Twelve Days: A Hillingham Hollow Romance

By Elizabeth Myles

Starry-eyed college freshman Tali Torres must complete an intensive twelve day Christmas-themed video project for her internship at the community newspaper. At the same time, she’s intent on cleaning up her supervisor’s messy personal life before Christmas arrives. The workload is far too demanding for only one person, even someone as energetic and hard-working as Tali. Fortunately for her, twenty-one-year-old Paul Fleming, a handsome stranger only in town for the holidays, steps in to help.

The attraction between Tali and Paul is instant, but while Paul seems only interested in enjoying some commitment-free fun over the winter break, Tali has sworn off vacation romances and hopes for something longer-lasting. Will one of them change their mind?

Content advisory: Twelve Days is a kisses-only romance. The story includes discussions of cyber-harassment.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Elizabeth Myles
• Release date: Nov 21, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215480762

Elizabeth Myles

Elizabeth Myles enjoys reading and writing lighthearted romance. Her favorite stories feature sweet heroines and noble heroes. She is a graduate of Lone Star College-Tomball and the University of Houston. Her prize-winning short fiction appeared several times in Inkling: The Creative Arts Magazine of LSC-Tomball, and her novel, Fear and Laundry, received a notable entry honor in the teen category of Shelf Unbound Magazine's Writing Competition for Best Independently Published Book. Shelf Unbound subsequently included Fear and Laundry in a special contest issue spotlighting the work of “some of today’s best indie authors.”Elizabeth’s other works include the paranormal romantic comedy series The Sharpest Kiss and the contemporary/paranormal series Halloween Hearts.Elizabeth and her handsome husband, Steve, live and run together in Texas. When she is not writing, Elizabeth can be found reading, cooking, or baking, often while listening to Nine Inch Nails and other rock music. She enjoys watching sci-fi and horror movies, and her favorite television shows are Supernatural and The X-Files. Connect with her at elizabethmyles.com, and for alerts about new releases, please sign up for her mailing list here: https://elizabethmyles.com/mailing-list/

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Twelve Days: A Hillingham Hollow Romance copyright © 2023 Elizabeth Myles

Cover by Steven Myles using images from Unsplash and Pixabay.

The cover image of this novel is used strictly for literary and illustrative purposes, and any models depicted in the cover image bear no relationship whatsoever to this work of fiction or to any of the characters or events depicted herein.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any person or persons, living or dead, events or locales is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce or transmit this book or any part thereof by any means whatsoever, without written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

This book is for my husband,

the hero of my own happily-ever-after

CHAPTER ONE

Hillingham Hollow, a suburb of Houston, Texas

December 11th

MY MOM AND dad often describe my older cousin Carissa as temperamental. They say she’s touchy because she was spoiled too much when she was a little girl. I’ve always defended her and said that she’s only moody because she’s an artist. Everyone knows creative types can be eccentric. But I don’t know. On that one day in the park…I kinda started to see my parents’ point.

That was the day Carissa knocked Paul Fleming to the ground.

It was December eleventh, I was out of school for winter break, and I was helping Carissa man her table at the Artisan Market in Hillingham Park. The Market was this big annual fair for local food vendors, crafters, direct sellers, and the like. As I mentioned, Carissa’s an artist. She can paint and sculpt, and she likes sewing rag dolls and other soft toys. But what she’s most extraordinary at is knitting. In recent years, her sweaters and other wearables had risen in demand at local consignment shops, and she’d done brisk business at the Artisan Market and similar fairs around the state. This year had to be her most successful yet, though. I had helped her plenty of times in the past, and I’d never seen her sell so many items in such a short time before. I’d been scribbling down special commissions all morning, too. It was way too late to secure a Carissa Dwyer original in time for this coming Christmas, but plenty of people seemed willing to wait until the new year to get their hands on some of her creations. At this rate, she’d be busy for at least the next six months.

Was that the last one we had in that size? Carissa asked me, sweeping a dark curl off her forehead and sighing. What felt like the twentieth customer in a row had just walked away from the table with a sweater bundled in one of Carissa’s personalized shopping bags, and now we finally had a second to ourselves to breathe.

I think so, but let me check. I sifted through a plastic bin sitting behind us and gave her a nod. Yep, last one. With a proud grin and a soft punch to her shoulder, I added, "Your business is blowing up, Carissa. Go, you!"

She allowed a small smile to twitch across her lips, but I could see she was rattled. She enjoyed selling, but due to her sensitive constitution, all the noise of the market and necessary interaction with customers wore her down fast. She looked pale around the mouth and eyes.

Hey, why don’t you take a break? I asked. Go grab a cup of coffee or something? I can keep an eye on things here for a while.

Oh, are you sure? Relief rang in her voice at the suggestion, and I knew she was only asking to be polite. She practically had one foot out of the stall already.

Positive, I said.

She cast a quick glance toward her remaining wares, and a frown tightened her mouth. Be vigilant while I’m away, please, Tali. I wouldn’t want a repeat of what happened in Grandbrook.

I swallowed back a sigh, knowing exactly what she was talking about—because she had reminded me of it so many times.

What had happened in Grandbrook was that Carissa had been selling on her own, without me or anyone else to help her, and someone’s kids had gone unwatched at the same time Carissa took a bathroom break. She came back to find a pair of little girls sprawled in the dirt behind her table, with several of Carissa’s pricier dolls gripped in their grubby fists. Carissa claimed she was as gracious as she could muster with the girls’ mom, but a squabble ensued anyway, and now Carissa refused to ever return to Grandbrook for trade days again. Never mind the fact that this incident was practically ancient history, having taken place more than five years ago now.

Don’t worry. I saluted her. Tali’s on the job, aware and alert. Go—take a load off.

She didn’t question me anymore. I watched her hurry out of the tent and down the aisle and then trudge up the nearby grassy rise, disappearing to where the food trucks stood parked on the opposite lawn. I busied myself straightening the few items left in her bins and then sat back and waited, confident that soon enough, more customers would come by to scoop up whatever was left. Within minutes, several people did show up to poke around. I answered questions and jotted down orders, and I was bagging up a pair of mittens when I heard Carissa’s voice carrying on the breeze. I couldn’t make out what she was saying, but she sounded louder than usual, and more shrill.

As my customers walked away, I glanced up with my hand shading my eyes and saw Carissa standing at the top of the hill, clutching a coffee cup and talking to a couple of guys I didn’t know. One guy was shorter than the other. The taller one was dressed in jeans and a gray-and-white raglan baseball shirt. The shorter one was in jeans, too, although his were baggier, and he was wearing a neon patterned sweatshirt with the hood pulled up. He was also holding up a cell phone.

I still couldn’t decipher what Carissa was saying to them—yelling, really—but I could see her cheeks burning pink and her eyes shimmering with fury. I froze, wondering what, if anything, I ought to do. Did she need my help? She looked upset, but…she was a big girl, and—despite what a nervous wreck I’ve probably made her out to sound like—I knew she could take care of herself. Even if there was anything I could do, I didn’t want to leave the table unwatched. Not after all those stern admonitions she’d hammered into me about Grandbrook.

Before I could make any decisions, I saw Carissa’s free hand shoot out and swat the littler guy’s cell phone aside. The cell phone went flying out of his grip, a flash of silver arcing high into the air before tumbling into the yellowing grass below—and that prompted the larger guy to take a lunging step forward. I had no idea what the bigger guy planned to do, and I’m sure neither did Carissa, but she didn’t give him a chance to try anything. She shoved him. Hard. The guy wasn’t huge—taller than her, yeah, but with a trim, wiry build—but even so, I wouldn’t have expected him to budge. She must have caught him by surprise, though, because the next instant, his right foot went out from under him, and he hit the grass, landing on one hand and knee. Great, I thought, gritting my teeth as I watched him fold. Two minutes into a confrontation and my cousin had already resorted to physical violence. I didn’t stop to think anymore, just abandoned the table and hurried over there.

Carissa! I anchored my knit hat to my head with one hand, pumping my other arm as I huffed up the rise.

Tali! She shot me an indignant look. What are you doing? Go back to the table!

"What are you doing? My gaze cut to the guy she’d shoved, who was still kneeling, inspecting the palm of his hand with a flummoxed look crimping his face. Meanwhile, his accomplice—who I now saw was only a kid, maybe thirteen or fourteen years old—had recovered his cell from the grass and seemed to be filming the goings-on. Which was the last thing I—or especially Carissa—needed. Who are these guys?" I asked her.

She gave a haughty shrug. Oh, I don’t know—just some jerks.

The guy on the ground glanced up at that. With a note of hurt sharpening his voice, he said, Hey. Why would you say that? You don’t even know us. As he frowned at my cousin, I took note that he had an arresting pair of gray eyes set in a lean, sharp-angled face.

Carissa didn’t seem to notice. She ignored him and kept her attention on me. Her eyes began to well with tears, and the tip of her nose turned rosy as she sniffled and sputtered out, "They were f-filming me, Tali. You know how I hate that!"

Yeah, I know it. She had a real hang-up about cameras, wouldn’t even let her parents film her for family home videos anymore. Not that I didn’t get where she was coming from. In a world where everyone carried a recording device around in their pocket at all times, it was hard not to be anxious about being caught on film doing something stupid. I often felt the same way. But this was the world we lived in nowadays, and in my opinion, that reality rendered Carissa’s phobia particularly inconvenient. Inconvenient for me, anyway, because when we were out in public together, she was often on edge, and I usually got to hear about it.

I hate it, Carissa reiterated through clenched teeth. It’s a violation of privacy. And then, noticing the kid staring at her through his phone, she moaned, "Oh, and look, they’re still doing it!" She darted behind me and ducked her head, as if to use me as a shield against the camera.

From the ground, the downed guy said, It’s okay, Miss. We’re not going to film you anymore. Braeden, cut it out. A sharp glance at his friend (little brother?) and then he bounced his attention back to Carissa. I’m sorry, he told her in an earnest voice. We didn’t mean to bother you.

His sincere tone made my eyebrows rise and also put me somewhat at ease. He didn’t look eager to turn this into any kind of fight, and for that, I could only be grateful. I turned to my cousin and said, See? He said he’s sorry. Everything’s okay now.

Carissa peeked past me, scrutinizing both guys again. Skepticism narrowed her eyes, but when she saw that Braeden had dutifully tucked away his phone, and that both he and Kneeling Guy were doing their best to look harmless, the set of her mouth softened.

As her lips tipped skyward at each corner, I saw both guys perk up in response, their faces brightening as if an angel had drifted down from the heavens and beamed at them. An understandable reaction. Carissa was pretty enough when she was irritated with you; she’d break your heart when she aimed a smile at you for even a second.

I like your sweaters, by the way. Kneeling Guy nodded at my buttoned-up cardigan, which featured red and green striped sleeves and a happy elf peeking out of the pocket, and then at Carissa’s pullover, which had a giant, jolly Santa Claus grinning from the chest.

Carissa touched her sweater’s neckline. Oh. You do? Thank you. Her smile crested full strength then, rising on her face like a sunset, and the guys’ eyes lit accordingly.

I smiled, too, telling myself that everything really was going to be okay now. Carissa and I were going to walk away from this incident with no serious harm having been done, and the rest of our day would be aces. This would not turn into another Grandbrook. Thank goodness.

And if Kneeling Guy had kept his big, fat mouth shut at that moment, that’s probably what would have happened. But of course he didn’t.

They’re hilarious, he added. Are you two going to an ugly Christmas sweater contest later? ’Cause you’re guaranteed to win. He added a derisive laugh that sounded loud as a thunderclap to my astounded ears and all but stopped the breath in my throat.

From the corner of my eye, I looked at Carissa. I watched as she blinked and glanced down at her sweater. She gulped and then, with a soft, sad-sounding gasp, echoed the offensive word, Ugly-?

I shot a warning look at Kneeling Guy but realized he didn’t need it. The horrified grimace on his face told me the truth of the situation had already landed on him like a crate of hammers. He murmured a mild curse, and I mentally seconded it. Um…Sorry, he added, and then winced, seeming to recognize how feeble it sounded.

The last of Carissa’s tears dried in an instant, and her forehead pleated into a frown. She pointed her index finger at herself. "I made these sweaters, I’ll have you know."

Of course you did, he muttered, looking even more pained.

She swung the finger around to point at him. "People pay good money for one of my handmade creations. Because, you know, not everyone does things only because they’re ‘hilarious’ or because they’re trying to be ‘ironic.’ Some people actually like Christmas. Genuinely."

The guy watched her for a moment and then, seemingly gripped by an irresistible urge to make more trouble for himself, said, "Yeah. People like you, obviously. I know I’ve never seen anyone quite so filled with the joyous spirit of the holiday."

Carissa dropped her hand to her side, and, for a few beats, stood dumbfounded before him, her eyes wide and her jaw hinged partway open. Then her chest heaved and an affronted cry squeaked out of her throat. She raised her coffee cup an inch, and my heart lurched, jolting my frozen body back into motion. I didn’t seriously think she would throw her drink on anyone, but, just in case, I caught her by the sleeve and reeled her nearer to me.

Hey, Carissa—

Don’t worry, Tali. Her bloodless lips barely moved as she cut me off. "I’m going. Someone’s got to go and watch the table. She lowered her coffee again but swept one last glare toward the guys. If y’all will excuse me, I’ll just be down there, selling some of my ugly designs to the local hayseeds…"

Kneeling Guy lifted his hand in a swift salute but was wise enough not to utter another word to her.

Carissa slipped past me, stumbling once in her ire but then quickly righting herself as she rushed down the rise.

Thankfully, a customer was already waiting at the tent for her, and, as soon as Carissa was preoccupied helping the person, I turned back to her new nemeses. I didn’t know what to do next—offer an apology on Carissa’s behalf, or demand one.

The dude on the ground tossed back his dark hair and flashed me a sardonic grin. "Well, she’s mighty fun. She a friend of yours?" His voice was nice, I’d noted from the first time I’d heard it, low in pitch, with a throaty rumble threading through it, and his accent was pure Texan. But something told me that, like me, he wasn’t from the Hollow.

No, I said, crossing my arms over my waist. Not my friend. My cousin.

Oh. Sorry.

Sorry you upset her, or sorry I’m related to her?

An entertained twinkle lit his eyes. "Well, I would never dream of insulting your family, Miss. Any more than I already have, anyway. So I definitely meant the first. I’m sorry I—we—made her so mad. He flicked a glance over his shoulder at his companion, who’d whipped out the phone again. Hey, Braeden, seriously. Put that thing away, would you? When Braeden continued to film, the kneeler slashed his hand through the air. I said stop." At that, Braeden sighed but lowered the device.

Kneeling Guy told me, "My name’s Paul Fleming, and that little snot obsessed with his cell phone is my cousin, Braeden Howard."

Braeden mumbled something impolite at him, but both Paul and I ignored it.

Hey, I said, addressing it to both of them. I’m Tali.

Tally? Paul cocked his head, squinting against the bright winter sun. T-a-l-l-y?

T-a-l-i. Short for Natalia. Torres.

He smiled. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Tali.

Likewise. I wasn’t sure if I meant it yet, but it was the courteous thing to say. And I did like this guy’s smile. And his eyes. His irises were the most comforting tint of dark gray, like an early morning sky after a light autumn rainfall.

I expected Paul to stand up. When instead he took a deep breath and stayed where he was, kneeling in the dirt and grass, I added, So. Are you ever going to get up again, or-?

Another smile was forthcoming, accompanied by a light chuckle. Believe me, I’m working on it. It’s just taking a while on account of this bum knee I’ve got. Doesn’t always want to cooperate with me.

Bum knee? I thought, looking him over. That was an ailment of which an old person would complain—something of which my Grandpa Dwyer regularly did complain—but this guy looked to be around my age, tops. At eighteen? I blurted.

I’m twenty-one, he said with a trace of defensiveness, and yeah. You can get injured at any time, you know.

Injured. Nice. Carissa had gone and knocked over a disabled person. No wonder he’d gone down so easily. A ball of guilt burned in my chest, and I stepped forward. Here, let me help you.

I reached my right hand toward his, but he held it up to show me that his palm was torn. A scrap of pale flesh hung loose, and a thin line of scarlet dribbled out, fat drops plinking into the grass.

Landed on a sharp rock, he explained.

Ooh, ouch, I hissed and started to switch stances. Before I could reach out my other hand instead, Paul took hold of my right with his left. The grip was awkward, but I managed to help him up. When he was vertical beside me, we were left standing hand-in-hand, like a couple out on a date. He was taller than I’d realized. Broader through the shoulders, too, with lean hips and long legs. His hand in mine felt dry and powerful. Virile. He smelled good, too, like manly soap. I slipped my fingers free of his and took a step back.

Who are you guys? I asked.

Just told you. Paul dusted grass from the knee of his jeans.

You know what I mean. What are you doing here? At the crafts fair-?

Christmas shopping. Buying tea cozies and such. Braeden here collects doilies. He glanced at his cousin, who snickered.

When I just stared at Paul, an amused tic lifted the corner of his lips. Not buying it, huh? We were shooting some stuff for Braeden’s channels.

Channels?

YouTube. TikTok. He’s on both.

My belly took a queasy dive, and I frowned, not liking the idea that these guys’ skirmish with Carissa was going to end up online later for people to poke fun at. Not liking it at all. It was basically Carissa’s worst nightmare. Which meant it was mine, too, because once it happened, I’d have to deal with the emotional fallout. There was a more than fair chance she would refuse to ever set foot outside her apartment again. Why in the world would these guys choose to waylay her like that?

As if reading my mind, Paul said, Braeden’s trying out this new segment, where he goes to random crowded places and asks whoever walks by to answer a few questions for him. If their responses are funny, he’ll post them…That’s all I was doing, giving your cousin the quiz. Or trying to, anyway. She didn’t take too kindly to it. Evidently. He glanced down at his damaged hand, a flinch crinkling his slate-colored eyes before he focused them on me again. He had very straight brows, I thought, and a strong, masculine nose.

Speaking of questions, I thought, swallowing. I had quite a few more for him and his cousin, but they would have to wait. After what Carissa had done to Paul, I felt I owed him some assistance.

Hey, come with me, I said, and I’ll take care of that hand for you, if you want.

Come with you where?

My house. It isn’t far. Just around the corner there. I made a vague gesture toward the street.

A slight frown settled on Paul’s lips. He cradled his injured hand, hesitating.

What’s wrong? I asked, but then remembered his other ailment. Oh, do you think walking so far will bother your knee?

No, it’ll be fine, he said. But…You’re going to take me into your house? A total stranger?

I glanced at his cousin. Braeden can come, too.

"So, two total strangers, then."

Should I be worried about y’all?

I’d think you ought to be worried about anybody you don’t know.

I wasn’t worried, though. Unless they were outright rude or hostile to me, it wasn’t in my nature to assign bad intentions to people, even strangers, and for whatever reason, Paul seemed trustworthy. But to make him feel better, I said, My mom works from home. She’ll be around. Woola, too.

Woola?

Family guard dog. The name was from an old science fiction series my dad liked. Our Woola was actually the latest in a long line. For generations, going back long before Dad was born, his family’d had a Woola.

Ah, Paul said.

So, do you want to come with me, or-?

Another puzzled frown swept across his face but was gone in an instant. He said, Yeah. I believe I do. Thank you.

Yep. Gimme a second to tell Carissa. I slid my phone from my pocket and sent her a curt text, explaining where I was going and that I’d be back later. I didn’t ask her permission. I knew she might get swamped with customers again while I was gone, and that she might even have to take down the tent by herself later, too, depending on how long I was away, but I didn’t feel terribly sorry for her. I loved my cousin, but…this was what she got for being ornery.

CHAPTER TWO

PAUL AND BRAEDEN fell into step on either side of me as I led them out of the park toward home. Paul was limping, but when I expressed concern about it, he assured me he was alright. At least we didn’t have far to go, only a little over a block.

My parents’ house was a red brick two-story surrounded by a short brown wooden fence. We’d only moved into the place six months ago, and it didn’t quite feel like home yet, but I liked it. This house was newer and bigger than our old one, and I’d always wanted to live in a place with stairs. My new bedroom was on the second floor, and it had a window seat perfect for reading.

As usual at this time of year, my parents were in the holiday spirit. My mom had mounted an enormous new wreath on the door, and my dad had strung up a near-absurd number of Christmas lights. I opened the gate and took the guys up a walkway lined with giant plastic candy canes that also lit up. Come nightfall, our house would be one of the brightest on the block. As soon as I unlocked the front door, Woola came running, eager to sniff the strangers and accept their pets.

Aw, look at the awesome pup! Braeden declared, crouching to scratch Woola behind the ears.

Paul was less impressed. Some guard dog, he snorted.

I looked down at the stocky pug mix, with his perpetually worried frown and lolling pink tongue. He hadn’t even barked when we came in. What, you don’t find him intimidating?

Paul smirked, and I stepped ahead of him. Give me a minute, okay? I want to let my mom know I’m here.

My mom, Kellie Torres, worked part-time as a remote executive assistant. She put in twenty hours a week via the internet helping a small law firm in Oklahoma with their administrative tasks. The job was full-time, but another lady all the way across the country, in Mystic, Connecticut, covered the remaining hours. This arrangement was known as a virtual job share, and my mom liked it because it allowed her a lot of flexibility, and to be home running the household most of the time. She also thought it was neat that her job was only possible due to modern technology. Welcome to the future! she was fond of saying about it.

As I neared my mom’s office on the ground floor, I heard her cheery voice bouncing around the room, and I knew she was talking on the phone. I walked to her door and peeked in and saw her wearing her headset, hand on her hip as she paced around in a sweatshirt, jeans, and her socks. I’d caught her listening to whoever was on the other end of the call, so she was able to mute her microphone for a second, wave at me, and say, Hi, sweetie!

Hi, I waved back. I would have walked away then, so she could get back to work, but her gaze swept past me and widened, and I knew she’d spotted the guys standing behind me. Mom unmuted her mic, said a quick goodbye to whoever-it-was, and ripped off her headset. There was a clatter as the headset hit her desk, and then, quick as lightning, she was standing in the doorway with me, curiosity radiating from her face.

Hello, she said to the guys, giving them each a friendly inspection.

Hi, they both answered.

Mom, this is Braeden and Paul. I met ’em at the park just now. My mom shook Braeden’s hand, but when she reached for Paul’s, I said, Paul’s hurt. His hand’s bleeding.

He held out his palm to show her.

Oh, you poor thing. What happened?

Carissa, I answered for him.

My mom gasped. She did that to him?

I don’t think she meant to, I said, although it was only partly true. My cousin had definitely shoved Paul on purpose. But I didn’t think she’d meant to really hurt him. At least I told myself she hadn’t. Anyway, I wasn’t trying to interrupt you. I wanted to let you know we were around, so our noises wouldn’t startle you. I brought Paul by to patch him up.

Mom gave a solemn, approving nod. Use our bathroom. Everything you need should be up there.

Alright.

She addressed the group of us, asking, Do any of you want something to drink? I went to the store this morning. There’s plenty of soda. Flavored sparkling water, or tea, too, if that’s more your speed.

No, thank you, the guys mumbled politely, and I shook my head.

Okay. She looked at me. Let me know if you need anything else.

Thanks, Mom.

Nice meeting you. She gave the guys another brilliant smile and then zipped back to her desk.

As we walked off, Braeden let out a soft whistle and said, Your mom sure is pretty.

Braeden, Paul laughed.

She is, Braeden insisted.

Thanks, I told him. I think so, too…You know, she was a beauty queen when she was younger.

I believe it…Your eyes look just like hers, he added, almost offhand. Before I could respond to that, he asked, So, where are you taking Paul? Upstairs? Can I stay down here with Woola? He hunkered down again, ruffling the fur of the delighted dog, who was still following us around, tail wagging and name tag jingling.

Sure. If you change your mind about the drink, the kitchen’s straight ahead on the right. Help yourself.

_____

When we’d first moved into this new house, I’d thought my parent’s bathroom suite was pretty spacious, but now that I was alone in there with Paul, it felt like the world’s tiniest broom closet. I could feel him watching me from what was several feet, but felt like mere inches, away, and as I opened cabinets and gathered supplies, I found myself holding my breath and feeling unaccountably nervous. I forced myself to exhale, went to the sink, and thoroughly washed my hands. I pumped more liquid soap onto my fingers and swiveled around to face him.

Okay, come here, I said, and he stepped forward, keeping his eyes on mine. I turned up the tap, letting the water rush out. He didn’t complain while I held his hand under the cold stream and lathered it up, but I saw a muscle in his jaw twitch.

So, what sorts of questions do you ask? I ventured, hoping to distract him from the discomfort.

What? he said.

The video you were making in the park. You said you and Braeden ask people questions and ‘if their answers are funny,’ he posts them online…What sorts of things do you ask?

Oh. Just general knowledge type stuff. You’ve probably seen these kinds of videos before. They’re all over the internet, decrying the sorry state of modern American education. I told Braeden there was nothing original about the idea, but it was what he was set on going with, and they’re his channels, so…

General knowledge? I shut off the water, glad to see Paul’s bleeding had stopped, and that his cut was small and shallow. I patted his hand dry, then uncapped a tube of antibiotic ointment and spread a thin layer over his palm. Light callouses roughened his skin, and I wondered how he’d earned those. From some form of physical labor, possibly, or from lifting weights, judging by the sculpted look of his upper body, even through his shirt.

He said, Yeah, like, ‘How many states are there in the U.S.?’ ‘Who was the first U.S. president?’ ‘What year did America declare its independence?’ Stuff like that.

You’re kidding. That’s it? My voice was incredulous as it echoed around the bathroom.

You know the answers?

I made an offended sound. Are you joking? Of course I do.

His gaze had dropped to his hand while I worked on it, but now he looked me in the eyes again. He squinted, a bit skeptical but