Spencer’s never late for dinner, so when he flicks my ear from behind at 5:50 I’m not surprised; I catch his hand and give it a stern slap on the wrist.
“Bad, Spencer. Keep your hands to yourself.”
He rolls his eyes delightedly. “Yes, Mom.” He wrestles with his snow gear and finally heaves into his chair. We exchange the usual updates on boring class and his stupid roommate and garage door openers that don't work in the snow, and stuff our faces with spicy burgers.
“Yeah, and I found the sheet of paper where they were trying to name me. It’s surreal. It goes Oliver space Cromwell, with a bunch of possibilities for a middle name. I guess I’m, like, glad they picked Spencer. They could have gone with, say, Preston.” He shudders, then looks up, grinning. “You have mustard.”
“Shut it, heathen.” I primly wipe my lips. “So wait, how’s Melissa? I still haven’t met her.” I aim for casual, miss by a mile.
“She’s great. Like, absolutely fantastic.” He has that dreamy look on his face again.
“You just don’t want to introduce us cause you know she’ll like me better than you.”
“That’s exactly it. You two sail off into the sunset and I’m just out of the picture. Done.” He laughs too loud. But then he looks me in the eye.
“I mean, I figure by this point you’re not going anywhere,” he says seriously.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I mean, like, we’ll be sticking together for a while, Pool. I mean, I already tell you about my garage door habits. And visa versa.”
“True.”
“So I’m just saying, I’m not going anywhere anytime soon.”
“That’s… bizarrely sweet, Cromwell. Also, I hope you know that I’ll be calling you ‘Preston’ from now on, because, hello. Hilarious.”
“Fine, but as punishment I’m not giving you a nickname. I know you like them.”
“Damn it. Asshole.”
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