Popularity Contest

15

Wyatt and I primed all four walls in two hours. I hooked my phone up to my Bluetooth speaker and hit shuffle on my entire library. I knew there'd be questionable songs in there but he shared his whole library with me, it seems only fair.
Dad brought us step ladders for when we need to hand brush the tops of the walls. With the primer it's not such a big deal because my ceiling is already white. The green is another story.
Mom found blue painters tape in the basement but it's so old that it barely sticks. I get a few flicks of green on the ceiling and on the baseboards. I tell myself I'll just go back over it with the primer some other day.
We paint in mostly silence and I wonder if it's something I said or if this is just how he is when he's concentrating. He makes a few comments about the songs that come on but nothing too harsh. He almost always ends up singing or humming along to whatever song plays.
Though it's mostly silent, it's comfortable. I don't feel anxious or nervous in this space with him. It feels almost like we've been doing things like this forever. Mindless tasks, being in each other's company.
Once I feel that I've sufficiently finished my last wall, I set the paint brush down on the tray and collapse onto my back on my bed. I find my phone there and tap the screen to check the time. It's after 5:00.
"We wasted the whole day," I say.
"Wasted?" Wyatt says before putting his brush down and flopping next to me on the mattress. Our heads are next to each other but our feet are hanging off opposite sides. "This is fun and very productive. Not a waste at all."
"I just didn't think it would take that long."
"Do you like it?" He asks, stretching his arms above his head.
My head is even with his armpit and I should be grossed out by this but the scent that floats over me is nothing like I expect. It's musty and sweaty but also inviting and satisfying. His own skin has mixed beautifully with whatever deodorant he's wearing. I want to get closer and breathe deep but thankfully stop myself before I look like a complete psycho.
I quickly remember the question he asked me and look around my room. I do like it. On the walls it looks a little lighter but I like that. It still has the forest vibe that I was imagining.
"I do," I say, after too much time has passed.
"Good," he says simply.
At some point he moved his head so that he's facing me. He brings his arms back to his sides and if I turned my face to him our noses would probably touch. I fill my lungs as much as I can and steel myself to turn.
Our eyes lock and from this close I could count his eye lashes. I feel my lungs stop and my mouth goes dry. The song changes in the background to an old Taylor Swift song about a white horse.
"If music be the food of love, play on," he whispers.
"What?" I breathe out.
"Shakespeare. I looked him up," he explains with a smile. "Guy knows his stuff."
I giggle. "Do you even know what that means?"
"Music feeds the soul when love can't," Wyatt says, softly. His words are so simple but so powerful.
"You kids want dinner?" Mom asks suddenly from the door. "Wow, this looks awesome, Kitten."
Suddenly, I'm a child again. I feel immature and small and know that Wyatt was once again reminded of my age, whether it be my mother calling us kids or using my childhood nickname.
I close my eyes and push down the words that I want to say.
Wyatt sits up and I wish he didn't. I could've laid like that forever. "I've got to get home to Mom, she's lost without me when it comes to cooking."
"A painter and a chef? You're a good one to have around," Mom says and I can just imagine her winking at me if I was looking at her.
"Thank you for lunch, Mrs Baker," Wyatt says, standing up. The absence of his weight shifts the bed and makes it feel foreign.
"Please, Lisa," she says. Wyatt's on a first name basis with both my parents. "Anytime, Wyatt."
I stand up, not wanting Wyatt to leave without saying goodbye. I make eye contact with Mom and widen my eyes as far as I can, trying to telepathically tell her to get out. She takes the hint, waves at Wyatt and disappears.
I face Wyatt and he faces me. "Thank you," I say before I look in his eyes for too long.
"You're welcome," he says, like it's nothing. "It was nice to have a whole afternoon to myself. Well, with you."
"I don't know what that means," I say, laughing anxiously.
"I just got to focus on something helpful and methodical instead of pointless and dumb like my usual weekends."
A word like methodical is not one I'd ever picture him using.
"I guess that's good then," I say, picking at the edge of one of my pillows.
"Really good," he says, the tone of his voice getting my attention.
I look over at him and he's smiling, genuinely. He looks relaxed and truly happy. No lopsided grin, no strain in his eyes.
"Thank you," I say again because I don't know what else to say.
"Do you need help moving the furniture back?" He asks.
"No, I'll make my dad do it."
Wyatt winces so slightly it might have just been a twitch, his muscles relaxing after all the work. "I'll text you later."
He moves toward the door, reaching up and tugging on his ear lobe, something that I've learned is a habit.
"Bye, Wyatt."
He turns to look at me over his shoulder, pausing slightly. "Bye, Quinn."
It's the first time he's said my full name. It might be the paint fumes but I feel lightheaded. I want to hear him say my name forever.

Mom made my favorite meal for dinner, shrimp fettuccine. I'm sure she was trying to impress Wyatt before she realized he wasn't staying. I wish he had, too.
"Wyatt seems cool," Dad says, twirling noodles onto his fork across from me.
"Yeah, he's cool alright," I say, somewhat sarcastically. My dad never uses that word unless he's trying to sound cool.
"You work well together," Mom says. "That's a good quality in a partner."
"Mom," I say, glaring over at her.
She puts one hand up in surrender. "I'm just saying. It's a good quality in a friend, too."
"Sure," I say, stabbing a shrimp with my fork, wishing we could talk about anything else.
Wyatt is going to be hot gossip in my house now. Things don't change for us around here so when something or someone new comes along, it's all my parents will talk about. We got a new neighbor across the street last year and Dad used to watch them unload their groceries and judge their produce selections.
"Maybe you can invite him for dinner one day this week, I'd love to get to know him more," Mom says.
"I'll ask," I say quickly, mouth full. I probably won't ask.
"Honey," Mom says, placing her hand on my arm to get my attention. "You know we're here for you, right. No matter what."
It feels like deja vu, back in my living room with the girls. I just nod my head and keep eating.
"We want you to feel like you can talk to us about anything, and that includes boys, sex, drama," she could keep going but I cut her off.
"Ok, Mom. Thank you," I say, picking my arm up so that her hand falls off. "You don't have to worry about any of that."
"We're not worried," she says but I glance over at my dad and his face has turned white, eyes wide. "Well, we were a little worried that you weren't as boy crazed as we thought you'd be."
"Worried that I was gay?" I blurt out, I don't know why. They're not hateful people.
Mom furrows her eyebrows. "Not at all, just worried you weren't going to get a full high school experience."
"Random guys and pregnancy scares are the full experience?" I ask and my dad literally chokes.
"Well, no. You can still be responsible but have some fun. Get out there, meet new people."
"Ok, I'll slut it up for you, Mom." I don't know why I have such an attitude. Chalk it up to hormones and exhaustion.
My dad pats a napkin on his forehead.
Mom continues. "That's not what I mean and you know that. We just want you to have fun. These are the best years of your life and you'll never get them back, so don't limit yourself. That's all."
"Thank you Gandhi," I say, chewing my last shrimp. "Can I go now?"
Mom lets out a breath but nods. I stand up, push my chair in and turn to leave but it feels wrong to leave like this. I turn back around and kiss Mom on the top of her head.
"Thank you for dinner," I say quickly before retreating to my newly painted room.