Page 7 of Do You Ship It

When I step off the bus outside Jake’s house, my palms are sweating and I can’t stop fidgeting with my clothes. I’m questioning everything and I hate it.

I haven’t always been like this around Jake. Up until a few months ago, I’d rarely thought twice about what I was wearing when I saw him; sometimes I might hope he’d notice and I’d feel pleased whenever he said I looked nice, but I never picked an outfit with him in mind.

Then again, I’d never had to actively work to make sure he didn’t forget me or let our friendship slip by the wayside. As one of the few genuinely good-looking, decent guys in our year group, I’d always harboured a bit of a crush on him, but it wasn’t until he turned down another girl and asked if I wanted to go to prom with him instead that I realized my feelings for Jake ran a lot deeper than just cherishing our friendship. I started daydreaming about how we’d be hanging out and so easily, so naturally, he’d turn to me and we’d be kissing …

I did hold out hope for a bit of a movie-worthy moment at prom. I wanted to be Rachel Chu arriving at Araminta’s lavish wedding with all the Crazy Rich Asian aunties stunned speechless, or maybe Laney in her red dress in She’s All That . We were all sharing a limo as a group, but I got ready at Jake’s house. His big sister Ginny was home, so she’d offered to help with my hair and make-up, and I had visions of walking down the stairs and Jake catching his breath, unable to take his eyes off me …

The exaggerated wolf-whistle I got wasn’t quite what I’d hoped for.

I wish he hadn’t had to move house, or go to this new college. It’s almost an hour on the bus to get to his now, not just a fifteen-minute walk down over the canal. Before summer, we used to hang out almost every day. Mum’s comment about growing up and growing apart suddenly resurfaces in my brain, but I refuse to acknowledge it, instead shoving it deep, deep down.

The big driveway is empty: Ginny’s not home, and Jake’s parents are still at work.

According to Daphne’s logic, this is definitely more like a date.

It’s good news, but my stomach ties itself into such knots I think I might be sick. Why does it suddenly feel like everything hinges on how this evening goes? We’re just hanging out, like we’ve done a thousand times before. I won’t be trying to make any moves, like holding his hand or leaning over to kiss his cheek, so it won’t ruin our friendship, but if it’s not a date –

If it is a date –

As I walk down the garden path to Jake’s front door, I force myself to concentrate on my breathing, which feels too loud and a bit ragged. I try to regulate it, but it’s hard now I’m actively thinking about it. Not too shallow, not too heavy. For God’s sake, breathe like a normal human, Cerys!

Before I can lift a hand to knock on the door, it swings open.

And there’s Jake, beaming at me, a fingerprint smudge on his glasses, the white shirt he has to wear for his uniform looking a bit rumpled; the sleeves are falling down where he folded them up in his usual carefree manner. He stands barefoot on the doormat, and I’m already grinning back, wondering excitedly, was he stood there waiting for me?

‘Hey there, newbie! The sensor went off on the Ring camera,’ he says, reading my mind in that way he does. My cheeks heat, and I try to will the blush away, not sure I’m very successful at it. Then he looks at my lips, and my stomach flips and I inhale sharply as Jake says … ‘You’re, er, trying something new? That’s a different look for you.’

I bite my lower lip, just barely. It feels sticky. ‘Do you like it?’

Jake’s not looking at my mouth anymore, though, he’s looking just at me, with one eyebrow twisted upwards. ‘Do you like it?’

I’m deflated, I’m crushed, I’m … actually honestly reassured that it’s not just me who thinks this is not really me . I laugh, a bit shakily. ‘One of the girls did it for me. I love it on her, but …’

‘Maybe a different … colour?’

‘Maybe,’ I agree, and we lock eyes for a moment before we both laugh; it makes me feel lighter, everything feeling normal between us again.

See, Mum? We aren’t drifting apart. We’re solid as ever.

‘T-shirt looks great, though!’ he tells me with a wink that buoys me enough to strike a little pose, hip jutted out and hand fanning down the length of my torso.

‘Fandom’s a good look on me, huh?’

‘And to think – we’re only just getting started.’ His tone is cheeky, borderline flirty, and I’m too giddy to think up a good response.

‘Come in, we were just making a snack. You want anything?’

‘Sure,’ I say, and it comes out a bit too breathless. Crap! Breathe, Cerys, don’t be weird! ‘Yeah, I’d … Wait, did you say “we”? But I thought …’

I look again at the driveway in front of the garages, which is empty.

Jake, though, points carelessly over my other shoulder, where there’s a small and slightly battered black Ford parked at a crooked angle on the pavement. He’s already moving inside, assuming I’m following, as he says, ‘Yeah, Max is here. Our physics lesson got cancelled, so we came back here to try catch up on the classwork. Explain to me how the teacher gets sick, but it’s on us to make up for that? Is your college like that, too?’

My mouth opens, but I can’t respond.

Max is here .

Why is Max here?

This is meant to be our time, our hangout.

What on earth made Jake think I wanted his new friend around? He’s not my friend.

I shouldn’t have been so nice to him at the convention. I’ve obviously given Jake the wrong impression and made him think that me and Max are cool.

I am already mentally crafting a text to Daphne. This is absolutely, categorically, NOT a date.

I’m also mentally adding another step to The Plan – GET. RID. OF. MAX. It feels more imperative than ever. I underscore it about sixteen times in my head.

Jake, as ever, reads into my silence, and looks back at me from where he’s halfway down the hall to the kitchen, and I’m standing frozen in the doorway. His eyebrows pinch together, and his mouth turns downward.

‘You don’t mind that Max is here, right? I thought it’d be chill. He’ll enjoy rewatching a couple of episodes of OWAR …’

‘No!’ It bursts out of me too fast and too shrill. How do people do this? How do they keep their cool around a boy they like, when there’s a massive spanner thrown in the works by the name of Max? I try again, ‘No, that’s – it’s totally chill, yeah.’

Jake relaxes, grinning at me once more. His hair is all skew-whiff, like he’s had his hand tangled in it on one side while he studies, and I’d love to reach over and smooth it out. I settle for taking my shoes off instead, lining them up neatly on the shoe rack in the entryway to distract my hands.

‘D’you wanna go on up? We’re just hanging out in my room.’

‘Oh! Um … I thought …’ Is Max not also downstairs? Am I going to have to hang out with Max one-on-one ? In a BEDROOM? This is so not how this evening was supposed to go. I swallow the lump in my throat. ‘Are you sure you don’t want some help with the snacks? I can make some cups of tea, maybe, or –’

Jake wanders towards the kitchen and waves a dismissive hand over his shoulder that feels like a slap in the face. ‘Nah, don’t be silly, you go kick your feet up, I’ll follow you in a minute. Cheese and pickle?’

‘Ooh, go on then,’ I reply, trying to be normal, and he fakes a gag before disappearing into the kitchen to make his go-to after-school snack: a toastie.

I dither in the hall for the count of three before I make my way upstairs, taking them slowly. I can’t avoid the inevitable, but every second shaved off hanging out with Max counts.

Jake’s new house is bigger than his old one, considerably. It doesn’t make sense to me – I thought most parents downsized when their kids left home, and Jake will be off to uni in two years like Ginny is – but I look in awe at the sleek architecture of the massive landing window and the reading nook his mum has created in a little annex between bedrooms, making the expansive white space cosy and homely. Most of the doors are closed, except for one wide open and showing a bathroom with a walk-in shower, and another cracked open that must be Jake’s room. There’s music playing inside, low enough to be background noise to a conversation.

The floorboard creaks beneath my foot as I step closer, which I don’t doubt Max will have heard, so I suck in a breath and step inside.

Jake’s room is … more or less exactly the same. The configuration is all different, but the furniture and colours and posters and clutter haven’t changed a bit: the blue and grey bedsheets, a navy feature wall behind his bed, his desk overtaken by a gaming set-up and a couple of books stacked neatly. There’s a new addition to his dorky collection of posters – an OWAR one, signed in silver Sharpie by several cast members he met at the convention recently. It’s got pride of place behind the TV.

The only thing out of place is him .

My eyes snag on Max after a quick scan of the room, and linger.

He looks surprisingly … well, normal , actually. He’s sitting in Jake’s low, curved gaming chair, wearing a white school shirt like Jake, although his is still tucked in and the sleeves are rolled up more neatly and firmly, in no danger of flapping loose. He’s concentrating on a textbook in his lap, a highlighter in hand and a pen pinched between his teeth, brow furrowed in concentration.

Once again, all I can do is stare at him .

He’s got dark hair. Thick and almost jet-black, worn half-up in a loose bun, the rest long enough to brush his chin. Even without the weird armour things to bulk them out, his shoulders are broad.

He glances up, eyes locking on mine intensely, and he doesn’t say so much as a ‘hello’. He notices my lipstick, staring unashamedly just as much as I am. His gaze flicks to my T-shirt, then, and one of his eyebrows twitches upwards as if in disdain. He clearly thinks it’s a try-hard move.

I blurt out, ‘I would never have recognized you without the wig and the ears.’

It’s true. If I’d walked past him in the street, I’m not sure I would’ve known it was him.

‘And here I thought you’d show up in full cosplay for an OWAR marathon,’ he quips, and even though his tone is light, it’s laced with just enough sarcasm that it feels like a dig. For a moment, I think maybe he can even see right through me, and knows why I’m really here. ‘I’m kind of let down, newbie. You call this commitment to the fandom?’

I hate him.

I actually, properly, hate him.

I drop my school bag down and perch on the edge of Jake’s bed, which is about as far away from Max as I can get. I tuck one knee up and lean on my hand. It’s a pose lots of the movie heroines do, and I can only hope I look as confident and effortless as them. I do not need Max knowing he’s gotten under my skin, or Jake thinking I hate his new friend.

So I will be his friend, too. I will be nice to him, and I will be polite and I will not lose my cool and lose Jake in the process. I can’t. And if that means putting up with this judgemental prat, so be it.

‘Oh, Max,’ I tell him. ‘You have no idea how committed I am.’