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I shake my head, shoulders shaking with silent laughter.
He leans in, conspiratorial. “Emerald says hiding in bushes is emotional growth. Or maybe unresolved trauma. I don’t really listen.”
I sigh, watching Jaxon shoulder his bag and walk away, glancing at his phone every few steps. For a second, I wish he’d turn and see me.
A beetle crawls up my sleeve. I flick it away.
Fork Guy rummages in his bag, pulling out Mardi Gras beads, a banana, and a deck of tarot cards bent like they survived a flood. “Emerald says I need to be more in touch with my feelings. Wanna see my gratitude list?”
I stare. “Are you journaling in bushes right now?”
He nods, serious. “Item one: Not attacked by ducks today. Two: This excellent bush. Three: Granola bars with chocolate chips. Four: My new eye patch—look!” He pulls his hair aside to reveal a patch covered in glitter glue and googly eyes. I know his eye has probably healed but somehow the eye patch is part of him now.
Absurdity hits me. I bite my fist to keep from laughing out loud.
He munches, crumbs everywhere. “Wanna talk? Or just sit until campus security asks why we’re hiding in rhododendrons with baked goods and cutlery?”
I laugh, leaves in my mouth. “Maybe for a minute. Then we escape.”
Fork Guy salutes with a plastic fork. “To emotional growth. Or trauma. Whichever comes first.”
“Yeah.” I sigh, wondering how I got here.
Then he leans in, fork like a microphone. “If you want to make him jealous, I could crawl out first and propose. I’ve got a ring pop.”
“Absolutely not,” I say, but that only encourages him.
He practices in a stage whisper: “‘Bush Girl, from the moment I saw you tangled in foliage, I knew we were meant to share a shrubbery?—’”
I smack him with a leafy branch. “Don’t do that.”
He grins. “Consent is important. Do you think Jaxon would believe I’m your secret boyfriend? I can do accents. Russian? Australian? I once convinced a sub I was from New Zealand for a semester.”
I peek again. Jaxon is finally moving, heading for the parking lot, still glancing back. My stomach drops.
Eventually, after what feels like forever, we emerge.
Fork Guy pats my crumb-dusted shoulder, weirdly comforting. “Bush Buddies for life.”
He offers me a plastic fork. “For self-defense. You never know when you’ll need to fend off emotional baggage or rogue squirrels.”
“Thanks.” I take it. “For a guy who once lost a fork to his own cornea, you’re brave about cutlery.”
He bows. “Exposure therapy, Bush Girl. Maybe next time, benches instead of bushes.”
On the sidewalk, Jaxon keeps walking, oblivious. He checks his phone again, jaw tight. For half a second, it looks like he might turn. But he doesn’t. He disappears with the baseball guys, like a ghost you only half believe in.
I untangle from the bush, brushing leaves from my hair. Fork Guy gives me a thumbs-up and the banana for good measure.
“Thanks for the company.”
“I got you,” he whispers, clutching a plastic fork like a dagger. “I have an airtight alibi involving a lost ferret and a persuasive magician if you need it.”
I snort. He reaches up and touches my hair. “Also, there’s a spider in your hair.”
I brush the spider away, laughing despite myself. Fork Guy grins like he won the weirdest lottery ever.
“Thanks,” I say again, lighter than I’ve felt in days. “For… well, everything.”