He smiles, and it really lights up his face and brings out his blue eyes. “You were fine. I just—well, I got a little caught up in my head, I guess.”

I don’t ask him about the rest because it seems kind of unfair. Instead, we go about setting up for the kids, and sure enough, fifteen minutes later, they’re racing into the room like a herd of cows ready for grazing.

Actually, I don’t know if cows are fast. I’ve never really interacted with a cow.

Devin gets all the kids as organized as possible, then starts handing out the craft supplies. They eat it up, screaming and shrieking and laughing as they get their paper and start drawing nonsensical shapes detailing their “perfect summer” on it.

“They’ve got some real talent,” I say sarcastically, and Devin laughs.

He hands me a sheet of paper and a notepad to rest it on, and we share a box of colored pencils between us.

“Who sets the curriculum?” I ask.

He smiles. “Not me. Otherwise we’d be doing some slow jams and a dance contest.”

I roll my eyes. “I wouldn’t want to see that.”

He laughs again.

I don’t even know what I’m going to draw until I find myself sketching out a horrible rendition of the bookstore. There’s a rectangle for the little counter and a bunch of smaller squares for the stacks of books lining the floor that I really hope Drew has managed to pick up by now. Another, longer rectangle for the back door and then some weird polygon that’s supposed to resemble the cash register.

“What’s that?” Devin asks, and I quickly cover my paper with my hand.

“Rude. No peeking.”

Devin chuckles, returning to his own little nature display on his sheet. Little mountains, a field of flowers, a wide-sweeping river. I’m kind of mad because it’s actually pretty good, like he’s drawing from reference or something.

“I didn’t know you could draw,” I say.

He smiles, adding a layer of shading to the sweeping waves of his river. “Well, you don’t really know anything about me, do you?”

And actually, he’s right about that. I mean, I know he’s trans—nonbinary, but no idea where he falls on the spectrum. He’s from Miami, we used to go to the same school, but other than that, I can’t really say a whole lot. Hell, I don’t even know what his last name is.

“So, what are you working on?” he asks again.

I sigh. “It’s the bookstore where I met my boyfriend,” I say.

“Was that this summer?” he asks.

And honestly, it sounds like an accusation. You’re that attached to a guy you’ve known a few weeks?