Candy Gram ✓

chapter one

One, one, two, three, five. . . .

Another glance down. Crisis averted. Thank you, Fibonacci.

"Nick. Nicholas. How now, blond cow."

Without even turning around, I know who it is: Edward Flores. Edward is a friend of circumstance, mostly, the two of us being the only two (openly) gay guys in the senior thespian club, and thus being grouped together for every. Little. Thing. He embraced it, and for a while, I did, too. Until I realized that he's not exactly a romantic. (I mean, I don't think I am, either. Which is why we didn't really work. It was just sitting at a lunch table like the two old Muppet men in the balcony and making snarky remarks for an hour. It was fun, I guess. Just not what I needed. Or wanted.)

I shut my locker door and turn to face him. "Hey," I say, sounding snippier than I probably should. Edward doesn't seem to care, though. Truth be told, Edward doesn't seem to care much of anything most of the time.

"Hey," he says back, wrapping his arms around my torso tight. I go rigid, before loosely looping his arms over his shoulders in return.

"What was that for?" I ask him (probably sounding overly-suspicious) as he pulls away, his thick glasses making his dark eyes appear huge.

He shrugs. "It's almost Valentine's day. That's all you're getting from me." Once again, he looks disinterested.

"Not even chocolate?" I cross my arms, managing a small smile.

He crosses his arms back at me in a snarky response. "Note how you didn't get me anything."

"I mean, I would have"—I pick up my binder and gently knock his thigh with it—"if I'd have thought you'd get me chocolate."

From the locker next to me come David's low, joking voice: "Man, Edward, should have got him something." I look over at him, then down to the floor, where he's crouched and is tying his shoelace. He beams up at me, as if trying to say, Wow, look how high my skirt is riding up my thigh! Now look at how much higher it can go!

One, one, two, three, five. . . . Crap.

I tell myself this isn't happening, even though it does about ever Cupid day. Which is totally unjust and infuriating and I feel targeted. Eight, thirteen. . . . Thank God.

Freaking buff swimmer's legs.

Edward bites the inside of his cheek, his eyes narrowing. "I got him something. I just didn't get him chocolate. He's not even a big chocolate guy, so . . . yeah. Yeah." He spits it out, like it pains him to even be talking to David.

I blink at him in surprise, attention turned completely away from Mr. Red Dress. "Wait – really?" A commonplace heat creeps up the back of my neck.

Edward huffs an impatient sigh, an all too familiar – and all too annoying – sign of passive aggression. "Yeah. I'll bring it tomorrow. I . . . I forgot it at home."

David stands, though he has to crane his neck far back to even see Edward's prominent Adam's apple. He claps him on the arm. "It's not even Valentine's yet, dude." He's all smiles, all the time. Sometimes, I can't decide whether or not they're even genuine. "I'm sure Nick won't mind another day of waiting."

"Yeah," Edward says, "because you know him so well."

Before David can even respond, someone down the hallway whistles loudly, and applause breaks out as David blows his small, gathering crowd a kiss. He pulls his dress up a little bit farther, teasingly, and I turn right around and take off to my first period class.