After I woke up on Friday morning, I untangled myself from my blankets and sat on the side of the bed, clutching my stomach. I felt all knotted up inside, with a weird mix of excitement and, well, dread.

Don't get me wrong – I wasn't exactly regretting telling Byron I liked him or anything. It was true, and the more I thought about it – and I assure you, I had thought about a lot the night before, I probably managed to fall asleep just from the exhaustion of thinking about it so much – the more obvious it became. And when you like someone, you tell them, especially when you know they like you back. Unless they have a bigger, scarier, jealous boyfriend, and it wasn't like Byron and I had ever talked about this explicitly, but I had a hunch he was available.

But just – wow, okay. I liked a guy. Never mind that he was my best friend – I liked him. I said it, I meant it. This was real. This was something I never expected of myself.

And how was I supposed to deal with? What did that make me? Was I, like, bi or whatever, or 'curious' (whatever the hell that meant), or gay this whole time but just never realized it? I always liked girls, dated them, and though it seemed like a million years ago now, I had really kind of enjoyed having sex with one. How did I go from red-blooded, all-American heterosexuality to kissing Byron?

It was terrifying, because I didn't have any answers. All I knew was that I was probably going to become the first-ever sixteen-year-old with an ulcer. My stomach really hurt.

Before I went down to breakfast, I crept into Mom and Richard's bathroom and took a swig from the Pepto-Bismol bottle they kept in the medicine cabinet, like I was an old man. An old, boy-liking man. Christ. And making my appearance at the kitchen table really didn't help my nerves, either.

Richard was seated already, reading the paper. Mom was at the stove, cooking something that was apparently burning, and the first thing she said to me was, "Hey, sweetie. How was your date last night?"

No, seriously, what planet was my mother from? Even if my date had gone well the night before – yeah, newsflash, it hadn't – what guy my age was really just going to sit down and gossip with his mom about his love life? Afterward, would she expect us to bond over some mutual hair-braiding too? I was not Dawn.

"Fine," I muttered. I might as well have been telling her how school had gone.

"What'd you and Sara end up doing?"

"We just went to dinner." I opened the fridge and peered inside, but there was nothing that wasn't going to screw up my stomach even more. "It wasn't a big deal."

"Oh yeah?" She picked up the pan and started scraping off the burnt part into the sink with a fork. "Nothing else?"

She was trying to keep her tone light and casual, but it was so obvious that she was fishing for clues to potentially sordid boy-girl date activities. It sort of hurt my feelings that she didn't trust me after I practically swore on a stack of Bibles that I was going to behave myself, but I guess when you nearly impregnate one girlfriend, you're bound to lose your credibility for a while.

"Yeah," I said. I closed the refrigerator door. "I think I'm just going to head out."

"Oh, no no no," Mom said. "You have time; you need breakfast, or you'll starve before lunch. Sit down. Do you want me to make something for you?"

I glanced at the pan she was holding, which was giving off not quite the best odor in the universe, and sighed. "I'll just have cereal."

Actually, to be honest, I wasn't exactly unhappy about not racing out the door. I was really nervous about seeing Byron. Like, really. A lot. I mean, yeah, there was a lot of, like, feelings and stuff the night before, and I kind of got caught up in it, but if things were going to be instantly, drastically different between us, it was going to be torture. So, if I ate a nice, leisurely breakfast, maybe I'd miss walking to school with him and have a viable excuse. It'd be taking the coward's way out, but if I could put off that weirdness, I did not care.

I chose Grape Nuts so I could give my churning digestive system some actual work to do, and poured myself a bowl. I was sitting across from Richard and just starting to slowly chew, like it was cud, when he lowered his paper and took a look at my meal.

"Grape Nuts," he mused. "There're no grapes involved, and no nuts. I've always wondered how they came up with the name."

What the hell? Did he expect me to know the answer to that burning question? This just in – Grape Nuts is a weird name! More at eleven. I mean, shit. Or did he just expect to respond somehow?

I just shrugged. It was the safest answer I had.

He turned to my mom. "Dear, do you know where the name Grape Nuts came from?"

"Well, I don't know." She walked over, still carrying the pan and now eating straight from it. "It sort of tastes nutty."

He squinted a little. "Perhaps, but that doesn't explain the grape part."

"Maybe there's grape extract in it?"

"No, I'm quite certain there isn't."

"Well, let's look at the ingredients…"

I just sat there and watched them, spoon raised halfway to my mouth and forgotten during this riveting conversation. From my perspective, I had two options. I could go on to school, meet with Byron, and possibly writhe with embarrassment over the night before, second-guessing myself and causing my abdomen to be eaten away by nerves. Or I could finish my cereal and stay for the rest of this exchange.

I dumped my bowl in the sink and got the fuck out of there.

But almost as soon as I was out of the house, I began to long for the comfort of the Grape Nuts debate. That was safe. This thing with Byron? Was not. Even though I'd told him right out that we needed to go slow with this…whatever, it was kind of hard to tell a person you liked them, and then not acknowledge it. And – this was just my imagination, but I felt pretty confident about this – especially when the person was your best friend, and a guy.

Also, I guess I was kind of worried that Byron was going to get up in, like, the emotion of our mutual like and do something stupid. Not like he was going to try to hold my hand in public or anything, but…I don't even know what. But I was still worried. I'd said I wanted to go slow, and I meant it.

It wasn't long before I could see him in the distance. He was staring off in the opposite direction, wearing a thick, warm-looking jacket that was red, the color of…passion? Oh my God. I mean, if his jacket was roses, he'd be telling me he was in love with me. Obviously, I was thinking crazy, and I knew it, but I was still panicking again. But there was no turning back now; every step brought me closer, and then he finally turned and spotted me.

He smiled, but it was close-lipped, not wide or particularly joyous or whatever. Also, he did not, needless to say, grab me by the shoulders and try to tenderly stick his tongue in my mouth.

Instead, he just hitched up his backpack, nodded, and said, "Hey."

Just like any other day. Already, I could feel myself relaxing.

"Hey," I replied, and we kept walking.

By the time we got to the end of the street, I was feeling mostly calm again, at least until he said, "So."

I was still moving, but inside, I froze. Well, this was it. Now was the time to Talk about the night before and, like, clarify what we had going on together, whether it was a relationship or whatever. Or else he was going to tell me that I looked hot (fuck), or that he made dinner reservations for us at Chez Maurice, or ask my opinion about what we should name the baby we were no doubt going to adopt from China someday. Okay, yeah, maybe I was getting irrational again, but still.

"So?" I repeated warily.

"Rams versus Seahawks," he said. "You watch it?"

Oh, Jesus fucking Christ he wanted to talk football. Immediately, I felt all the tension drain out of me again, and I laughed with relief. I probably sounded like a giddy little girl, but I didn't care.

"Hell no," I said. "I never watch the Rams. It's against my morals."

"What?" He looked at me like I crazy, but no, that'd passed about fifteen seconds ago.

"They moved from L.A. to St. Louis. I mean, come on."

He rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "They didn't win the Super Bowl until they relocated."

"Please!" I waved a hand. "Details. Their time was coming anyway."

"Yeah, right! Like Los Angeles was going to pay the big bucks and score Vermeil as head coach."

"Oh, come on - "

We were still debating by the time we got to school and went our separate ways. I felt a lot, lot better. So far, whatever we had was anything but uncomfortable. We were just…normal, like any other day. No weirdness, no attempted hand-holding. I felt great.

But really, why was I so surprised? This was Byron; it wasn't like he was going to disappoint me.

When I got to lunch later that afternoon, Byron was already there, sitting next to Jordan near the end of the table.

"Move over," I said to him, and hit him on the arm with my lunch bag. I could've just sat across from him, but I…didn't want to, I guess.

Jostled, a forkful of the macaroni and cheese he'd been aiming toward his mouth fell back onto his plate with a wet plop. He gave me a funny look. I didn't know he took his mac and cheese so seriously, but he shoved over and let me have some room anyway.

I was just pulling out my box of all-natural mango-papaya juice when a shadow fell over me. If it'd been a horror movie, this would've been when I'd looked up and the bad guy'd run a chainsaw right down the middle of my skull, killing me mid-scream. Instead, it was just Sara Hill, holding her lunch tray in front of her and looking incredibly stiff.

"Hi, Jeff," she said softly, and for God's sake, you'd think we'd just broken off an engagement or something, the way she said it.

"Hey," I replied, nodding. What else could I say?

We just looked at each other awkwardly for a few more seconds before she turned away abruptly and rushed to the opposite end of the table and sat next to Shea. Adam, seeing all this, raised his eyebrows at me in a silent question, but before he could decree another guys' meeting or whatever, Haley flounced over and sat down, grinning so hard that it looked like her face was going to shatter.

"I have the best news!" she announced.

Most of us were too busy eating to take the bait – well, Sara was too busy being brave in the face of having to suffer through an entire lunch period with me - but Haley was clearly waiting for a response, so finally James said, "What?"

"My parents are finally letting me off the hook for the party!" she cried excitedly.

There was a murmur of congratulations all around the table, but Adam almost looked offended. "How the hell did you get out of that?" he asked. "Didn't they ground you for the rest of the semester?"

She smirked a little, looking pleased with herself. "Oh, I begged nonstop, and I cried a little. Crying is a girl's secret weapon." Sara, despite the fact that she was clearly suffering from our post-disastrous date aftermath, nodded knowingly in agreement, and I was suddenly even more thrilled that our date hadn't evolved to anything like a relationship.

"Fucking stupid girls," Scott said, but he managed to sound like a total caveman and affectionate all at once. What a winner. "If we tried crying to get our way, we'd just get laughed at."

"More than you already get laughed at?" I muttered, just low enough for Byron to hear me; he elbowed me in the ribs, but I thought I saw a hint of a smile.

"Well, and there was one more thing, I guess," Haley continued. "They told me I had to clean out the garage, which hasn't been done in years. It'll take me practically forever to do, but they said I could get help if I needed, and I thought, maybe, since I know all these really strong boys, they might want to…"

By this time, we were all staring at her, but it was Jordan who voiced our collective sentiment: "Oh, hell no."

"Come on!" Haley whined, bouncing in her seat a little, which, considering that most of the guys at the table immediately got distracted and stared at her chest, was probably an argument worthy of Perry Mason himself. "The faster I get it done, the faster I can have a life again! If we all work on it, we could get it cleaned out in one day."

Obviously, I didn't exactly want to help clean someone else's garage – I wouldn't even clean my own room – but I felt kind of sorry for her. I mean, she sounded really pathetic, and besides that, I guess I felt bad about her brother being dead. It wasn't like it'd happened yesterday, but it still.

I glanced at Byron to see what he thought, and he shrugged and warily asked, "When?"

"Sunday afternoon?" she suggested.

"Oh, yeah, right!" Adam laughed. "Why should we give up half the weekend – "

"That's not half!"

" – to help you clean?"

"Because I was throwing a party for all of you when I got busted."

"Some of us got busted too," Shea reminded her.

"But none of you are still grounded!" Her eyes looked desperate, like a caged animal's. "I just need to get out of the house. I really, really need help, and you're my friends, and I would really appreciate this."

Silence.

She sighed. "And I'll buy you all pizza."

Now we were all sort of looking at each other, but it was pointless. We all knew where we were going to be on Sunday.

"Fine," I said reluctantly, speaking for the group.

Haley's face lit up again. "Oh, you guys are awesome."

"But I'll out of town until Sunday night," Sara said, looking alarmed. Personally, I would've been happy to have a built-in excuse like that.

"Then I guess you're off the hook," Haley said sweetly, but there was a little edge to that, and suddenly I realized that it would be Haley and just the guys, alone, all to herself. I guess that explained why Sara looked like she was about to puke.

It probably wouldn't help at all if she knew that Haley had no chance at stealing away at least one of us. Well, two now, I guessed. That was kind of a scary thought.

I turned back to my lunch; under the table, my thigh brushed against Byron's. And he, seriously, he jerked away, and maybe if I'd, like, worn my barbed wire pants to school that day, it'd be understandable, but jeez. I'd kind of been under the impression that he i liked /i that sort of thing.

It really wasn't something worth dwelling on, though (I decided, after several minutes of dwelling on it), and I was mostly back to vaguely dreading Sunday – I mean, I had never cleaned out a garage in my whole life - when the warning bell rang. We all started to gather our trash and throw it away. I was smoothing out my brown paper sack so I could recycle it for next week when Adam caught me by the upper arm.

"What happened last night?" he asked in a hushed tone, and I had a minor freak out before I realized that he was asking me about my date with Sara, not my little talk with his identical brother.

"Oh, yeah," I said. I glanced around, but Sara was long gone. "It didn't go so good."

"No shit." Adam rolled his eyes. "What happened?"

I sighed. "Well, my mom wouldn't let me drive out to Stamford, so I had to take her to dinner in town, and it was just…"

It didn't feel right, probably wouldn't fly as an acceptable excuse as to why my hand hadn't found its way into Sara's bra. Neither would, I sort of realized that I have a thing for your brother.

"Weird," I finished.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he exclaimed.

"It just wouldn't work out, okay?" I scowled at him. "Why do you care so much?"

"Why do I – well, how about because I practically dressed you and changed your diaper last night? I'd like to know if I wasted all my time."

Because, oh my God, perish the thought he spend a couple hours helping a friend out! Never mind the fact that I didn't even ask for his help.

"I guess you did," I said, and I started to head out toward the hall. He walked with me. "I'm not exactly saving up to buy our prom tickets."

Adam was still frowning, but at he grudgingly admitted, "Well…she's kind of high maintenance, huh?"

"Definitely."

"It's why she can't hold a boyfriend, basically." He grinned at me. "But if you'd taken her to the Paragon, maybe at least she'd have let you get to first base."

I didn't tell him that I could probably get to first base any time I felt like it, with Byron. It would've only ruined this touching moment in our friendship.

Well, that was what I thought, anyway. I wasn't so sure later that afternoon, during the walk home, when I asked Byron if he wanted to come over and hang out for a while and he reluctantly answered, "I guess."

No, you didn't misread that. Reluctantly. I guess. This from the guy who'd been so excited to kiss me that he'd practically crawled into my fucking lap. And after what I told him – I guess I just expected hanging out with me to be pretty high on his list of priorities.

I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt, though, and asked, "What, did you already plan something?"

He hesitated, then answered, "No."

The least he could've done was lie to me.

"Well, if you don't want to - " I said, maybe snapping a little more than I should've.

"No, I want to!" he protested quickly.

"You really don't have to come over."

He hesitated again – again, what an offense, he might as well have called my mother a whore – before saying, "Let's – no, let's just go to your place."

He started walking again, and I watched him for a second, wondering if I should continue protesting, if that would be, like, polite or something, but I didn't want to beg him not to come over when that was what I really wanted him to do. So I just followed him, turning onto long, winding Burnt Hill Road and toward my house.

"When's your mom getting home?" he asked as we stepped onto the front walk, staring at the empty driveway. Like he didn't know; he was at my house practically every afternoon.

"Not for a couple hours." I fished my house keys out of my jacket and unlocked the door, holding it open for him. Just call me Jeeves.

"What about your stepdad?" He barely brushed past me, getting through the door.

What, did he want to organize a fucking tea party or something? What did he care? But I just answered, "Probably around the same time as my mom."

As I closed the door behind us and got enveloped in that big, empty house, it suddenly dawned on me how very alone we were. In fact, we were alone for the first time since – the thing – last night, really alone, with very little chance of a neighbor or the mailman to see us if we accidentally started making out, or overhear us if we tearfully started talking about our feelings. Oh, Jesus.

"Want to watch TV?" I asked suddenly. "In the living room?" In other words, where we'd have no privacy whatsoever.

"Yes," Byron answered immediately. No hesitation about that.

"Okay." I dropped my backpack on the floor and headed to the kitchen. "I'll be back in a second."

I brought him honey on toast and milk – didn't need to ask, that was what he always had – in the least sexually stimulating mug I could find, this old chipped one of my mom's with a picture of a little girl stacking round things on a chair; it said, Life is just a chair of bowlies. I think Mary Anne got it for Mom one Mother's Day, and it was kind of horrible. Apparently, it did the trick, because when I brought our snacks (we were out of the good yoghurt, so I had to make due with the half-edible Trix shit Richard gets talked into eating every once in a while), Byron didn't fling himself at me or give me a heated look or anything. Nodding faintly, eyes firmly on the TV show he'd already turned on, he just took the food and did not look at me.

I sat next to him on the couch and started half-heartedly eating my yoghurt. I mean, this stuff was neon blue raspberry - what neon blue raspberries have you actually seen in nature? I was kind of grossed out by it, but I needed one more serving of dairy that day, so I ate it with great concentration, staring down into the cup and barely listening to whatever the hell we were watching on MTV.

But when I finally finished – and believe me, it took a while – Byron had apparently used my distraction as an opportunity to get as far away from me as possible, crammed into the far corner of the couch. And, I mean. I'd showered the night before, so it wasn't like I stank. I wasn't being annoying, and my yoghurt wasn't that disgusting. There wasn't really anything to offend him and send him to the far corners of the couch to get away from me.

No, I hadn't wanted to end up rolling around with him on the floor or anything, but would it have killed him to paw at me a little?

Just to make sure it was me and not some weird Byron thing that I had not yet figured out, I shifted over, just a bit, and let my knee brush against his.

He jumped to his feet. "I need more milk," he announced. "Do you want anything?"

"Uh, no," I said, and watched him rush into the kitchen. When he came back, he settled into the loveseat, safe from any contact with me.

Stupid show after stupid show rolled across the television screen, but I wasn't paying attention. Instead, I thought about Byron. I could not figure him out. He'd seemed to like me enough last night, holding hands and sitting together in the dark. But now every time I even laid a fingertip on him, he made me feel like I was Mr. Acid-Touch. I mean, what? Was he just as nervous about the bigness of this whole deal as I was? Was he having second thoughts? Or was he weirded out for a reason that had nothing to do with me?

I watched him out of the corner of my eye, stealthy ninja-style. I caught him looking back once, but as soon as our eyes connected, he snapped his attention right back to the TV. He left not long after that, even before Richard got home, leaving me wondering.

Actually, I wondered about it all night. I got so distracted by it that I could barely eat any dinner, and afterward I broke a plate while clearing the table, so Richard yelled at me. My mom – and I swear, I am not joking – my mom even asked me where my head was, and considering the fact that she had absently stuck a roll of toilet paper in the freezer earlier that night, I took this to be a sign that I was in pretty bad shape.

By the time I went to bed, I was really getting kind of mad. How completely unfair, if Byron decided he didn't like me – like that - after all, right after I figured out what I thought about him. I mean, like, what was it, the thrill of the chase that excited him? It was an amazingly crappy possibility, but it made some sense. Other than him being allergic to me, what would explain his sudden decision to not go near me?

Late the next morning, I finally decided that I needed to know what the hell was going on. I took a shot of Pepto, for courage, (it was probably wasn't a good sign that I was starting to acquire a taste for that stuff) and headed over to the Pike house.

During the last few days, it'd been warming up a little and the snow was melting, so the grass squished under my feet as I crossed the Pikes' lawn. It wasn't exactly a sound that inspired much bravery, but I made it across anyway and rang the doorbell.

Nicky answered the door, but before I could even open my mouth, he said, "Byron's in the kitchen," in a dull, sort of sulky tone, and turned around and stalked off, leaving the door open for me. I had no clue what his deal was, but I guess it wasn't much of a secret to his family that Byron was the one I came to see most often.

The walk from the front door to the kitchen probably took all of half a minute, but I used it to psyche myself up. No, I really didn't want to talk about…things…but I had to find out what the fuck was up with Byron. I was definitely not planning on sitting around while he made up his mind, or dealt with stuff, or whatever. It was now or never. That was the plan.

But my plan did not factor in my reaction after walking in and finding Byron wearing huge flowed oven mitts on both hands and intently reading the back of a tube of Toll House cookie dough. Yeah, kind of caught me off guard.

"Byron?" I ventured.

He practically jumped a mile. "What - Jeff?" He set down the cookie dough and tore the oven mitts off his hands. "I – did we have plans?"

"No, I just came over," but somehow this was no longer really the right time to finish with, to confront you and maybe beat you up a little, so I just let it rest. I went over to the counter, where a couple of pans were laid out. "I didn't know you could cook."

"I can't." I looked pointedly at the pans, and the tube of dough that was resting nearby. "Come on, scooping some dough onto a sheet and sticking it in the oven isn't exactly cooking." He picked up his discarded cookie dough again, glancing at the wrapper. "I mean, this stuff isn't even homemade."

"You're baking," I couldn't help but tease, grinning. It just wasn't something you'd normally find a guy our age doing, and even though teasing was probably the opposite of what I'd come over to do, Byron was grinning too.

"I'm baking," he agreed, nodding and laughing a little, but his cheeks were kind of flushed. "But only for my mom's birthday. It's a special request thing."

"It's her birthday?" I asked, and then I felt really, really stupid – she'd told me it was her birthday this weekend, just the other night. Maybe that explained everything; maybe Byron had been acting weird because he was distracted with plans or something for his mom. I mean, he seemed totally fine now. I was suddenly very glad that I'd been too hypnotized by his oven mitts to say anything I'd have regretted.

"Yeah," he answered. "Everyone else is doing something for dinner tonight, and I got stuck with making the cookies. Mom was really specific about the kinds she wanted, too." He shrugged.

"Oh." I felt kind of guilty about rushing over, ready for a fight, when he was just doing something nice for his mother. "Do you…need any help?"

He looked sort of surprised, and I was worried he was going to start acting weird again, but instead he just kept smiling and said, "Well, I don't know…it depends. Are you really good at cookie-making?"

Which – I think he was actually flirting with me. It wasn't really the kind of flirting I was used to, but it was a lot better than him fleeing in horror from my very touch.

"I'm not sure," I answered, and then it was time to reveal the terrible truth. "I've actually never made cookies before."

"What?" Byron seemed completely in shock. "You've never – what kind of childhood did you have?"

"One that was filled with tofu."

"That's straight-up child abuse. Well, okay, we have to fix this. The oatmeal-raisin and peanut butter ones are in the oven right now." He tapped the oven lightly with his foot for emphasis. "But the chocolate chip batch wouldn't fit, so I was just going to start on those. The pan's all ready."

"So what do I do?"

"Well, take off your jacket first."

So I did, draping it over the back of a chair while Byron started peeling back the wrapper that encased the cookie dough. It made a slow, sticky sound as the plastic was pulled away from the dough, and my stomach turned a little. Why would people do this when they could just buy cookies in the store? But rather than ask that and look like a total dick, I just went back and stood at Byron's elbow, waiting for instructions. He handed me a spoon.

"Just scoop out a ball of dough like this – " He helpfully demonstrated. "And put it on the pan." He shook the dough ball onto the pan, then nodded at me. "Now you try."

I dug my spoon into the tube, pulled it back out, and with a little effort – shit was sticky - dropped a wad of dough onto the tray, just to the left of Byron's. I looked to him for approval.

"I can see you're a natural at this," he commented, smiling.

I grinned back. "I guess my help really isn't crucial, huh?"

"Maybe not, but it'll make the time go faster. Just don't get them too close together, or we'll have Siamese twins." We started to dig into the dough, placing clumps of it into the beginnings of a horizontal line on the pan. "Nicky won't help me with this. He says it's girl stuff."

"Even if it's just for your mom?"

"Yeah, I don't know. I mean, I guess I don't really know what he was implying." He grimaced.

I glanced over at him. I figured I already knew the answer, but I had to ask, "Does anyone, uh, in your family know - ?"

"No," he answered quickly. He met my eyes for just a second, then looked away and scratched his cheek.

I waited for him to say something more about it, I don't even know what, but he didn't, so I just let the matter lie.

"So this is what I've been missing," I said, shaking the spoon repeatedly to try to get the dough off it. Seriously, the stuff could give Krazy Glue a run for its money.

"Yep." Byron, having more experience than me – well, in cookie-baking…I wasn't so sure about what else - was just scraping off the dough with his fingers when it didn't want to succumb to gravity.

"I don't see the big thrill, I guess." Really, it wasn't as exciting as it'd been build up to be. As a little kid, I'd sort of wistfully dreamed about maybe making cookies to leave out for Santa, like all the other kids, but Dawn and I always just left him a protein smoothie and carrot sticks for the reindeer instead. A strawberry-banana shake never quite had that Night Before Christmas feel to it, but I wish I'd known then that this cookie business really wasn't a big deal.

"Well, you're not excited about getting to eat one. When they're done – " His eyes widened. "Oh, shit!"

He dropped the spoon, tugged on one of those godawful flowered mitts, and rushed over to the oven. Pulling it open and peering inside, he gingerly reached in and pulled a pan of cookies forward. Immediately, the sweet smell in the kitchen became overpowering; I could practically taste them. Gross.

"Are they burned?" I asked.

"No, they're okay." He set the pan on the cooling rack, then reached in the oven to grab another. "As long as everyone likes them a little crunchy."

"How much is a little?"

"A lot." He let out one small breath of laughter, shaking his head at himself. "Fuck."

I felt kind of bad, like I'd distracted him from remembering to take the cookies out on time. I mean, of course I was obviously helping – I'd added three and a half lumps of dough to the pan already – but I walked over to him anyway.

"I don't think they're going to be that bad," I said, looking down at the pan still in Byron's hand.

"They're hot now, but once they cool they'll get really crispy."

"They're not supposed to?"

"Not this much."

"They look fine to me."

"Jeff, you grew up eating sprouts. You probably haven't had a cookie in your whole life!"

"But I still know what they're supposed to look like, Byron."

"Yeah, but – " He set the pan on the cooling rack and accidentally touched the first with his bare hand for just a second. He hissed, shaking his fingers. "Oh, fuck," he cursed again.

"Are you okay?" I asked, taking another step closer to him.

"Yeah," he said, sounding more frustrated with himself than anything else. Frowning, he stuck the tip of his left ring finger, the one he'd burned, into his mouth and sucked on it.

I…had to look away. Just. Yeah.

"It's fine," I heard him say, and when I looked up he was moving back over to the job we'd abandoned, the chocolate chip cookies in progress. "Let's finish this up so we can get them in the oven."

I nodded, following him and picking my spoon up again. Byron was practically a dough-slinging machine, decimating the tube while I gingerly tried to finish my fourth lump. We didn't talk as we worked, just dug into that dough, and within a couple minutes the tube was no more.

Byron had done most of the work – I'd contributed, like, four dough balls – but even still, as he slid the tray into the oven, he said, "Thanks."

"You did all the work." I went to the sink and scrubbed my hands with Palmolive, but even still, there was probably going to be cookie dough under my fingernails until the end of time.

"No, you helped," he insisted, leaning against the counter. "Like, I said, it made the time go faster, at least."

"Well, that's something, I guess." I dried my hands on a towel hanging limply from the handle of the refrigerator and walked over to him. "Are you sure your hand's okay?"

"It's fine." He looked down at his hand, wiggling his ring finger, and his eyelashes were dark and thick against the hollows under his eyes, like a girl's. It was…sort of pretty.

"Good," I said, a little distracted.

Then Byron looked up at me and smiled, and I got even more distracted. There was a tiny streak of chocolate on his jaw, from when he'd scratched his cheek.

"Oh," I said. "You have a…"

And just – it would've been very, very easy and actually logical to remove that smudge of chocolate with my tongue, but I didn't. I reached out and rubbed my thumb against the spot, though, and that was enough, because Byron just froze, let me, the smile melting from his face with surprise.

I really wanted to kiss him then, and every time I'd wanted to kiss him before, I had, so I was sort of shocked when he just murmured, "Um, thanks," and pushed away from the counter, away from me, and started cleaning up the baking supplies.

"I – "

But then the door slammed in the living room. Byron looked in the direction of the sound, and there was a muffled, "Anyone home?" It was his dad.

"Maybe you better go," Byron said, not looking at me. "We're probably going to start with my mom's birthday stuff soon."

"I…okay," I said. I felt confused, a little off-balanced. Everything had gotten tense again, so quickly.

"But, um, thanks, and – oh! Here, you should take a couple of these." He grabbed a spatula and scraped a couple of the cooling cookies off a pan, slipping them into a plastic bag. "I mean, you helped, so…and they're oatmeal-raisin, so that's kind of health food, right? Close enough."

"Okay," I repeated. I just felt a little dumb, my mind muddied.

"Here." Byron pressed the bag into my hands, half-smiling nervously. "So. Thanks again. I'll see you tomorrow, at Haley's, right?"

"Right." I picked up my jacket, slipping it on as I went out through the back door.

"Bye!" I heard him call after me, but I didn't answer. I didn't know what to say.

The problem, whatever it was - it wasn't the birthday thing at all. I mean, shit, shit, fuck, what the hell was going on? Was this thing really going to end before it even started?

I got home in time for lunch. I wasn't hungry, but I ate some soup with my mom and stepfather anyway. Afterward I gave the cookies to Richard because I knew no one else would want them. He was surprised, but pleased, and kept thanking me as he ate them for dessert. He said they were a little crunchy, but delicious.

To be continued.