Conventionally Yours (True Colors 1)

Bizarrely, a lot of other tourists did kiss the dusty bricks, taking pictures of one another doing it.

“You can go ahead,” I said to Conrad, getting my phone back out. “I’ll take the picture.”

“Nah. Think I’ll spare my lips.” He gave me the sort of smile I hadn’t seen from him before. Kind of sly and silly at the same time. My insides fluttered, as confused as the rest of me. I had no clue whether to smile back, and before I could decide, the moment passed, his smile tucked away as he wandered over to look at a plaque.

Back on the bus, the close proximity seemed worse instead of better, because each time Conrad leaned forward to hear what the guide was saying, our shoulders collided and heat snaked all the way down my arm. Back at the museum, my body continued to buzz as if I’d licked a battery, and I was rattled enough to not protest when Conrad said he’d drive to our next stop. We’d lingered far longer than our planned half-hour break, but I wasn’t as put out about that as I would have thought, the experience of seeing Conrad so happy more than worth it.

As he drove, I studied my pictures of him with the various cars and exhibits, trying to pick out the best ones to send Professor Tuttle and Jasper, who had texted Conrad that he was back safely and that his sister was in stable condition. I liked the way Conrad’s hair looked like a golden halo in the sunlight and the way his grin showed his dentist-ad perfect white teeth when he stood next to some big-time racer’s favorite car. I kept noticing details about him that had never registered before—the breadth of his shoulders, the size of his hands relative to his lean arms, the crooked collar of his shirt. Off-kilter, I hit send on a couple of pics before I could obsess further.

We had a stop in Terre Haute, and I reluctantly let Conrad break the no-food-in-the-car rule on the way there so we could make it before the store closed. No one was doing cosplay at this stop, thank goodness. The owner, Blake, was a skinny guy with a goatee and was younger than most small-business people, probably in his early thirties or late twenties.

He seemed especially taken with Conrad, in the way that everyone back at Gracehaven in the Safe Space Alliance had been at first. Part of it was undoubtedly that Conrad was a friendly guy, one of those people who radiated confidence and easy popularity. People simply wanted to be his friend. But there was something else in Blake’s demeanor too—the same sort of puppy-dog expression and tendency to follow Conrad closely, laughing too loudly at whatever he said.

I’d known him long enough to predict how this usually played out. Conrad would laugh along, lean in closer than appropriate, be all casual and familiar as though the other guy was a long-lost best friend, and then, inevitably, the rumors would filter in that they’d hooked up. Now, I didn’t really think Conrad would go off with this guy for a backroom tryst, leaving me holding the equipment, but if Blake touched Conrad’s arm one more time, I was going to throw something. Possibly Blake.

“It’s too bad you guys are trying for St. Louis tonight. I’d love to take you out for a drink after we close.” Blake spoke to both of us, but his eyes were firmly on Conrad.

“Yeah. We need to press on.” Conrad sounded far more reluctant to get moving than I would have, and that made my neck muscles tense. “But we do have time for a quick game if you want us to film one.”

“Of course. We need the publicity.” The store was a small, freestanding building with mismatched windows and a cramped interior with all the merchandise shoved against one wall to make room for some game tables. “Do you want to play each other since your rivalry is like the thing on the show? Or one of you could play me.”

“It’s not a thing.” I refused to believe people were tuning in simply to see Conrad and me bicker. It was the Gamer Grandpa analysis that was the draw, not us. “And I’ll play you.”

“Be glad you’re not in costume,” Conrad joked to Blake, only increasing my desire to win. I chose my deck full of big, rare creatures with expensive cards that had taken me years to assemble and that utilized a complex strategy to win. It seldom lost, and I wasn’t expecting much from this wannabe Romeo. However, Blake had my least-favorite style of deck—the pest. Lots of blocking my ability to attack, lots of card stealing, lots of rule bending, and just an all-around pain in the neck to play against. This type of deck rarely won, but it tended to make winning a slog for the other side.