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“You’re white too!”

When I get back, she’s slumped face-first onto the table.

I let her just sit like that for a bit. When she glances up at me, she genuinely looks like she went to war. “So…I’m gonna go no on that last wing.”

I force a smile. “Smart.”

It takes her about twenty minutes of nursing water and melted ice cream to get back to normal. That’s enough time for the guilt to settle like a rock inside me, scarred and rough. It slices into the fine skin of my guts. Once Valeria’s no longer actively accelerating her death, she starts peering at the footage I got.

“So,” she says, “do you think I should make Steven go in my place?”

I smile. “Steven definitely wouldn’t make it halfway down the line.”

“But really. I get that people probably puke on that show and whatever, but I wouldn’t be able to keep going past that third wing. Steven’s such a fucking idiot sometimes.”

I open up Safari on my phone. “The last wing you had would’ve had Scoville units into the millions, and only the last sauce on the show goes that high. I think you’d be okay. You know, if there’s a lot of pressure on you to do it.”

An ache manifests in my chest thinking about that. Valeria’s in a giant place of privilege and who am I to feel bad, but I can’t imagine having your life dictated the way hers must be. The diet comment she made the other day pops back into my head. It only adds to the ache.

She sighs, settling her cheek against her fist. “Steven would get pissed if I didn’t do it, and he thinks it’s great for my image. That I need to expand my audience as much as possible for Oakley in Flames to have the best chance.”

“I think you’ll do fine,” I say.

And I put my hand over hers.

My heart jumps into my throat and the seconds slow to minutes as I process what I did. The top of her hand is still sticky, but it’s also soft. God, it’s so soft, which exaggerates every vein and tendon under the surface. It’s like a topographical map, with her heartbeat pulsing under the surface.

Then she puts her other hand over mine, and I’m struck by the weight of her and the difference between the rougher back of her hand and the swirls and arches of her fingertips. It’s like being wrapped in a security blanket; it’s cutting out all the sounds and sights and smells around us. Touch is the only sense left.

We make eye contact.

And we both retract our hands.

“Either way,” she says, “could I get a frame of this?” She points to the image of her post–dry heaving with her hair flopping into her face as she lies on the picnic table, surrounded by the wings. It’s the clear winner. “And then do I have your permission to tag you on my public Instagram?”

It takes everything in me to not gasp.

“For what?” I ask.

She gives a slight head shake. “It’s your footage,” she says.

“Oh.” I shake my head. “Yeah, totally. Go ahead.”

She beams. “Great! What’s your handle?”

“Not Eli Roth, all lowercase.”

Valeria chuckles. “Useful.”

A notification pops up on my phone: valeriasullivan started following you

She smiles as she checks her phone. “Already following me?”

I shrug, but there’s no way the move is hiding my blush. “Work purposes. Figured we all had to.”

Two means of communication.

Strike that. One public means of communication.