18 Other scenes I thought about: Blade ripping his shirt off when they win regionals; the shot of Blade in the fourth episode emerging from the shower with a towel around his waist; Blade shirtless and skating in an effort to get in extra practice after Kenna accused him of not trying hard enough… if you’re sensing a theme here, and that theme is shirtless, you’d be correct.

The Story of Ros, Part V

My guess is that the Lily Pad will be empty the morning The Trojan Women opens. The idea is a quick in-and-out: a surgical strike for things I need. Fresh clothes. A new book. A toothbrush. I’ve been brushing my teeth with my finger this whole time, and my teeth are furry and unhappy, crying out for bristles and mint. I bring a tote bag, and when I get there (mercifully the premises are vacant), I pack everything as quickly as I can and get ready to go.

But the plants are howling for a drink. Who’s been taking care of them? Just a quick splash of water. And that’s when I notice that on the counter, there’s a lumpy cake, just begging to be eaten.

No sooner have I grabbed a fork and moved it into the cake, do I hear, “Well, well, well.”

Touchstone descends the spiral staircase, his hair mussed from sleep. With my fork in the cake, I feel caught, like I’ve fallen into the trap of a pitcher plant.

“The prodigal son returns,” he says.

“What are you doing here?” I say. “And what does prodigal even mean?”

“I don’t know about prodigal, but I’m here because I overslept,” says Touch. “We’ll have to ask Celia. Don’t worry; she’s not here.”

Touchstone grabs a fork and joins me in the cake, assures me his stomach will be fine. We eat in silence, standing by the counter, carving off bites. The pitcher-plant feeling starts to ebb, and it feels almost comfortable, to be eating this way with Touchstone. We always bonded over sugar: sour straws that burned a hole through our tongues, cookies that left the corners of our mouths sandy with crumbs.

“This cake is wet,” says Touchstone finally.

“‘Wet Cake’ could be the title of my next poem,” I say.

“I’d read it,” says Touch. He moves his fork to a drier portion of the cake. “So are you coming back ever, or are you spending the rest of the summer shacked up with the Fightin’ Flower Child?”

“I thought you liked Jess.” At Lovers’ Lagoon, Jess had shown Touchstone the basics of how to fight: how to stay light and steady on his feet, how to throw a quick jab. Touchstone and Jess had both laughed their way through it, giggling giddily as Touchstone made fists.

“I do like Jess,” says Touchstone. “I also like you.”

I snort.

“Celia misses you,” says Touch.