Now that Kennedy had made motions to forgive me, he would miss me. He would look around the beach for me. He would give me the third degree when I eventually returned to our home base on the towels. But I didn’t care about that while Brody was gazing at me.

I was alone with him. Neither of us was going anywhere for a while if we could help it, but I couldn’t think of a thing to say to him—which underscored why we were a terrible match in the first place. I wondered if he felt the same way about the title we’d been elected to. I said, “I’ve been racking my brain about this. Why do you think the class chose us for this?”

“Well, our study hall also chose Sawyer as our representative on the student council, so a good portion of our school is obviously on crack.” When he saw my face fall, he said, “The good kind of crack.”

“Crack—you know, the nutritional kind.”

“Yes.”

“Sawyer was the only candidate,” I reminded him. “We had no other choice, except to elect nobody. Though come to think of it, maybe that would have been better.”

“Look,” Brody said, almost impatiently, “here’s what I really think about the Superlatives, if you want to know.”

“Of course I want to know.” He was acting like people usually didn’t want to know what he thought, which was sad.

He searched my eyes for a moment. Not glancing at my ass or sliding his gaze to my cleavage, but measuring me, as if deciding whether he could trust me on another level.

He said slowly, “I think it’s pretty strange for the school to tell students we can’t kiss and we’re not supposed to hug each other in the halls, then make us vote on two people who should date but don’t. I mean, the other titles are bad enough. If you get a good one, like Most Athletic, you feel like you have to live up to it. That’s why I’m glad I didn’t get something like that.”

I wondered if he was telling the whole truth. I bet he would have appreciated getting Most Athletic. It would have caused him a lot less trouble than Perfect Couple That Never Was. I saw his point, though. He was already stressed out about being quarterback. Getting named supreme athlete of the school would have set higher expectations for him and hiked his stress level even more.

He went on, “And what if you got a bad one, like Most Likely to Go to Jail? That’s just mean to Sawyer.”

“Aw,” I said. “It’s sweet of you to care. Who did you vote for?”

“I voted for Sawyer, obviously, but it’s still mean. I’m predicting the school won’t vote on these titles much longer. Somebody’s going to sue.”

“I don’t think so.” Most of the titles weren’t insulting, and most parents had no idea their kids had received them unless they looked through the yearbook when school was almost over.

“Oh, yes,” Brody said, nodding. “The first thing they’ll sue about is a couples title like ours. The rule is that it has to be a girl and a guy. Why not a guy and a guy, or two girls?”

His words floored me. This was the sort of philosophical discussion I would have with Quinn or some other free thinker in journalism class or art class. I wouldn’t have predicted this devil’s advocate position to come from the mouth of the quarterback.

I shrugged my camera bag off my shoulder, set the case on the floor at my feet, and leaned against the pavilion wall again. “How long have you known about Noah?” I figured that’s who we were really talking about.

“Forever,” Brody said. “I mean, he actually came out to me in middle school. But we’d been good friends since we started football together in third grade, like you said. I wasn’t surprised when he came out.”

“Did he ever . . .” I wasn’t sure how to ask this, or whether I even should, but I was dying to know. “Were you ever the object of his affection?”

“Why do you ask?” Translation: I shouldn’t have asked.

Heart palpitating again at the idea that I’d offended Brody, I hurried on, “You’ve been super accepting of the whole thing.”

He laughed long enough that the tension between us disappeared. Then he said, “Well, middle school is just difficult.”

“Yeah.”

“Back in middle school, Noah and I did have an uncomfortable five-minute conversation,” he admitted. “But you know, I distinctly remember having a crush on Tia back then.”

“Tia!”

“Yeah. I think all middle school guys—the straight ones, anyway—fantasize about getting in good with the wild girl. But I realized someday a couple of her boyfriends were going to duel each other in the parking lot. I didn’t want to be one of them.”

That sounded about right—at least, for the Tia I’d known forever. Tia had turned over a new leaf in the past couple of weeks, since she started dating Will. I asked, “You don’t think Will’s going to suffer that fate, though, do you?”

“No, opposites attract,” he said. “Opposites may repel at first, but in the long run, they’re the best thing for each other.” He shrugged. “Anyway, I don’t think the school should officially pair folks up. People don’t naturally operate as permanent couples. You get married and swear that you’re one body, operating as one unit. Half the time you unswear it a few years later and swear it again with somebody else. Everybody in my family is divorced. My parents, my grandparents, everybody. Christmas day might as well be Halloween, because it’s like we’re going from house to house, trick-or-treating. People stay individuals as they move through life, in and out of relationships. Being a couple is temporary, like cars in a train. They’re detachable so you can switch them around. I’m not saying that’s how it should be. I’m just saying that’s how it is.”