I can't deal with this, or rather, I don't want to, anymore. I wipe my eyes and sigh. “Aiden, I don't want to fight you, okay? I don't. If I can't get a hold of my mom, then you decide what to do for me.”

“What are you talking about? I don't want you walking home. You live, like, an hour away.”

“Don't you have a car?”

“I take the bus. My mom and dad took the car to the airport when they left.”

It strikes me as odd that, considering how well-off Aiden is, he doesn't have car. That he takes the bus like me, like the “poor people” around him.

I ignore the thought. “Just...if I can't get a hold of her, tell me what to do.”

“It's not a hard choice, Tom.”

I look at him. “But it's still a choice. I don't like this kind of shit.”

“We all make choices, Tom. When to get up. What to eat. Why is this different?”

“No, you don't – I know we do. I know that, but I don't like the idea of making the wrong one.”

Aiden's arms uncross. He takes a step closer toward me, leaning forward slightly as if he's going to take off running toward me. “What do you mean?” he asks, sitting down. He presses his hands firmly on the couch cushions before folding them in his lap. His fingers twitch and tense in nerves.

I frown. “It's like the butterfly effect. A butterfly flaps its wings, and a typhoon is born or something like that. For me, it's more...” I glance up. “I have a plan. I know exactly where I'm supposed to go, and I know how one small decision can wreck something down the line. That scares me.” Aiden's gray eyes on me scare me. “And knowing that, you – I just – it paralyzes. I know where I'm supposed to go. I know what I need to do, so – ”

“I get it,” Aiden offers gently. I take in a breath and look at him, knowing I have the posture of a scolded child, but he stares at me with his easy smile and sad eyes and adds, “I know what you mean. I do.”

I suck air through my teeth. “How? You are, literally, Mr. Perfect. I don't know if there's anything you can't do.”

“How very kind,” he laughs. It's short and quiet, but clipped. “I can promise you now, Tom, that I know what you mean. That paralyzing fear of doing something wrong.”

“You don't do anything wrong.”

His smile falls by millimeters. It's jarring, and I know I've cracked open a veritable Pandora's box that I don't think I can close. “You know my plan for graduation? My master plan that...” He snorts. “...way more organized compared to yours.” He looks at me. “All of it hinges on everyone thinking I'm perfect. That I can do everything.”

“You are.”

“No, I'm not.” He stands, knees cracking, and his arms hand limp. His hands curled enticingly by his thighs. “I think, if anyone really knew me, no one would actually like me.” Aiden says it so easily, with that easy smile plastered on his lips.

I grimace at the sight. “I think, if anyone actually knew you, they’d know how amazing you really are. You helped build the sets. You designed the lighting. You helped the sound people. You did every single thing besides actually act in the show. If that isn't perfect, I don't know what is.”

“I can't sew – I can't do any of the things that the costumers do. I just sat in the sewing room and talked to everyone. I got buttons and...zippers and strips of velcro. I can't build sets like you can. I painted a single spot with a dry paintbrush for two hours and talked. I almost stapled Sprocket to the castle set because I wasn't paying attention. The only things I'm good at are the technical stuff – the lights, the sounds – and Mrs. Daye still doesn't trust me with half of it. Just because I know how to fake it doesn't mean I'm perfect, but everything I've done hinges on people believing it.”

That curdles in my stomach. It makes my blood run warmer.

“That – ” He falters again. “I enjoy the process, and I do want to learn,” Aiden throws out quickly, his face unmoving, “but I don't want to make a costume too small because I didn't measure correctly. I don't want to build something that someone could get hurt on. And I don't want to – ” He draws in a slow, labored breath. He breathlessly laughs, and the air changes. “I'm scared it's getting too close to the end for me to learn.”

“That's a lie and you know it,” I snap at him. He recoils at my tone, and I don't mean for it. “I saw you. Caroline showed you how to use the sewing machine, and you made Lefou's vest thing. Esther taught you the dances to show people who weren't at rehearsals. You and Andrew painted the library backdrop for three days together when no one else could get to school because of that snowstorm. You are amazing, Aiden. You – ”

“You shouldn't say shit like that, Tom.” His eyes are down. His face is almost a bright red. His enticing hands are now fists. His shoulders are broad and pressed together.

“If you won't, I will. You are talented. You're amazing. You're so unbearably perfect that it should make everyone around you feel inadequate.”

His stare shoot to me. “You should say shit like that,” he says a little firmer than before.

“...why?”

“Because it – ” Aiden's breath catches. Eyes wide, jaw clenched. You shouldn’t give me hope like that, I bet he’s thinking. It barely shows on his face, masked by his easy smile. “People might get the wrong idea.”

“On what?” I ask, flapping my arms at my sides. “That you’re a decent person? That you work hard?”

“No, it – people might think you like me.” Vibrating like hummingbird wings. His stare is a mix of hope and fear. His brows are pulled up and together, and his easy smile is fractured. He still leans forward, clearly resisting the urge to close himself up.

“I do like you,” I say absentmindedly. Maybe not so absentmindedly, because I know what it sounds like to him.

He hums, trembling. Vibrating quietly intensifies. His face barely moves, but his eyes are now sparkling. “No, not – ” He laughs to lighten the mood, and to anyone else, it’d sound so easy, but to me, the sound is so heavy it nearly drowns the both of us. “I mean, people might – ”

“What?” I ask. “People might realize even more that I’m a depressing waste of space? Half the people here didn’t even realize that I worked with them. Most of them don’t even know my name.”

That throws him. His facade breaks in so many places: easy smile falling, eyes grow wide, leaning forward too far to feel natural, and his hands reach forward to touch me. Aiden recollects himself in a fraction of a second and steps closer. His hands cup together and rest against his stomach. “Don’t say that, Tom.” His face twists a little. His cheeks are pink, and the blush creeps up to his ears, like saying any of this is a breach of a secret. His expression, somehow, stays so easy and misleading. “You’re diligent and smart. You treat everyone with the same kind of kindness regardless of who they are. You might be a bit awkward and shy, but that isn’t a bad thing – you’re willing to help anyone who asks you. And I know you helped with all the gifts tonight.”

I didn't want to. They asked, and I couldn't say “no”.

“You know what's so admirable about you? You work hard. You work so much harder than half the student body, and you don't do it for recognition like half of them. You do it because you know what you need to do. And when you smile – ” He stops himself. I can almost hear how hard his heart is pounding against his ribcage. “You should give yourself more credit.”

I clench my jaw, frowning. I tear my eyes away. “You know what you need to do” echoes around in my head, hollow and anger-inducing. I dig my nails into my palms. “I don't want to,” I whisper. “I don't know if I can.”