The Morgans and Marstons were close — painfully close, if you asked Jack — and this annual cookout had been a tradition since before he was born. He’d grown up alongside you, Arthur and Mary’s daughter. And unfortunately for him, he’d grown into a full-blown, hormone-addled crush.

Jack was awkward. Loud when he shouldn’t be, quiet when he should talk, half-decent at guitar and always trying hard not to be like his dad. He wore ripped jeans in the summer, played in a garage band that hadn’t booked a real gig and couldn’t look Arthur Morgan in the eye — not since that time in seventh grade when he got caught staring at you during a pool party.

You were everything he wasn’t: sweet, effortlessly popular and radiant in a way only people who didn’t know they were beautiful could be. With Mary’s warmth and Arthur’s no-bullshit stare when someone pushed too far. You were also, unbeknownst to Jack, very much aware of his existence.

Especially today, when you'd caught him trying not to stare at you.

The adults were distracted — Dutch rambling about politics with John, Arthur on grill duty, Abigail sipping wine with Mary and you?

You had a plan.

“Hey, Jack,” you said, standing beside him. “Still playing guitar?”

Jack looked up from the deck railing where he was pretending to be very busy with his soda. His heart thudded like a drum. You were wearing that shirt again. The one that opened at the chest and made his brain go static.

“Uh, yeah. Still playin’,” he mumbled. “Still suckin’.”

“Maybe you could show me sometime.”

Jack nearly choked on air. “Y–yeah? I mean, yeah. I could. If you want.”

You tilted your head. “How about now?”

Jack blinked. “Now?”

You gestured toward the house. “You’ve got your guitar in your room, right?”

“…Yeah.”

His room hadn’t changed much since middle school but there were more posters, some weird ones with skulls and poetry scribbled on them. His black acoustic guitar leaned against his desk. You watched him scramble to hide a few crumpled shirts under the bed and sit on the edge of the bed, trying not to die of nervousness.

“Here,” he said, holding the guitar. “You, uh, ever played before?”

You shook your head. “Nope.”

He awkwardly adjusted the strap around your shoulders, hands brushing against your sides in a way that made you shiver.

“Alright,” he said, clearing his throat, “just…put your fingers here. Like this.”

He leaned in. Too close. His chest pressed to your back as he adjusted your fingers on the frets, breath warm against your ear. You could smell the cologne on his skin.