yours.

[18] Jasper

"No, no, you can't just change the subject--"

"Well, I just did." I hop off the curb onto the dark pavement of the road, but not before looking both ways. Multiple times.

Miles strides into the street without looking. "And I'm changing it back." I roll my eyes as he barrels on, "How do you not like soccer? Or just, like, sports? As a whole?"

I cross my arms, drawing the long sleeves of my shirt to my chest. "It's boring," I say simply. I ignore Miles' wince. "And there's no point. You can run back and forth across the court -- or field, whatever -- but it's not going to change anything. There's still going to be crying babies and starving children and world poverty outside the stadium."

Miles stares at me. "That's... dark."

"And winning one game hardly means anything, does it?" I add on, unable to stop my rant. "You can lose the next, and then your last victory is invalid. The statistics keep switching back and forth, and back and forth..." It takes me a moment to realize Miles has stopped walking. I turn back on the pavement to face him, scanning the road briefly for oncoming traffic.

He's watching me curiously, his green eyes locked on mine. I don't know why he does this -- staring at me constantly -- but it does nothing to help my racing heartbeat. I deploy my go-to strategy of rolling my eyes to break our eye contact. 

"You're staring again."

He starts toward me slowly, keeping his gaze trained on me. "Sorry. Bad habit." He joins me in walking, and together,  we make our way out of our neighbourhood. "I didn't know sports could be so... existential."

Now I stare up at him. "That's the biggest word I've heard you use."

"Shut up."

I nearly grin. "It's true." We turn right, following my path to the nearest shopping centre. "Where are we going?"

"Wherever."

"Wow, so secretive."

"Why are you like that?" Miles asks suddenly, and my eyebrows rise in surprise. "You're so..." He grasps for a word. "Dissatisfied. All the time." I bristle at his words, and he amends, "I don't mean it in a bad way, it's just... You never really seem happy. I mean, I've never even seen you smile."

I watch a spider's progress up a tree to our right as we pass. "That doesn't mean I'm unhappy." But the words feel sour even as I speak them, the lies they carry only twisting my gut further. "I just... don't smile, often."

"Or at all."

"Okay, well, how am I meant to be all smiley with you acting... strange all the time?" I kick a pebble in our path into the bushes beside us and hear a strange rustle emerge from within. "You're so stubborn--"

"I prefer 'persistent.'"

"--and you never just leave me alone--"

"Do you want me to?"

His question halts me for a moment as I wonder what my summer would look like without him. Boring, most likely. And lonely. Very, very lonely. "No," I answer softly. And it's the truth.

We walk in silence for a moment, and Miles cranes his neck to watch clouds pass overhead. Just as I'm about to warn him not to stare at the sun, he asks, "What's your favorite season?"

"Winter."

"Ah, yes, the time of dead trees and freezing temperatures."

I shake my head. "And snow and hot cocoa," I correct. Things I used to enjoy as a child. "What about you?" I ask, because I'm sure he wants me to. "What's your favorite?"

"Summer, definitely," he says immediately. "I like the heat. And the sky's cool, too."

"Right, the gorgeous gray of horribly destructive thunderstorms." I nod solemnly. "Makes sense."

"Oh, come on--"

"It's true." I shrug and peer up at the blue sky above us. Not a bad sight. But I don't tell Miles that. Instead, I huff, "Miles, where are we going? I don't like just walking aimlessly."

"You don't like anything," he teases, and I feel my ears warm. Not true. "And why can't we just walk?" He stops himself. "Wait, no, I know why. It's because it's pointless, right? Like if we're not walking purposefully, rainforests will keep burning down."

"What?" I falter, momentarily startled. "Wha... no, I don't -- I don't talk like that."

Miles slings an arm over my shoulder as we reach an intersection, and every muscle in my body goes taut. He grins down at me as a caged sense of fear dawns on me. "You know what? I know where we can go." My voice is quiet as I ask where, and he says, with utmost mysteriousness, "The boardwalk."

* * *

"The boardwalk" is surprisingly impressive, with dozens of shops and vendors lined up by the beach, which I haven't even considered visiting until now. Miles guides me down along the wooden pathway, pointing out places he's visited before with his friends.

I know Miles has friends -- he's talked about them before -- but for some reason, the idea that he's taking me somewhere he's gone with them feels... strange. I start to resent his friends for having all these shared experiences and memories with him that I'll never really understand. And maybe that's wrong of me, to feel... possessive over someone who's not even mine, but...

I don't care.

Weaving through masses of tourists and residents alike, we reach a storefront promising "America's #1 Best Ice Cream." I snort at the tagline and prepare to continue along the path, but Miles nudges my arm with an elbow, and I glance up at him.

His eyes are wide when he says, "This place is great. Do you want any?"

"No."

He takes my arm and steers me to the small store, coming to a stop at the end of its short waiting line. "Well, I do." We wait for nearly ten minutes before arriving at the front of the line. Just before it's our turn to order, Miles asks me, "What do you want?"

I want to stick to my initial claim and tell him I don't want any, but the sweet aromas wafting from behind the counter are just too enticing to resist. Studying the menu above the counter, I wonder aloud, "Do they have banana?"

"Banana?" Miles repeats, laughing. "All the flavours you could have, and you choose banana?"

I glance at him, defensive. "What? It's good."

Miles shakes his head, calming his laughter enough to step up to the counter and order. "Hi, can we have a chocolate chip cone and a banana..." He trails off, turning to me. "Cup or cone?"

"Cone, obviously."

"Oh, yes, obviously. And a banana cone, please."

The worker behind the register, some girl around our age with purple hair and a silver nose ring, smiles at Miles. "Will that be all?"

He smiles back. "Yup."