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In 1990, the high school dropout rate for Dolly Parton's hometown of Sevierville Tennessee was at 34% (Research shows that most kids make up their minds in fifth/sixth grade not to graduate). That year, all fifth and sixth graders from Sevierville were invited by Parton to attend an assembly at Dollywood. They were asked to pick a buddy, and if both students completed high school, Dolly Parton would personally hand them each a $500 check on their graduation day. As a result, the dropout rate for those classes fell to 6%, and has generally retained that average to this day.
Shortly after the success of The Buddy Program, Parton learned in dealing with teachers from the school district that problems in education often begin during first grade when kids are at different developmental levels. That year The Dollywood Foundation paid the salaries for additional teachers assistants in every first grade class for the next 2 years, under the agreement that if the program worked, the school system would effectively adopt and fund the program after the trial period.
During the same period, Parton founded the Imagination Library in 1995: The idea being that children from her rural hometown and low-income families often start school at a disadvantage and as a result, will be unfairly compared to their peers for the rest of their lives, effectively encouraging them not to pursue higher education. The objective of the Imagination library was that every child in Sevier County would receive one book, every month, mailed and addressed to the child, from the day they were born until the day they started kindergarten, 100% free of charge. What began as a hometown initiative now serves children in all 50 states, Australia, Canada, and the United Kingdom, mailing thousands of free books to children around the world monthly.
On March 1, 2018 Parton donated her 100 millionth book at the Library of Congress: a copy of "Coat of Many Colors" dedicated to her father, who never learned to read or write.
REDRUM
Pairing: Mac (Warfare) x Wife!Reader (and Travis and Waylon!)
Summary: The kids think they're being sneaky... so instead of busting them, Mom and Mac decide to teach them a lesson.
Contains: Two little brats, references to The Shining, plotting evil.
Words: 2.1k
Mac slides back into bed beside you so slowly, you put your book down to see what's wrong. He sits lightly in his spot, chewing on his bottom lip instead of picking his book back up or lying down.
"What's wrong?" you ask.
He looks to the door he just closed after a post-reading pre-bed bathroom run, as old people must, and he puffs out his cheeks and blows out a long breath. Oh, boy.
"Babe," you prod.
"The kids got into my DVDs," he sighs, shoulders slumping. "I don't mind, but I feel like you and Waylon's mom might, and…" He shrugs.
"What are they watching?"
"The Shining."
"The kids are watching The Shining?!"
"Yeah."
"Those same kids who said they were gonna have a Ninja Turtle marathon tonight?"
"Same kids," Mac confirms.
"Those little brats," you say in disbelief.
"Are they in trouble?" Mac asks, tracing the pattern on the comforter.
"Yeah, what should we do with 'em?" you grin.
"I can just go get it," he offers, not meeting your eye. "Doesn't have to be a big thing. It's not that bad a movie, I just don't wanna have to… I don't want 'em to have nightmares."
Mac glances up at you without lifting his head. He looks more scared than the kids would be if you walked in and busted them watching an R-Rated movie right now.
And then, you get it.
Mac's been thinking about his mom a lot lately. You don't imagine she cared much about the movies he watched as a kid, but those little heathens did sneak into the living room and fish an R-Rated movie out of Mac's collection when they told you they were having a Turtle Night. You suppose a different kind of mother might take this the wrong way.
But they're good kids. They didn't pick some raunchy sex comedy or a gory slasher. They picked a classic that you probably would've watched with them anyway, if they'd asked. They just went about it the wrong way. Perhaps this is the "pushing boundaries" thing you've been hearing so much about.
"Baby," you whisper, scooting closer to him and wrapping an arm around his back. You rest your chin on his shoulder, and he leans into you. "You're a parent now."
"I know, I just…" he sighs in frustration. "I don't wanna be the bad guy yet."
"You don't have to be," you whisper, kissing his shoulder. "We're not gonna break this up."
"We're not?" he asks in surprise.
"Nope." You lift your head from his shoulder. He looks at you curiously. "We're gonna teach them a lesson."
Mac's brows scrunch in the middle.
"Like…?"
"Like…" you repeat, looking around the room for inspiration. You spot a small weight for light home workouts that you definitely don't use as often as you should, then hop out of bed to pick it up. "Think rolling this down the hallway might sound like a tricycle?"
Mac's face lights up, and he grins evilly.
Yeah, you're gonna blow his mind tonight with some creative parenting.
You had to act fast. You schemed, and you tiptoed through the house, and you did the best you could do with what you could get your hands on. Now, there was nothing to do but wait. So you and Mac went back to bed, making sure to leave the door cracked a little. You didn't want to miss the reactions to all your hard work.
"Was this mean?" Mac wonders aloud.
"I prefer to think of it as creative," you counter, snuggling up to him while you wait. "They're never gonna forget this."
"…in a tell-it-to-your-therapist kind of way?"
"In a my-parents-got-me-so-good kind of way," you chuckle. "They're gonna be mad for a little bit, but they'll be laughing about it by breakfast time."
"Parents," Mac breathes, like he still can't quite believe he's one of them.
"Fun ones," you assure him. "The kind we wish we'd had."
Mac kisses the top of your head.
Travis's bedroom door opens. It's go-time. You both lift up just a little bit off the bed, so you can hear better. A child tiptoes across the hallway and goes into the bathroom. The door closes. You count the seconds as you wait for the scream.
There it is.
You wrote "REDRUM" in red marker on a piece of paper and taped it to the back of the door. Whoever just peed - you're guessing Waylon, by the sound of the scream - saw it when he went to wash his hands. But hey! It all went according to plan! The kid emptied his bladder before the terror set in, AND washed his hands without being told to! Young feet skitter out of the bathroom and back into Travis's room, and the door slams. Frantic whispering. The door creaks open again. Two sets of feet creep across the hall and into the bathroom. A quiet curse, which definitely came from your child. Whispers. And then… the kids return to the bedroom.
"Did they just go back to Travis's room?" Mac whispers.
"Yup."
"Thought they'd come in here and raise hell."
"If they did that, they'd have to admit they know what REDRUM means," you explain. "Then they're busted."
"Now what?"
"I don't know," you shrug. "Travis didn't come with a manual."
"I did."
"You did?" you question.
"Yup," he answers. "Uncle Sam issued it along with my rifle and boots."
You snort with laughter, and Mac squeezes you tight and rolls you onto your back. You stare up at him, seeing his eyes shine in the darkness.
"I didn't know it could be this much fun," he admits. "Having a family, I mean."
Sometimes he says things that make you want to cry and/or kiss him until your lungs collapse.
"Baby, there's no one I'd rather torment my child with," you assure him, reaching up to cup his cheek.
He chuckles and leans in for a kiss.
"What's next?" he whispers.
"Tricycle," you grin.
You both get up as quietly as you can and head to the hallway. There's a light coming from under Travis's door, but it's not flickering like the TV usually does. It must be his lamp. You feel along the floor and pull up the fishing line you taped to it earlier and tug, and the weight you tucked around the corner comes rolling toward you. You reel it in quickly, and Mac grabs it off the floor and closes the door before the kids have time to get up and look in the hallway.
But they don't.
You and Mac wait behind your bedroom door, but Travis's never opens. Did they fall asleep? Are they hiding under the bed? You look to Mac, and his face mirrors yours with confusion.
You tiptoe out into the hallway and put your ear to Travis's door.
Whispering. Not scared whispering. Scheming whispering. You know this sound, and it sends a chill up your spine. They're not shaking in their PJs, they're planning revenge. If you don't end this now, you'll be at war all week. And you'd really like to get some sleep at some point.
You feel Mac's warmth at your back, and look to him and wink before making your move.
You throw open Travis's door, and two rule-breaking brats stare up at you from the floor with deer-in-headlights eyes. They're lying on the rug with what appear to be battle plans in between them.
"HEEEERE'S MOMMY!"
Travis seethes, knowing he's been busted, and Waylon grabs the paper and shoves it under the pillow he's lying on. Very subtle.
"Whatcha writin'?" you ask, leaning casually against the doorframe. Mac mirrors you on the other side.
"Our letters to Santa," Travis deadpans.
"Mhm," you hum. "How was your Turtle marathon?"
Waylon shifts uncomfortably, but Travis sits up and sighs.
"How'd you know?"
There is no universe in which you're telling this kid that his new step-dad ratted him out.
"You were too quiet," you answer. "It was suspicious."
"You scared Waylon half to death," Travis glares.
"Which is why you're not allowed to watch horror movies," you remind him. "Because they're scary."
"This one wasn't that scary!" he argues.
"Which is why if you'd asked," you continue, "we could've all watched it together. Mac could've explained how they did the creepy stuff. We wouldn't be waging war on each other when we could all be sleeping peacefully. Without nightmares. What if you'd picked something that was really scary? Or gross? You wanna dream about blood and guts and dead clowns all night?"
"Ooh, what movie's that?"
"Travis," you deploy The Warning Tone.
"Sorry," he sighs.
"For?"
He takes a deep breath before listing his crimes.
"Watching an R-Rated movie and taking Mac's DVDs without asking and corrupting sweet innocent Waylon who did not want to do this at all and putting your blanket in the freezer and…" Travis's eyes bulge.
"What?"
Travis smacks his forehead.
"I put your favorite couch blanket in the freezer," he groans.
"Why?"
"Because the guy froze in the end!" Waylon finally speaks up, just as Travis points at you and yells, "You started it!"
"Okay, alright," you say, holding out your hands in a 'chill' move and trying not to laugh. "Lessons learned, truce called, etc. Are we all ready for bed now?"
The boys nod. All three of them.
"You guys okay?" Mac finally chimes in. "Not scarred for life or anything?"
"We're fine, Mac," Travis says calmly. "It's just a movie."
"Yeah," Waylon echoes, voice a little shaky. "Just a movie."
Your kid's not as sensitive as he used to be. He's getting less scared and more adventurous as he grows up. But Waylon… Waylon looks a little scared. Perhaps even terrified.
"Bed," you say simply.
Waylon gets up and heads toward his bunk, but Travis stays put.
"Can we watch cartoons?" your kid asks. "Just... something funny to get us to sleep?"
You should send them to bed in silence. Let them reflect on their rule-breaking. But Waylon, blinking up at you with his big doe eyes, looks like his hedge maze nightmares have already begun.
"It was your stolen property," you address Mac, "what do you think?"
You're setting him up for a win. You busted them and sent them to bed. Now the step-parent gets to swoop in and be the hero who let the kids ward off the nightmares with cartoons.
He stares at you, looking for guidance, and you hope he gets the "YES" you're trying to send him with your eyes.
"Okay," Mac says eventually, turning to the boys. "Cartoons only, though."
"Cartoons meant for kids," you clarify. "If I hear South Park in this house, there will be hell to to pay."
"Yeah!" Waylon says happily, dropping back to his sleeping bag on the floor. Travis hits a button on the remote and extracts The Shining from the DVD player, bringing the disc to you. You pass it to Mac.
"G'night, boys," you say quietly.
The boys say goodnight, again, and you back out of the room and close the door behind you with a sigh.
"What's wrong?" Mac asks.
You lead the way to your bedroom before turning back to Mac.
"I think I traumatized the wrong kid," you whine, falling into his chest. His arms circle you, holding you tight. "Travis is getting bolder in his old age, but Waylon was fucking terrified."
"He's alright," Mac chuckles. "Travis knew it was you the whole time. Which means Waylon knew, too."
"Us," you remind him. "You're an accomplice now."
"Us," Mac repeats. "Should I go get your blanket out of the freezer?"
You snort, having forgotten all about that.
"That was a good one," you laugh. "He inherited my creativity, God help us."
"Wouldn't have it any other way," Mac chuckles.
"You say that now," you tease.
"All work and no play makes Mac a dull boy," he winks.
"All prank and no sleep makes Mom more likely to fight somebody at the zoo tomorrow," you groan.
"C'mon then," Mac insists, pointing you in the direction of the bed and pushing until you reach it. You crawl in, and Mac pulls the covers up over you and leans over to kiss your forehead.
"I'm gonna get your blanket out of the freezer and sweep for more damage," he smiles. "Be right back."
“what are you doing this weekend” i am going to fantasy land. i am hiding under the covers in bed. i am making things up. i am contemplating events that didnt happen. i am talking to fake people. i am listening to my tunes. i am envisioning scenarios
Boys' Night
Pairing: Mac (Warfare) x Wife!Reader (and Travis and Waylon!)
Summary: Mom escapes… uh, has to go on a grocery run, so Mac stays home and hangs out with the boys for a bit.
Contains: A very quiet supply run, manly bonding, treats for all!
Words: 700ish
You love your kid.
And his best friend.
Really, you do.
But when Mac offered to stay home with the kids while you ran to the grocery store and picked up a pizza, you happily took him up on it.
You've only been gone on this errand for about an hour, but you feel recharged. You're ready to rejoin the party, embrace the chaos, and force these kids to eat a little salad (in a bag in the backseat) with the giant pizza (riding shotgun) that you're bringing home.
After parking beside Mac's truck in the driveway you love - so much better than the constant sideswiped-on-the-street situation in California - you grab the pizza box and head in. You'll send the kids out for the rest of the groceries. It's the least those little goblins can do.
You can hear them laughing when you open the door. Instead of announcing yourself, you close it quietly and follow the sound of cackling that's coming from the kitchen.
The boys have busted out a deck of cards, and the table is filled with junk food. There's a big pile in the middle. Did Mac teach the kids to play poker? Are they gambling with the last of the snacks?!
"I raise you five M&M's!" Waylon says confidently, pushing a small pile of candy into the heap in the middle of the table and grabbing a giant pretzel stick to munch on.
Travis mumbles something, then stretches over the table to add his contribution to the pot. He's got his back to you, sitting on his knees in the chair. He must be very invested in this game.
"Hm…" Mac hums, so focused on the cards he's holding up in front of his face that he doesn't notice you're staring straight at him.
You clear your throat, and they all jump in surprise. Waylon drops his cards. Travis whips around. Mac stares like a deer in headlights.
All three of those dorks have pretzel rods hanging from their mouths. They're not chewing on them. Not eating them. Just holding them between their lips. Like cigars. The boys grin proudly, but Mac's face reddens. He tries to let the pretzel rod subtly drop by opening his mouth… but it sticks to his lip, and he has to reach up and pull it away.
"Hi," he says bashfully.
"What'd I tell you kids about smokin' in the house?" you tease.
"Always use an ash tray?" Travis guesses.
"They're just pretzels," Waylon laughs.
"I know," you roll your eyes playfully. "Well, guess you might as well try beer this weekend, too. There's some in the car with the rest of the groceries. If you want it, go get it."
Travis and Waylon scramble to the door, and you bring the pizza to the counter, crossing your arms before turning back to Mac. He looks up guiltily from his place at the table, blinking those pretty eyes at you like he's going to be in trouble for playing cards for candy with the kids.
"You know a pretzel's not gonna work on me, right?" you ask, trying your best to keep a straight face and a threatening voice. He stares, unblinking. "So if you're thinking there's gonna be a repeat of the last cigar-smoking incident, you've got another thing comin'."
Panic flashes through Mac's eyes, and when he realizes what you're talking about, he throws his head back and laughs. You grin, walking toward him. He scoots his chair back, and you wrap an arm around his shoulders and perch on his sturdy thigh while you survey the table.
"Who's winning?" you ask, comparing the sizes of the piles of junk food.
"Diabetes," Mac grins up at you.
You cackle as the kids come in with armfuls of grocery bags.
"What's so funny?" Travis asks.
"Nothin'," you answer, rising from the best seat in the house with a kiss to the top of your husband's head. "Let's get these groceries put away before the pizza gets cold."
"I knew it was gonna be root beer," Waylon laughs, holding up a six-pack for you to see on his way to the pantry. You wink at him.
"Do we have to eat salad too?" Travis whines, scowling at the lettuce he just pulled out of the bag.
summary: Corroded Coffin or Die Photo Prompt Server Challenge | You and Nick go on your movie date.
warnings: the awkward babies are back for their date! hands brushing in the popcorn
notes: I have been working on this in one way or another since my debut of Nick in February lmao. Hope this was worth the wait! Feel free to let me know if there are any mistakes!
You get to the theater just a few minutes earlier than either of you had talked about— seven minutes if you want to be exact. But instead of quelling your nerves, it adds to them. It's starting to feel more like an hour the longer you stand there in front of this stupid theater and hope to God you've not just been stood up.
You sigh, checking your watch before walking to the doors. They're heavier than you remember them being when you go to pull them open. Cold air from the inside rushes over your face and bare thighs, carrying the thick smell of artificial butter that clings to everything inside— the carpet, the counters, the walls, you're sure it'll be clinging to you by the time you leave.
The carpet beneath your sneakers is tacky and slightly resistant when you lift your foot in some places from all the years of spilled sodas. The glass in front of the ticket booth is smudged with fingerprints, that are just being added to by the child who's dragging their entire palm across it while his mom digs through her purse. You’re freezing in here. Today was not the day for shorts. You pull your jacket closer to you as ice drops down into the metal tub behind the concession stand, clattering loudly. You stand off to the side of the room. You'll give him a few more minutes before you resolve to seeing this movie alone.
Then after about two minutes, the door opens again behind you letting in another strip of cool evening air. Goosebumps raise up your arms before you even have a second to turn around. Nick steps inside the building and into the lobby then. He pauses just past the threshold and lets the doors swing shut behind him with a hollow thud. He's not wearing his Circuit Shack polo, and it dawns on you that you've never seen him out of that polo. He's just in a nice worn in dark hoodie and jeans that look softer than the ones he wears to work everyday. His hair falls forward a little over his eyes.
He scans the room and then shoves his hands in his pockets as his eyes stop on you. There's a split second where you think he might turn around and high-tail it home. But then he smiles at you and pulls one hand up, waving. "Hey."
"Hi," you smile back, although your nerves feel like they're going to swallow you whole.
He walks towards you, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "You've been waiting long?" He asks.
"Not really." You say softly as you glance at the clock above the concession stand. "I didn't want to be late."
He nods quickly, adding, "Yeah, me either. Thought five minutes would be a good buffer."
You both look at each other for another moment, his hazel-brown eyes glinting under the yellow-gold lights above you. The silence that grows between you after your greeting isn't all that empty. It's full of popping popcorn and the beeps of arcade games just off to the side of the lobby. You smile and then lead the two of you over to the counter where a teenage girl— a bit younger than the two of you— stands and pops her gum.
"What movie?" She asks without looking up from the list on the counter top in front of her.
Nick looks over at you before he answers, not wanting to overstep. You smile and tell her your movie choice.
She nods, finger scanning the list for the movie as she punches something into the register. "For two?" She asks.
Nick clears his throat and nods. "Yeah, for two." He says softly. He pays in cash again. And when the ticket slides under the glass, he reaches out to grab them for the two of you. You smile and follow the directions to your theater. You walk down the aisles together, in a half full theater. You stand at the bottom, looking up at the stadium seating and pick which row you'd like to sit in and then Nick gestures for you to go first, smiling when your shoulder's almost brush each other's. Someone a row ahead of you unwraps a candy bar. The screen glows against both of your your skin, illuminating him in shades of reds and orange. "Here?" He asks.
You nod, "Yeah. Middle's good." You say softly. This is safe. Definitely neutral territory. You slide into the row and find a seat. The rough fabric scratching the backs of your knees. He sits in the seat beside you, his arm settling close enough to yours that you can feel the warmth radiating from him through the thin layer of air between you. The arm rest serving as the only separation between your bodies.
"Sooo." He says, staring at the blank screen ahead. The lights are still on, people are still filing in. "You like these kind of movies?"
Not really, but your nerves wont allow that to leave your mouth. "I like their air conditioning." You say instead.
He huffs a small breath, relief that he wasn't the only one nervous about this washing over him completely. "Okay."
Another preview starts then, loud enough that the whole theater vibrates around you. A baby a few rows up lets out a sharp cry. The bass even rattles through your ribs. Nick flinches and his knee knocks into the side of yours.
"Sorry." He whispers, throwing you an apologetic smile.
"It's fine." You smile back. But neither one of you move away from the other.
When the movie starts you are painfully aware of everything but the plot for the first ten minutes. You can pinpoint the way he shifts in his seat, and the soft sound of the scratching of his hand over his jaw, even the faint smell of his cologne when he leans back far enough. Your own breath sounds way too loud in your ears sitting this close to him.
Halfway through the movie, he leans over to you. There's a smile on his face and you cant help but smile back. "I'm gonna go grab popcorn." He whispers. You just nod, in fear of saying something dumb in return. And he stands up, disappearing into the darkened aisle, walking out of your view.
When he comes back, he's holding a bucket that's comically large tucked in his arms and a soda cup in each of his hand, dripping condensation down the sides. He nearly trips over someone's foot in the row and mutters a quiet apology as he quickly tries to slide back into his seat. He hands one drink to you and then sets the popcorn down on the armrest between you. "I didn't know what size to get so I just… got the largest one."
You nod and smile as you both settle back in. You reach in first, the popcorn is warm and definitely a bit overly salted. Your fingers come up slightly shiny in the reflection of the screen. But it's the best popcorn you've ever tasted. You reach in again as his reaches in at the same time.
Hands collide. Just a brush of fingers that freeze in their place on both ends. The movie keeps playing while someone even laughs a few rows up. The screen flashes bright white and blue. Neither one of you can seem to pull your hands away for a moment and then he retreats. You follow suit, sitting there quietly.
He swallows, eyes ahead. "I was… really nervous today." He says softly, barely above a whisper.
You keep your eyes on the screen too, if you look at him right now you may just combust on the spot. "Me too." You say softly.
There's a pause, then a sigh. You see him hang his head out of the corner of his eye. "I almost didn't come."
Your head turns then, heart clenching in your chest. This was the day you've been dreaming about. Had he not wanted it too? "Why?"
He shrugs. You can see the pink creeping up into his cheeks even in the flickering light from the screen. He moves the popcorn bucket to rest on the empty seat beside him and he sighs, settling back into his own seat. Arms resting on the arm rests. "I don't know. I just… I don't really know how to do this stuff." He says softly.
"I don't either." You admit. He may be just a little too thankful for that. Your eyes flick down to his hand and where yours is just a little too close for comfort. You weigh your options, internally, and then smile a little, shifting closer. You curl your fingers towards your palm, so the back of your hand is brushing against his and take a deep breath. His lips tug up and his pinky reaches out, hooking around yours. You let him, with a heart beating so hard you sure he can feel it right through your hand.
"Okay." He says softly and you nod.
The rest of the movie feels different after that, the mood a little more relaxed between the two of you. Your shoulders tilt together naturally and you love the way it feels. When he leans in to whisper something about the scene you'd just watched, his mouth is close enough to your ear that you can feel the warmth of his breath. You shiver, he asks if you're alright, you pretend it's the air conditioning kicking up despite the jacket you're already wrapped in. When the credits roll and the lights come back on, you both blink at each other and wait for the theater to empty out before you move towards the exit yourselves.
The night air feels nicer than when you came in, even the cold doesn't punch you as hard when the door opens. You attribute that to feeling like you’re walking on the moon now. The sky is a deep blue fading into an inky black, the streetlights that line the parking lot glow orange and buzz faintly into the night. "You want me to walk you?" He asks softly.
You just nod.
The sidewalk is a bit uneven and your sneakers scuff against the small cracks. Silence grows again between you. But silence with Nick doesn't feel bad. Your arms brush against one another once as you walk. Then again, then a third time. Then his hand finally fully slips into yours and he smiles. "Thank you for inviting me."
"Thanks for fixing my Discman." You say softly.
He shrugs as he looks down at the pavement. Still walking, still smiling, still holding your hand. "I was hoping you would one day."
"What? Invite you out?" You ask.
He nods, "yeah."
"I didn't think you liked me." You admit before you can even stop the little tidbit from leaving your lips. A dog barks as you pass their yard, but otherwise your neighborhood is quiet. Nothing but the crunch of yours and Nick's shoes.
His steps falter, but he quickly catches himself and keeps pace. "What?"
"You always looked so…" You search for the word and give up. "Not interested."
He actually laughs at that. It's soft but it's so real that his nose crinkles up while his eyes almost shut in a smile. "I'm interested. Believe me. I just don't know what to say half the time."
The confession makes your cheeks hot.
When you reach your house, the porch light is already on. Signaling that someone was up and waiting for your safe return. Moth's circle the light lazily, a zap ringing out any time they get to close. The steps creak when you take a step up and turn to face him. You're close now. Closer than you've been all night without a crowd to buffer it and your stomach feels like it’s falling out. He rocks back on his heels, that gives you a little space, and he smiles. "So… Monday?"
"At 12:17?" You smile back.
His cheeks brighten, pinking up so quickly you almost find joy in seeing him so shy. "Yeah." He nods.
You hesitate for a moment and just as he's about to let go of your hand, you pull him forward and place a kiss right against his cheek. He turns a shade of dark crimson, spluttering for words. You just smile, "I'm glad you ended up coming out." You say softly.
He looks at you, hazy eyed and what he thinks is in love, as he steps back. "Me too." He says softly and waves, then touches the kiss on his cheek and turns to head down the block. When you go inside, you can smell your mother's cooking wafting in from the kitchen. But you aren't sure how hungry you are, you just know that you can still feel your lips burning just from him.
