Page 57

I’m a fidgety mess as soon as my seat belt clicks. Eyes need to blink, feet need to wiggle, hair needs to be removed from

its rubber band, shaken out, and re-ponytailed. Meanwhile, Natalie’s gone quiet, but it’s not her normal quiet. The air around

her is practically buzzing.

Honest to God, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Everything was fine a minute ago. In the meadow. I couldn’t have misread

the vibes that badly, right?

I try to catch her gaze, but she’s staring out the window. Don’t know if it’s on purpose. All I know is it’s making my brain

spin sideways. I keep tucking strands of hair behind my ears. I used to twist the ends around a lot when I was nervous. Didn’t

even realize I was doing it, but I feel the absence of it now.

The problem is, she’s an arm’s length away from me. Which is way too far and way too close, and it’s making my brain malfunction.

I tap the edge of my seat. Press my palm down flat. “Oh!” I say, suddenly. “Nat, your suitcase.”

“It’s in the trunk. Guitar, too.” Mark looks at me strangely. “You good?”

I wrinkle my nose at him. “Oh, I’m very good. Top of my game, as a matter of fact.”

I mean, I’m keeping it together for the most part, right?

Just a pinch of unhinged. Normal with an unhinged accent.

Which, under the circumstances, is pretty goddamn impressive, I think.

The circumstances being: the fact that I’m embarrassingly, incoherently obsessed with this girl, to the point where I don’t even know how to be fucking human about it.

I keep rolling back the tapes in my head. Her shower-flushed reflection in the dorm bathroom mirror. The soft bow of her head

when she plays guitar. The way her lips pursed just before she snuffed out my dandelion. Stole my wish.

Me, shattering every glass ceiling of dumbassery. Pining so hard my stomach hurt, without even noticing why. Like being surprised

by a plot twist in a book you’re rereading.

Maybe I noticed without noticing.

It’s like the coyote skidding past the edge of the cliff. Perfectly fine as long as he doesn’t realize the ground’s gone,

but the second he sees it, he’s toast.

My phone starts buzzing—video chat request from Zora. I tap my screen to accept it, and she pops into frame. She’s outside

on a chair, with a bunny curled up in her lap. “There you are! You guys need to answer your texts. I was starting to freak

out.”

“Oh! Sorry,” I say a little too loudly. I lower my voice. “Yeah, I’m fine. We’re all fine.”

“And you found Nat? She’s not still standing by the side of the highway?”

“I’m here!” Nat says, and I flip my camera to prove it. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I meant to text you again once—”

“No, it’s fine! Cool. Good, glad you’re okay.”

I flip the camera back. “Where are you?”

“Edith’s house.” She smiles. “I met her parents.”

“What!” I gasp. “How did it go?”

“I’m still here!”

“Oh my God, go have fun! We’re good—”

“It’s fine! For real. We just finished lunch.”

“Yup,” chimes Edith, offscreen. “You heard the girl. Fuck lunch. Fuck parents—”

“No,” Zora says. “I said none of those fucks.”

“They were great fucks,” Mark contributes.

Edith gasps. “Is that Mark?”

I flip the camera again.

“Look at you!” Zora says. “Still awake. It’s a miracle.”

He gives her a halfhearted thumbs-up.

“Yeah, how are you awake, Marco Polo?” I ask, as soon as the call ends. “Did Walternator force-feed you coffee?”

“Would it still be called force-feeding if it’s a drink?” Natalie asks.

“It would if they rawdogged it with coffee beans.”

“Is that—” Natalie blinks. “Amelia, what do you think rawdog means?”

“Okay, Nattitude, it has many meanings. Rawdog contains multitudes,” I say, which makes Natalie laugh. And the sound makes

my brain go swirly. Has it always been like this?

Like when she held hands with Carly Schecter at Shabbat sing-along once. I didn’t even know Nat was gay yet, and it still

felt like a punch. In retrospect, me kissing Carly’s sister a week later behind a boathouse may not have been a total coincidence.

See also: Jordan Cohen entering the picture five days after Nat’s first kiss with Megan.

So, now what? What do I do with the fact that we’re practically home. Less than an hour. Am I supposed to just casually mention it?

Hello, Natalie, I’m pretty sure I want to kiss you. In fact, I’m pretty sure wanting to kiss you has been the driving force

of my whole entire life.

Is that even allowed? Does it have to be a big, messy Claire-style grand gesture?

Is telling someone you like them ever not a grand gesture?

Because that’s the problem, right? Love confessions don’t come with a rewind. You don’t get to walk them back to rawdogging

discourse or MILF lore. No matter which way the chips fall, we’re not the same Nat and Amelia.