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CHAPTER FIFTEEN I Think I Like You
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TWO TEENAGERS ON OPPOSITE sides of a conflict—one deemed below the Avengers' paygrade—sat on a bench together, side-by-side. Neither of them made any mood to take down the other, to settle things once and for all. Instead, they just sat, their shoulders brushing every so often, taking sips from the paper cups of coffee they'd gotten from the nearby café. It had been a spur-of-the-moment decision to go inside, but the weather was slowly growing colder, and the chalkboard by the door had boasted that today, everything was half-off. Neither of them could resist the temptation of that.
It hadn't taken them long to migrate out of the Olivier apartment and out onto the streets. Both because Cecelia had been afraid that someone would overhear their conversation—especially as it became progressively louder—and because they needed to stretch their legs. Cecelia had wiped the tears off her face and prayed that her parents wouldn't notice her red eyes. Peter had shoved his hands in his pockets, awkward around the family, and gave them a far too polite goodbye. Then, they were off, back into the pollution-filled NYC air, until they'd reached the café and, later, the little playground at the end of the block.
Most of that time was spent in silence. Cecelia was attempting to process what Peter had told her—though he couldn't have known what he was talking about; he was the most naïve person she'd ever met, after all—and trying to convince her steaming hot cheeks to cool down to a reasonable temperature. She'd never cried in front of someone she hadn't been close to, and never in front of someone who was technically her enemy. Peter had to be judging her for it. Even if he'd been stupidly nice to her, bringing her tissues and a glass of water.
That was probably what he was thinking about now, too. It was probably why he'd hardly said anything since they'd left. Or maybe he was calculating the best way to take the company down. He now knew about Uncle, and he'd likely seen Toomes's face, too.
Cecelia really should have done something. Instead, she just sat. A light breeze drifted over her, and a stray strand of hair tickled her nose. She brushed it away with far more force than was required.
Beside her, Peter cleared his throat. He'd had his nose tucked into his phone for the past five minutes, which would have really made it easy for Cecelia to take him by surprise. Even with his freaky senses. But now, he was looking straight at her, his eyebrows furrowed slightly. The decaf latte in his hand—apparently, he couldn't have caffeine, lest he risk literally bouncing off the walls—was nearly finished. Cecelia still had a quarter left of hers.
"What?" she asked. She'd been spending this time staring at the playground. It was one of those dumb ones with woodchips that would always get into your shoe. The only slide was metal, guaranteeing that the children who went down it during the hotter months got burned alive, and it had two swings, one of which was broken. Still, a few kids were playing on it now, screaming and shoving each other in competition for the monkey bars. A mother with a stroller sat on the playground's other bench, looking frazzled. At least the baby within was asleep.
