JERICHO'S SHIFT WAS ALMOST OVER. He had already spent roughly two months of his summer vacation working at the only convenience store for the next few miles in Alamance County.

It was your run-of-the-mill bp gas station; the air conditioning only cut off during the hottest summer days. And the sun would shine straight into every crystal clear window until relatively 7:30 pm every day.

It was the only place where he could work within walking distance of his house, though, plus the view to and from wasn't too bad; the sun rising and setting was akin to a watercolor painting, drenching the sky in shades of peaches and cream.

Mountains piled onto the horizon as far as the eye could see, and if you looked hard enough, you could see cows, goats, and chickens grazing the lush farmland.

He almost liked the rusticity of it all; he'd never say that out loud, though, being a city boy at heart, living in the Caucasian part of northwest Brooklyn with his dad until he was 13.

He was allowed to settle down south in North Carolina with his mom and have an ordinary American teen life or live with his dad and stepmom in Toronto, Canada.

The former was chosen; even now, he doesn't regret it because it took him a few years to adjust here. He couldn't imagine how long it would've taken if he had moved to an entirely different country.

Today, however, was something else. He woke up with a migraine, which happened more often than he'd care to admit, but it didn't stop there. It just had to storm the night before, and the exact path he usually walked to get to the little store was riddled with puddles.

This trail also runs along one of the only main roads in the relatively large town, so he was splashed with mud and rainwater more than once on his way to work. And the dirt that caked his sepia-brown skin took more than enough of his precious time to scrub off in the tiny employee restroom.

An upside was that his favorite cream-colored hoodie remained entirely unscathed in his backpack. The downside? His dark blue jeans were filthy, and his hair also got wet; when he took out the twists, and it finally dried; let's just say it was big.

So, he remained behind the counter at the register after mopping up a slushy spill. Blood-red ice stained the cracks between the pearly-white tiles because some people don't know how to watch their kids, and he checked the state of his afro for the umpteenth time with his phone camera.

He screamed silently but eventually gave up, throwing his hands down and letting the thick, carob-colored corkscrews tumble over his shoulders. After attempting to put it up in a bun for the second time and the hair tie broke, landing god knows where; he was done bothering it for the rest of the night.

Getting up to look around for it seemed like a mighty excellent idea, though, because if Anne, his cross-eyed manager, found out he left anything, she would blow a gasket. But alas, someone pulled up to the small parking lot out front with their high beams on.

He already knew who it was. He'd recognize those matte black rims anywhere. The low growling of the navy blue Ford F-150's engine cut off along with the lights, and out stepped Joseph fucking Turner, son of one of the wealthiest farmers on this side of Carolina.

Calfskin Tecova's kicking up the sandy topsoil on the ground as he removed his hat and ran tanned fingers across his buzzed, sun-kissed blond hair. Jericho was pleasantly surprised that he had managed to avoid him all summer so far, him: one, Joseph: zero.

Joseph was practically the poster child for every white boy in the dirty south. He was the dreamy, six-foot-three quarterback of the best football team in the region, after all.

With that killer smile and soft southern drawl, he even had the Jefferson twins wrapped around his finger, which was no easy feat. Everyone adored him, of course. Who in their right mind wouldn't?

The bell above the door jingled, Joseph strolled in, and with a lazy grin and a tip of his silver-belly Stetson diamanté, he slowly made his way around the store. Starting near the candy shelves, to the drinks section of the refrigerators lining the pastel blue walls, and then wandering near the snack aisle.

The brown-haired boy glanced at him repeatedly over the drink machine, scrunching up his nose and scoffing when the other stared right back and started humming along to "Beautiful Crazy," playing quietly over the speaker.

They've been acquainted since Jericho first moved here because their last names have the same first and second letters. Therefore, in every class they've ever shared, they were seated right next to or near each other.

The thing is, they were both feening after each other, but Jericho was too afraid to jump into any sort of a relationship with him. There was a gut feeling that always managed to stop him from taking the plunge.

They used to be close and really good at pretending they didn't like each other too. That 'no-homo' safety net came in handy. Now, there's so much tension, and it's nerve-wracking to be around him after what happened, so he kept his distance.

Toward the end of their junior year, there was a party, the host Francis "Franky" Monroe gladly coined it 'the wildest end of the year bash y'all will ever go to.' And that is precisely what it was for all of the wrong reasons.

He usually didn't do parties or social outings, but this was the exception. Most of his small best friend group would be there, and he means two other people.

Everyone pretty much got hammered; unfortunately, that included him as well. He remembered the other boy helping him to his car and driving him home at 2 am. Which was, mind you, half an hour in the opposite direction of his dad's farm, and then they almost fucked in his car after.

This wasn't any random occurrence or anything either, he didn't know whether it was the alcohol or if there was something in the air, but they were practically on top of each other like bunnies the entire night.

When the drinks started rolling, whatever chance they got to escape their friends, they took it, no questions asked. That liquor gave him the excuse and the courage he didn't need to do something finally.

Joseph lied to his mother when they got to his house, said they were at his place the entire time, and Jericho was so tired after helping him with a summer project he wanted to finish early.

He told him he even got his dad in on the whole debacle if she ever were to call about it, so his little plan was foolproof. He hasn't touched alcohol since then because it seemed like even a little bit turned him into some whore.

The only thing he remembers vividly was the feeling; his skin was burning hot Texas, and Joseph's touch was a zippo chrome lighter. A couple of days later, when his friend Angelica asked him about their 'sudden departure,' he didn't tell her the truth about what had happened.

Just that he drove him home, and she believed him for the most part. That didn't make him feel like any less of a dick for ditching them to get busy with the prince of Alamance county.

His summer mission was to avoid him at all costs and smother those flaring emotions, hoping they'd go away on their own and Joseph would forget about it. But he should've damn well known it never works like that; if anything, it makes it worse.

Their three-inch height difference became more apparent the closer he got. The taller boy finally came up to the counter, unloading a bottle of extra sweet tea, Fiji water, trail mix, and a pack of Trolli Peachie O's on the cool surface, and glanced down at him.

"Evenin' 'Cho."

He almost shivered at the sound of his honeyed voice, southern twang ebbing in pleasantly. Jericho ducked his head and nearly forgot about that stupid nickname, too; it was like saying cold without half the damn letters.

"Evening, Joseph. How've you been?"

If he kept it short, he could go home without any new problems. He doesn't avoid Joseph because he doesn't like him. He's keeping his distance because the fear of ending up head over heels for the same guy everyone wanted was enough to warrant that.

The guy behind that pretty face was his best friend of four years. That's who he's afraid of falling in love with because there's no repairing that bond if shit goes south.

Something similar happened a few years ago, and he's determined to stop history from repeating itself. This is supposed to be his clean slate, and he plans on keeping it that way. So, the faster things could return to normal between them, the better it was for all parties involved.

He's done well for himself so far. He's leaving and going back to New York for university anyway after senior year. At least, that's the plan. If he only allowed himself to see the picture-perfect shell of Joseph Turner that everyone else did, he would be OK. They wouldn't be as close as they were before, but that's just the way it had to be.

Things didn't usually tend to go his way, though. He almost dropped the entire bag of trail mix on the damn floor when Joseph leaned his folded arms onto the counter. Toned biceps filled up his field of vision while the steel in his gunmetal green eyes shot right through his mile-high emotional defenses.

"I'm quite alright. Trainin' with the team and all that," he tilted his head and spoke softly. "You been avoidin' me."

Jericho sighed. This was probably inevitable.

"Been real busy, paper or plastic?"

His usual smooth baritone sounded a touch higher than he would have liked as Joseph's thick eyebrows knit into a frown.

"Paper, you been so busy that you didn't have time at all to shoot me a text? I can tell you've been tryin' to keep your distance. I'd just like to know why," he mumbled the next part, "I miss you to death."

He doesn't remember the party. The brown-haired boy clenched his jaw, cheeks burning. A tiny part of him wanted Joseph to, so it still hurt. It was for the best, though. He finished scanning and bagging up his items and read out the price.

"Your total is $13.33. I've been busy with work and summer projects, Joey. I'm sorry for not responding, ok? It won't happen again, swear."

He wouldn't admit that he was going out of his way to avoid him. He only wanted to distance himself from the other, not hurt him.

But he doubted that's how Joseph interpreted the whole situation. He paid, and Jericho handed him the bag with his receipt and retracted his hand before they could make any physical contact.

"Mm, fine. I'll drop it for now," He raised his hands. "But, I'm holdin' you to that."

The last part he said in a terrible English accent, and Jericho rolled his eyes, smiling a little. Just a bit relieved that he left it alone.

"I love makin' you smile, you know that?" he bit his lip, "it's usually the highlight of my day'."

He hummed and cast his eyes away, focusing instead on the suddenly intriguing cartons of Camel and Marlboro above his workstation. He'd made up a little strategy and everything for situations like these: D.A.I.R. Deflect, avoid, ignore, repeat. Easier said than done.

"You know..." Joseph leaned back and rubbed his mustache and bearded chin like a villain in a '60s movie. "I've only seen you smile real big, maybe three, four times, got to be about the prettiest damn thing in the world."

Jericho tried his best, but he could only fight it off for about a minute. The smile on his face was slowly but surely getting bigger.

"Joseph, don't start with me."

He was weak to compliments, they tied into his love language, and his strategy was more than useless within five feet of the target.

"Hear me out. Your eyes start glowing real bright first. Then you get them sweet lil' laugh lines at the corner of 'em, right? You scrunch your nose up when you try to suppress it too. Don't even get me started on the dimples." He squeezed his eyes shut and put his hands together like it was Sunday mass, "I thank the lord every time he lets me lay my eyes on you. Hallelujah!"

With just those few words, all forty-two muscles in his face had singlehandedly failed to perform their primary function, and he had burst out laughing. A huge grin took over his face like he swallowed the Cheshire Cat; if all it took was a few words to get him like this, he was screwed.