K.L. Walther

“Nice try, baby.”

“Oranges,” I murmured.

“My shampoo,” Wit murmured back.

“I love oranges.”

“So you love me.”

“I don’t want to be ‘pretty’ to you,” I tried again. “It means nothing. It’s sanitized and superficial.” I reached for one of his hands and squeezed it tight. “You pay me the most wonderful compliments. You say such interesting things no one has ever said before, like how affectionate I am, and smart and clever…and I can’t even tell you how good that makes me feel.”

The sea air—I loved that smell.

“Stephen!” Claire had giggled. “His name will be Stephen!”

“Stephen?”

“Stephen.”

Sarah had introduced us to Taylor Swift’s early albums that summer, and there was this one song I played from dawn till dusk and even sang in the shower. I just couldn’t get enough of it. Now I hummed the tune softly as if I still listened to it daily.

“Hmm, a Swiss Army knife.” A low whistle. “Impressive.”

Wit blushed through his bruise.

“My shampoo,” Wit murmured back.

“I love oranges.”

“So you love me.”

“You have a nice laugh,” Wit commented.