thick blue streaks.

“Oh shoot!” Mrs. Parks exclaimed, hurrying over. “Well, this is the price of art!” She waved her hands dramatically. “Most of it landed on the tarp. We just need to move this plywood.” She glanced around. “Oh, Brice?” He closed his eyes briefly. “Yes, ma’am?” he replied through clenched teeth. “Would you be a dear and help Adam here move this wood?” The sweetness in her voice did not disguise the fact that this was not optional. He sighed and stood, setting his brush down carefully before walking over.

I watched as he bent to lift the edge of the plywood, muscles flexing under his shirt. He barely spoke while helping the other boy reposition it. Once it was cleared away, he started heading back toward me. “Brice, dear!” He froze mid-step. “Yes, ma’am?” “While you’re at it, could you move that pallet over there?” She pointed dramatically to the opposite side of the stage. I met his eyes. Gave him an amused little smile. He exhaled sharply through his nose, then turned and did as he was told. I couldn’t help it. I laughed softly to myself. Whatever he had wanted to say clearly wasn’t meant to happen today. And judging by the tightness in his shoulders and the way Mrs. Parks seemed determined to keep him occupied, something told me the universe might not be done interrupting him just yet.