so I could grow into them.” She did it to my sister, too. “For picture day one year—can’t remember what grade, maybe second—she made me wear this plaid shirt and khakis.”
“Aww.”
“No, not aww. It was embarrassing. I was seven and looked like a tiny nerd—what self-respecting dude wants to wear plaid and khakis on picture day? I wanted to wear my Captain America T-shirt and mesh track pants.”
“Uh-huh, says the guy with a surprise boner.” She’s eating and listening attentively, sprawled out next to me in what she called her “Thursday dressy jeans” and a light lavender sweater. It looks soft and touchable.
Er.
Yeah.
Focus, Phillip.
“So I’m in this outfit, and my mom insists on taking a picture before I leave, and since I’m mad about it, I slouch and make the dumbest face. When she developed the film, I found the picture and tore it up, but she found it and dug it out of the trash and taped it back together.”
“That’s actually adorable that you’d do that, all mad and angry.”
“There’s more,” I explain. “The picture gets pinned to the pegboard, all taped up. When I was in college I was dating this one girl and she had a photography class, so she took the photo and repaired it, or whatever it is photographers do to fix pictures—you couldn’t even tell I’d torn it up.”
“That was nice of her!”
“Yeah.” My head is resting against the wall and I look up at the ceiling, studying the lights and the ceiling tiles. “I have an older sister, Lisbeth. She’s an asshole, thinks everything is a big joke. One weekend she was home, she took a picture of the picture on her phone because my mom still has the damn thing on the pegboard, even to this day, and every once in a while, Lisbeth will superimpose what everyone calls ‘Little Angry Phillip’ onto different pictures of me. Like the family photo from my cousin’s wedding—little angry me is in the background looking like a tiny serial killer.”
“Can I see? You must have it saved on your phone.”
I do, because Lisbeth sends so goddamn many of them in the family group texts. Me at Comic-Con with Little Angry Phillip. Me and my buddies at a bachelor party with Little Angry Phillip. Christmas pictures. Christenings. Vacations.
Like when does she have time for all that dumb shit?
I thumb through my gallery, selfies and photographs of construction sites whizzing by as my finger nudges the feed along, Spencer scooting closer so she can peek. Shoulder brushing mine. Knees touching.
My body reacts.
Damn—it’s either been too long since I’ve had sex, or I’m ridiculously attracted to her. Or both.
I clear my throat, not sure what else to do. Point to a photoshopped picture of myself with my younger self that my sister created on her laptop as a joke. “See?”
Spencer leans farther over, breasts brushing my arm. “Dude, that is hilarious! I love your sister.”
“Don’t. She’s a monster.”
“Oh come on, she can’t be all that bad if one of her favorite hobbies is to torture you via humiliation.”
True. She does like doing that. “Isn’t that also one of your favorite hobbies?”
Spencer nods. “That and knitting.”
My brows go up and I turn my head to look at her. “You knit?”
“No, but I want to knit a poncho.” She sighs deeply into her spoonful of wonton soup. “I took a knitting class once and lasted exactly one hour—it’s just not the sport for me.”
“Sport?”
“I’m not athletic, and it takes hand-eye coordination.”
“You’re such a weirdo.”
“Aww.” She lays her head on my shoulder as she says it. Classic chick move. “You’re the sweetest. I love it when you compliment me.”
“That wasn’t—” I stop myself short because in reality, calling her a weirdo was kind of a compliment. “You’re certainly not like anyone I’ve ever met.”
Spencer lets out another flattered “Aww” and smirks. “Stop, you’re making me blush. I’m overcome.” She pauses. “Even though I have no idea what you mean by that.”
I do.
I mean: Spencer is funny and sassy wrapped up in one. Sweet and giving. Kind to everyone (everyone but me, ha). Generous with her time (and food), always willing to answer questions around the office. Willing to stand and listen to our co-workers drone on and on about themselves or their free time, boasting about their dating lives or something they did over the weekend.
Spencer is not boastful or spoiled or catty. She’s not stuck-up or selfish.