The Greenhouse Effect

Trapped in a leaking greenhouse during a spring downpour, Simon confronts Jessie about a humiliating rumor, only to realize he’s been reading the entire script wrong. A shouted argument dissolves into the terrifying quiet of a first confession.

This was it. The moment my brain finally liquefied and leaked out of my ears. It felt inevitable, really. A long time coming.

I stared at the specific shade of mold growing on the potting bench—a sort of fuzzy, aggressive teal that looked like it would taste like blue raspberry candy if you were stupid enough to lick it. I wasn't that stupid. Not yet. But give me five minutes in this humidity, with *him* standing there looking like a statue carved out of indifference and expensive denim, and I might just start licking the furniture.

"You’re doing it again," I said. My voice cracked. Of course it cracked. Because the universe is a hack writer who loves a cheap gag. "That thing where you look at me like I’m a math problem you can’t solve but also don’t care enough to cheat on."

Jessie didn’t move. He was leaning against a rusted metal shelf, his arms crossed over a chest that was annoyingly broad. The rain was hammering against the glass roof of the greenhouse, a relentless, drumming noise that sounded like a thousand tiny fingers tapping for attention. It was loud enough to drown out a normal conversation, which meant I had to yell, which meant I sounded hysterical. Perfect.

"I’m not looking at you like a math problem, Simon," Jessie said. His voice was low, cutting under the noise of the rain. It had that bass quality that made my stomach do a weird little flip, like a pancake hitting the pan. "I’m waiting for you to breathe."

"I am breathing! I’m breathing great! I’m a champion breather!" I inhaled sharply, choked on the damp, earthy air, and coughed. The greenhouse smelled intensely of crushed tomato vines and wet dust—that specific, metallic tang of dirt that’s been dry for too long and then suddenly drowned. It was suffocating.

I paced. The aisle between the empty planter boxes was narrow, forcing me to turn every three steps. Step, step, turn. Step, step, turn. I was a rat in a maze, but the cheese was a lie and the scientist running the experiment was a six-foot-two varsity linebacker who supposedly told the entire cafeteria that I slept with a stuffed triceratops named Mr. Horns.

Which, for the record, I do. But that is privileged information. That is classified clearance level clearance. That is not for the table by the vending machines where the guys who wear basketball shorts in December sit.

"You told them," I accused, stopping my pacing to point a shaking finger at him. "Don't try to gaslight me, Jessie. I saw you. I saw you talking to Miller. I saw the way he looked at me. Like I was... like I was a joke. A toddler with a security blanket."

Jessie sighed. It was a long, beleaguered exhale that fogged up the air in front of him. He ran a hand through his hair, which was wet and sticking to his forehead in dark, jagged clumps. He looked miserable. Good. I wanted him miserable. I was miserable.

"I didn't tell Miller about the dinosaur, Simon," Jessie said, sounding bored. "We were talking about the suspension on his truck."

"Oh, right. The truck. The fucking truck. And did the truck require him to point at me and laugh? Did the suspension system involve mocking my anxiety coping mechanisms?" My hands were flailing now. I couldn't stop them. They were independent entities acting out a interpretive dance of my humiliation.

The rain intensified, slamming against the glass panes with renewed violence. A leak directly above us dripped rhythmically onto a plastic tarp covering a stack of old terra cotta pots. *Plip. Plip. Plip.* It was Chinese water torture, but with more foliage.

"He wasn't laughing at you," Jessie said, shifting his weight. His boots scuffed against the gritty concrete floor. He took a half-step toward me. Just one. But in the claustrophobic space of the greenhouse, it felt like he’d crossed a canyon. "He was laughing because I told him he was an idiot."

"Why?" I demanded, backing up until my backpack hit the edge of a wooden table. "Why would you call Miller an idiot? You guys are bros. You share protein shake recipes. You chest bump or whatever it is you people do to communicate affection."

Jessie’s jaw tightened. I saw the muscle feather right under his ear. It was a fascinating detail, one I hated myself for noticing. I cataloged it instantly alongside other useless Jessie facts: the scar on his left thumb, the way he smells like cedar shavings and laundry detergent, the fact that he never uses an umbrella.

"I called him an idiot," Jessie said, articulating each word carefully, "because he asked if I was ever going to make a move, or if I was just going to keep staring at you like a 'lovestruck serial killer.' His words."

The world stopped. The rain kept falling, the leak kept dripping, but the actual rotation of the planet seemed to grind to a halt, throwing me off balance. My brain tried to process the sentence, parsing the syntax, looking for the trap.

"What?" I whispered. The anger deflated out of me instantly, replaced by a cold, prickly confusion.

Jessie looked away. For the first time since we’d ducked into this green, glass wreckage to escape the storm, he broke eye contact. He looked up at the ceiling, where a vine of ivy was strangling a metal support beam. "You heard me."

"No. No, I definitely didn't. Because it sounded like you said Miller thinks you stare at me. Which is objectively false. You ignore me. You tolerate me because our moms are friends and they force us to carpool. You think I’m weird."

"You are weird," Jessie agreed. He looked back down at me. His eyes were dark, almost black in the gloomy light. "You talk to yourself when you think no one is listening. You have very strong opinions about font choices. You wear mismatched socks on purpose."

"They represent the duality of man!" I shouted defensively, looking down at my ankles. One sock was striped red; the other was solid grey. "And that’s not staring! That’s... observing. With judgment."

"I’m not judging you, Simon." Jessie took another step. The distance between us was now officially in the 'personal space violation' zone. I could see the individual droplets of rain caught in his eyelashes. I could feel the heat radiating off his damp jacket.

My heart was doing something dangerous. It was beating against my ribs like a bird trapped in a shoebox. A panicked, frantic rhythm that made my throat tight. This wasn't how this was supposed to go. We were supposed to yell. I was supposed to storm out into the rain for dramatic effect. He wasn't supposed to be looking at me like that.

"Then what is it?" I asked, my voice barely audible over the storm. "If you’re not making fun of me, and you’re not ignoring me... what are you doing?"

Jessie hooked his thumbs into the pockets of his jeans. He looked uncomfortable, like his skin was too tight for his body. "I’m trying to figure you out."

"There's nothing to figure out!" I laughed, a nervous, high-pitched sound that bounced off the glass walls. "I'm a shallow pond, Jessie. What you see is what you get. Anxiety, bad posture, and a triceratops plushie. Mystery solved."

"You're not shallow," he said. He sounded angry now. Not at me, but at something else. Maybe the situation. Maybe himself. "You're the most complicated person I know. You notice everything. You saw that bird with the broken wing last week before anyone else did. You knew the answer to that history question about the industrial revolution when the teacher was trying to trip us up. You..." He stopped, frustration evident in the set of his shoulders.

"I just read a lot," I mumbled, feeling my face heat up. "It's not special."

"It is to me," Jessie said. The words hung in the humid air, heavy and wet.

I stared at him. The silence stretched, thick and elastic. I felt like I was hallucinating. Maybe the mold fumes were toxic. Maybe I’d slipped on the wet floor, hit my head, and this was a coma dream. In reality, I was drooling on the concrete while the janitor poked me with a broom.

"You're messing with me," I said finally. "This is some kind of elaborate prank. Is Miller filming this? Is there a GoPro in the ficus?"

Jessie let out a sharp, frustrated noise. He closed the remaining distance between us in two long strides. I flinched back, pressing myself against the wooden table, but he didn't hit me. obviously. He didn't even touch me. He just slammed his hands onto the table on either side of my hips, boxing me in.

He leaned down, his face inches from mine. I could smell him—rain, mint gum, and warm cotton. It was intoxicating. It was terrifying.

"Stop talking," Jessie growled. "For once in your life, Simon, just stop talking and listen."

I snapped my mouth shut. My teeth clicked together.

"I didn't tell Miller about your dinosaur," Jessie said, his eyes searching mine. They were intense, unguarded, stripped of the cool detachment he wore like armor in the hallways. "I told him to shut up because he was making a joke about how you run during gym class. I told him if he said another word about you, I’d break his nose."

My breath hitched. "Oh."

"Yeah. Oh." Jessie looked down at my mouth, then back up to my eyes. The movement was so quick I almost missed it, but my hyper-vigilant brain cataloged it, filed it, and started screaming.

"And I didn't tell him I was staring at you like a serial killer," he continued, his voice dropping an octave. "He said that. Because apparently, I’m not subtle."

"You're pretty subtle," I squeaked. "I thought you hated me."

"I don't hate you," Jessie said. He leaned in closer. The brim of his forehead almost touched mine. "God, Simon. You are so smart, but you are so incredibly blind."

"I have 20/20 vision," I whispered reflexively. "It's one of my few genetic wins."

A corner of Jessie's mouth twitched upward. A ghost of a smile. It transformed his face, making him look younger, less intimidating, more like the boy I’d watched from a distance since fourth grade. "Shut up."

"Make me," I said. The words slipped out before I could filter them. My internal editor was apparently on strike.

Jessie froze. His eyes widened slightly. Then, the intensity returned, tenfold. "Careful."

"I'm tired of being careful," I said, and surprisingly, I meant it. The anger from earlier had burned off, leaving something raw and exposed underneath. "I'm tired of wondering what you're thinking. I'm tired of being scared of you."

"You shouldn't be scared of me," Jessie murmured. He moved one hand from the table, bringing it up to touch my face. His fingers were rough, callous from football and fixing up that stupid truck, but his touch was incredibly gentle. He traced the line of my jaw with his thumb. "I would never hurt you."

The sensation of his skin on mine sent a jolt of electricity down my spine that had nothing to do with the storm outside. I shivered.

"You're cold," he noted.

"I'm terrified," I corrected. "There's a difference."

"Still?" he asked.

"More than ever."

"Why?" he whispered, tilting his head.

"Because," I breathed, "if this is a joke, I won't recover. I’ll have to move to Alaska and live in an igloo. I don't like the cold, Jessie. Don't make me move to an igloo."

Jessie laughed. It was a real laugh this time, low and rumbly. "No igloos," he promised.

And then he kissed me.

It wasn't like in the movies. There was no swelling orchestra, no camera panning around us. It was awkward. Our noses bumped. I forgot to close my eyes at first, so I was staring at the blurry expanse of his eyelid. His jacket was wet and cold against my t-shirt, seeping through to my skin.

But his lips were warm. And soft. And insistent.

I melted. That’s the only word for it. My structural integrity failed. I grabbed the front of his denim jacket, bunching the wet fabric in my fists, holding on for dear life. I closed my eyes and the world narrowed down to this: the smell of rain, the taste of mint, and the heavy, solid weight of Jessie pressing against me.

He pulled back a fraction of an inch. His forehead rested against mine. We were both breathing hard, our breath mingling in the cold air.

"Okay?" he asked, his voice rough.

"Okay," I managed. "Yeah. Okay. Definitely better than an igloo."

He huffed a laugh against my cheek. His hand moved from my jaw to the back of my neck, his fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of my neck. He massaged the tension there, his thumb rubbing soothing circles.

"So," I said, my brain slowly starting to reboot, though running a completely new operating system. "Miller thinks you're a lovestruck serial killer?"

"He's an idiot," Jessie repeated, but there was no bite in it.

"But he was right about the lovestruck part?" I pushed, needing to hear it. Needing to verify the data.

Jessie pulled back enough to look me in the eye. His ears were turning red. It was adorable. "Yeah. He was right about that part."

"Gross," I said, grinning like a lunatic. "You have feelings."

"Shut up," Jessie said, but he was smiling too. A small, private smile that felt like a secret he was finally sharing.

"You realize this changes the carpool dynamic," I said, my mind racing ahead. "We can't just sit in silence listening to your terrible country music anymore."

"It's not terrible," Jessie defended weakly.

"It's about trucks and beer and dirt roads. We live in the suburbs, Jessie. The only dirt road you've seen is on a poster."

"I drive a truck."

"You drive a pristine F-150 that gets detailed once a week. It’s a pavement princess."

Jessie rolled his eyes, but he didn't pull away. He kept his hand on my neck, grounding me. "You talk so much."

"And you listen," I countered. "Apparently."

"Yeah," he said softly. "I listen."

The rain outside was starting to slow. The aggressive drumming on the glass had faded to a gentle patter. The light in the greenhouse was shifting, the oppressive grey giving way to a lighter, pearlescent haze as the sun tried to break through the clouds. It illuminated the dust motes dancing in the air—no, not dust motes. Spores. Probably deadly fungal spores. But right now, they looked like glitter.

I looked around the greenhouse. It was still a wreck. Dead plants, broken glass, piles of trash. But it didn't feel like a cage anymore. It felt like... a sanctuary. A weird, moldy, leaky sanctuary.

"So," Jessie said, stepping back slightly but keeping hold of my hand. He laced his fingers through mine. His hand was huge, engulfing mine completely. It felt safe. "Are we done yelling?"

"I think I have a few more accusations," I said. "I haven't even brought up the time you ate the last slice of pizza at the sophomore lock-in."

"I was hungry."

"It was pepperoni. You know that's my emotional support topping."

Jessie tugged on my hand. "Come on. I'll buy you a pizza. A whole one. Just for you."

"And a soda?" I negotiated.

"And a soda."

"Deal." I squeezed his hand. "But we have to run to your truck. I’m not getting any wetter."

Jessie looked me up and down. My shirt was plastered to my chest, my hair was a disaster, and my sneakers were squelching in the mud. "Too late for that."

He took off his denim jacket. Before I could protest, he draped it over my shoulders. It was heavy and warm and smelled like him. I pulled it tight around me.

"Let's go," he said.

We stepped out of the greenhouse and into the drizzle. The air was cold, but I didn't feel it. I felt the weight of the jacket, the warmth of his hand, and the terrifying, exhilarating realization that everything had changed. The script had been rewritten. The genre had shifted from a tragic comedy to... well, a romance. A messy, sarcastic, weird teen romance.

As we walked across the wet grass toward the parking lot, Jessie squeezed my hand three times. Quick, rhythmic pulses.

I squeezed back.

Maybe the universe wasn't a hack writer after all. Maybe it just liked a slow burn.

"Hey, Jessie?" I asked as we reached the truck.

"Yeah?"

"You can tell Miller about the dinosaur now. If you want."

Jessie opened the passenger door for me. He boosted me up, his hands lingering on my waist for a second longer than necessary. "Nah," he said, grinning up at me. "I think I'll keep that one to myself."

He shut the door, sealing me inside the cab. It smelled like leather and whatever cologne he wore. I took a deep breath, inhaling the scent. It was better than the tomato vines. It was better than anything.

I watched him walk around the front of the truck, his shoulders hunched against the rain. He looked good. He looked like mine.

For the first time in my life, the silence inside the truck didn't feel heavy. It felt full.