My social battery's already pretty low when Aiden brings out the “Congrats to the Cast and Crew” cake, of course with a medley of ice creams to add as a side. He cuts it in perfect squares, monstrosities of dark blue and gold that stain teeth and tongue, and everyone kind of swoons over how he does it. To be fair, though, he has a coolness as he cuts. Aiden's able to maintain conversation and cut the cake without any issue.

The cake smells too sweet for me, but Aiden's fingers brush over mine when he hands me my slice, and his eyes widen so slightly that I'm momentarily distracted by how much a single thing can brighten his mood; it's almost amazing to see. He smiles, and it's so unbearably bright, and tells me to enjoy it, and I'm left half eating a cake that's too sugary and dry for me to stand.

Aiden eats his with a slowness that irks me, with a great scoop of raspberry ripple ice cream.

People begin peeling off about half an hour after the cake is cut. It's almost ten thirty, and the seniors give excuses about homework and finals prep, and Aiden smiles his easy smile and tells them to have fun, and that he'll see them on Monday. They're going drinking. This is a baby party to them, and I don't doubt they'd rather spend their last few months before college eating cake and not drinking. Esther Walters offers the excuse that she needs to “get home”. She's afraid, holding herself close and taking up as small a space as possible. Aiden hugs her, and she disappears, leaving behind her stripping gingerbread Christmas ornaments.

“Is your mom picking you up?” Aiden asks me. The kitchen is a bigger space without so many people wrapped around the island, and the sounds are wider, louder. Despite how many people were here at the party's peak, the room is immaculately kept up and tidy (no doubt thanks to Aiden bopping around and keeping everything clean). The smell of pizza and cake mingles in an awkward waltz that turns in my stomach. It gives me a bit of a headache, but Aiden makes it feel like we're the only two people around.

It's wildly uncomfortable. “Yeah.” I check my phone if only to avoid looking at him. “She said she'd be here by ten.”

“Oh.” Aiden pauses. “Okay.”

“She's running late,” I offer, but I don't know if I sound genuine.

“Do you want to take some of the pizza home with you?”

“Maybe. Mom doesn't like food waste, but she also doesn't like Hawaiian pizza.” Sometimes, I wish I didn't like Hawaiian, either.

“Let me try some,” he says, reaching over me to grab a cold slice.

“You don't have to,” I say. “I doubt you'll like it.”

He still takes a bite. The immediate reaction is small – the slight widening of his eyes and the fall of his cheeks – before he smiles at me. “It's different,” Aiden says, smiling as he swallows the bite. “Not bad.” He opens his mouth for another.

I put my hand on his arm. “If you don't like it, you don't have to eat it. It's fine.”

“I said I'd try it. One bite does not a try make.”

“Aiden, I've accepted the reality that not everyone likes pineapple and ham on pizza. You do not have to eat it if you don't like it.”

He takes another bite, chewing it slowly. Mournfully. It's painfully comical. “You know,” he starts, a muscle in his neck tensing, “the pineapple really – it really – ” His facial movements are so minuscule, but his eyes scream that this is an affront to food.

I snort and look away. “Just spit it out. You hate it. It's okay.”

“Oh, thank God.” Aiden barely touches me as he moves past me, around the island, and spits into the concealed trash can. It sounds like gagging as he does, but he straightens out, wipes his mouth, and turns back to me. “Sor – ”

“What was that?” Carly Spencer asks. “Are you okay?”

Andrew Larson joins her. “Bruh, what did you eat?”

“I'm okay,” Aiden says. “Tom offered me a slice of the Hawaiian pizza, and I wanted to try it.”

“Who's Tom?”

“Tom. Cabrera.” He points to me, literally five feet away. “He worked stage crew.”

“Him?” Andrew Larsen asks, pointing to me. “I thought his name was Toby.”

“He worked with us?” Carly Spencer asks. “I don't recognize him.”

Aiden's easy expression stays put; he laughs it off, but I know it irks him. His hands curl around his legs, nails threatening to dig into his jeans, tense and uncomfortable. He doesn't say anything, though. “No, it's always been Tom,” he says lightly. “I'm just not a fan of Hawaiian. Sorry, Tom.”

I raise my hand at him. “It's fine.”

“What are your plans for the summer?” asks Carly Spencer.

“Well, I'm...actually going back to talk to Tom. I don't – ”

“My family has a lake house in Lake Tahoe. Want to come? We're heading out for the 4th of July.”

Aiden smiles. His eyes drift to me for a moment before turning back to Carly Spencer. “I don't know. I'd have to check what my parents have planned for me, first.”

I glance around the kitchen. I should've guessed it was a bit selfish of me to occupy so much of Aiden's time, even if he likes me. He's a popular guy, obviously well-liked. Honestly, everyone likes Aiden Martin. I don't think I've ever heard anyone say anything bad about the guy. Maybe that's just his meticulous efforts to stay so perfect-seeming. Maybe that's just who he is.

Which is why I don't want him getting any closer to me. He deserves someone who, for starters, has a presence.

I look at my phone. It's almost eleven now, and I turn and walk out of the kitchen towards the front door. I glance out, looking for Mom's 2007 Accord, but the street is empty. Michael Corrigan is smoking on the front steps. He's on his phone, swiping back and forth on Tinder. The smell permeates through the front door.

I call her. It rings and rings and rings before going to voicemail. “Hey, Mom. When did you say you were picking me up? I thought you said ten. Call me back?” I text her basically the same thing. My hands numb. I want to go home. Escape this.

“You okay?” Aiden asks. He drifts into the front hall with a quiet urgency that makes me sick. “Carly and Andrew were joking about your name before. I swear.”

“It's fine,” I whisper, waving it off. “It's...I get it. It's what comes from being so quiet. So...” I laugh. “...mildly depressing. No one remembers you.”

“That's not fair to say.” Aiden leans forward slightly and reaches up to scratch the back of his neck. The tableau is shy, and his ears burst a pale pink. It's kind of adorable. “You're one of the more considerate people I know. I know you helped wrap everyone's gifts. I don't know a lot of people who wouldn't get a little perturbed by someone getting their name wrong, especially one as simple as yours. Tom. Tom.” He likes how it sounds. His lips curl up a little further every time he says it. “But you, you're so cool. Cool as a cucumber.”

I crack a smirk. “I don't think I've heard anyone say that other than my mom.”

“I'm bringing it back with a vengeance,” Aiden says. His tone is smoother than honey.

I look down at my phone again. “Keep trying. I don't think it's going to catch on.”

Aiden cocks his head to the side. “Your mom's late. Do you need a ride?”

“I don't know what's going on.”

“I can ask someone to drop you off if you want.” He glances back into the living room. “I think Marcus Vaughan is heading in your direction.”

“No, no. It's okay. I can ask myself, I swear. But thanks for pointing me towards Marcus.” I step back, pocketing my phone. “Thanks, though.”

“No problem.” Aiden smiles. It fractures in minuscule motions – a twitch here, a tense muscle there – and it probably pains him to keep things so cordial. It is a bit bizarre, borderline amazing, to me that he draws such a line in the sand on what he can get away with. He doesn't ask more of people, he's never asked me to do anything I didn't want to, and goes so above and beyond that the guy could probably get away with cheating on every single one of his finals and that wouldn't diminish his overall popularity. He offered to throw the cast party, buy the pizza, and get the cake without anyone's help. “Just let me know what's happening?”

I nod, saying nothing, before trekking off to Marcus Vaughan. He's standing towards the sliding doors in the living room, talking to Amanda Thompson, Will Stewart, and Olivia Jordan. The guy stands at least a head taller than most people, and perpetually has a scowl cast across his face. Despite this, the former crew hand is, apparently, really easy to get along with.

With the right people. “Hey, Marcus?”

He turns to me. “Hey...you.”

“Hi, Taylor,” Amanda Thompson says.

I sigh internally. “Can I ask you a favor?”

“What?” he asks. His voice is flat, and he glares down at me.

“You...live in Oakwood, right?”

“Yeah?”

“Could you drop me off when you're heading out? I live in Moorfield, but I wouldn't ask you to drive me all the way there. Just to Oakwood, and then I can walk.” It'll still be about forty-five minutes on foot, but at least I'd be heading home and not bothering Mom. Or bothering anyone else, for that matter. “My...ride's running late, and I don't know when they're coming.” I look at him. “That okay?”

“Sure,” he says. “Yeah, that should be okay.” Marcus Vaughan pulls out his phone. “Don't know when I want to leave. Maybe in, like, ten minutes, but I'll come get you when it's time?”

“Yeah. Sure. That's great, thanks.” I try to smile as if the request isn't that much of an imposition, but Marcus just glares at me.

“Why didn't you ask me, Taylor?” Amanda Thompson asks, breathing slightly shorter. Her shoulders are tenser than they were a second ago. She straightens up, trying to loom over me, and her tone is steady, masked by upbeat words. “I live out that way, too. Well – ” She bobs her head back and forth, pursing her lips. “I'm in Livingston, but kind of the right direction.”

“Oh, I...didn't want to impose.” Something prickles in my stomach. “Livingston's too far off the beaten path for you to drive.” I glance at Marcus Vaughan. “If it's not too much trouble, I mean. If it is, I can find another ride.”

“It's fine,” he says. “Stay around. Again, we'll leave in, like, ten minutes, okay?”

“Sure. Yeah. Thanks.” I turn and walk five steps before Aiden's in front of me. I jump.

“Glad that worked out?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I say flatly. “Sure.”

“You're tired,” he points out. “Need something to drink? Coffee? We have more pop.”

“No, I...” I wipe my hands over my face. My forehead is still a bit sticky from the show earlier today. “Thanks, though. I'll, just, wait until Marcus is ready to leave.”

Aiden nods. He lingers, eyes studying me slowly, taking me in like he's never seen me outside our school uniform. He steps forward, hands folding behind his back. Fidgeting out of sight. “This was fun,” he says carefully. “We should do this again sometime. With everyone, I mean,” he tacks on quickly, easy smile never faltering.

Irritation builds in my throat for a moment. I guess it bothers me that Aiden doesn't even attempt to take a shot, even if I would turn him down anyway. He's never asked me out for anything, even platonically; he's never asked anyone else out; he's always, just been nice. Conversations have been nice. Interactions have been nice. Everything that he's done has been nice. Pleasantly, excruciatingly, wonderfully nice. He doesn't even have my number; he's too scared to push that line. “Yeah, we should,” I say without thinking. I glance around the living room, realizing how few people are left now. I check my phone. It's one minute to eleven. Mom still hasn't gotten back to me. “I'm...going to let my mom know I'm getting a ride home.”

“Okay,” Aiden says. “Remember to take some of the pizza with you, okay? I'll box it up.” With that, he turns and goes back into the kitchen.