“I should leave,” I say, pointing vaguely the way I came.

“Don’t go. You’ll miss the best part of the show. Any minute now, the store manager will walk out here to judge my work and find me wanting.” He approaches me and stops in front of the line of yellow tape, brushing dirty hands on his jeans. His black T-shirt is splattered with white paint and even tighter up close. I didn’t realize he was so muscular these days. I mean, good God. Is that from working in the boatyard? I’m not sure why that bothers me so much … why I’m even noticing it. I wish I wouldn’t.

“Never mind,” I tell him, a little agitated. “I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

“Oh no. Stay. The loss of my dignity in a public space is so very special,” he says, kissing his fingers like a cartoon chef. “Must-see. You’ll love it. Which is, I assume, why you’re here, to wallow in my misery.”

Anger heats my chest. “You know what?” I say, pointing a finger at him. “You’re kind of a jackass.”

He’s surprised by my outburst. Then his mouth turns upward, dimpling at both corners. “You’re just figuring that out now?”

Huh. Hold on. He’s smiling? Like, not sarcastic-smiling. Okay, maybe a little sarcastic, because he’s definitely smirking at me. But it’s more playful than mean. And there’s something else there … something different that I haven’t really seen since I’ve been back in town.

I think he’s … happy.

Like, the tiniest sliver of happiness. It fades quickly, but I know I saw it. Like a sighting of Bigfoot in the woods, or a UFO in the skies at night. It’s exciting … and a little bit sexy.

“I should’ve brought a camera and taken photos,” I say, pushing my luck a little.

“Definitely should have,” he says. “Could post those online and get all the likes and hearts and re-likes and re-hearts.”

“True. You’re famous now. Working-class hero, smashing a town elder’s window as a symbolic protest against privilege and colonial pedigree? Well done. I think all of Beauty High’s going to rise up and stage a march for you.”

“Very funny.”

“Shepard Fairey will create poster art with your face on it. People will wear it on T-shirts and paint murals of it on sides of buildings.”

“And you’d rather it be your face?” he says. “You want all the fame and attention?”

“Attention, no. The cold, hard cash that comes with fame? Maybe. Film is expensive, and as you’ve pointed out, the Nook isn’t a high-paying gig.”

He laughs. “All right, respect. Seeing as I’m all out of cash these days myself …”

Yeah, that. I glance at the boarded-up window that he’s working to pay off.

He glances at my portfolio.

We look at each other.