Warning: RWB spoilers ahead.
Some say the best love stories often take time.
Emery Chernychevsky has had a crush on Cameron Brooks since he can remember. Watching him date different girls all throughout high school was nothing if not pure torture...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
"Do you ever get the urge to jump off a cliff? I mean, not in an 'I wanna end it all' kind of way but just you know, to see how it feels."
"I'm pretty sure how it feels is called death."
Ian and Allison's voices tore him off his reverie, reminding Emery that he wasn't alone in the shed slash storage room slash where Blake keeps his stash of empty seashells since he was five. He counted them, and so far there were at least eight mason jars full of mollusk exoskeletons confined together in a chest box marked "Blake's treasures, keep out!", and he's yet to check the termite-infested cabinet at the back. It helps that five-year-old Blake took the time to label all of them— a few by size, a few by color, and a few by what he thinks are "generic and boring seashells".
Emery sighed.
This is why he doesn't love waking up early. When he wakes up early, he always finds himself caught in the middle of random shit like organizing baits and arranging Blake's seashells collection, unable to say no.
There's a story here.
The three were swept up in a tidal wave of junk after Blake woke up this morning and decided it was a good idea to wage war against his friends, and by war, he means clearing out the junkyard that is their storage shack, the dingy shed just a few steps away from the house. Emery had sworn to himself that he'd never step foot in it after imagining all kinds of things that must be infesting in a place nobody ever frequents to, but there's such a thing as speaking too soon.
"My cousins and I used to clear the basement every year, trust me it's fun." Blake had welcomed them with empty boxes tucked under one arm. "Sometimes we find weird shit and memorabilia my grandparents owned from the war."
"You know I'm starting to think these cousins of yours aren't real," Ian told him, and Allison choked on a laugh.
Blake narrowed his eyes at them. "They're real," he said. "So is our friendship so would you guys do me this favor?" He stretched his arms out, offering the stack of empty boxes, old dusters, and the likes.
The kitchen was quiet but for the only three people in it; Allison brewing her coffee, Ian scanning the fridge for any leftovers, and of course, Emery, who were also—and it comes in great despair to them—the only ones around for Blake to hound. The rest of their friends, those who were strong enough to avoid putting up with any of his shenanigans, remained asleep in their rooms.
"Should've just stayed home," Ian grumbled to himself before half-heartedly taking the boxes off Blake's hands.
"Thanks, love you, you're the best," Blake gushed. "I'll be at the basement. I'll go wake the others up."
That was what he promised ages ago, yet nobody else came.
So yeah. That's how Emery, Allison, and Ian's breakfast turned into an episode of American Pickers. How they went from scraping moss off antique paddleboards to talking about plummeting from cliffs, Emery wasn't so sure.
