Page 88 of Intermission

“I’m sorry.” He stands, wiping his hand on his jeans. “I wish I could say that was a totally unromantic hand hold, but it would be a lie.” He meets my eyes. “It won’t happen again. Okay, it might. But I’m sorry. Sort of.” His frown deepens. He winces a little. “Actually, I’m not sorry at all. I know that’s not what I’m supposed to say. I know we need to stick to the plan, but it’s so...”

He trails off, but silent strings of words fill the space between us like a reprise of all we said that night at the duck pond when we agreed to enter the friendzone.

“There’s going to be a learning curve,” I say finally. “But if we stick to the plan, there’s hope.”

Noah swallows, nods. “So we hold on. Without actually holding on.”

“Yeah.” I melt beneath the love in his crooked smile. “We hold on.”

What other choice do we have?

Soon after our yes-we-can-just-be-friends—er, mostly. We’re trying—meeting at the waterfall, Noah finishes his classes at the community college, earning his associate degree. The pleasant weather keeps him busy with outdoor construction jobs, and between my voice lessons, show choir rehearsals for final concerts, and Mom’s annoyingly creative chore lists, finding time we can spend together is difficult.

When wearetogether, it’s most often at the waterfall. Even when our schedules don’t align to allow us to meet in person, it’s still a place of connection, via our personal mailbox. We text, we chat, we utilize the various smartphone apps available to us, and we leave things for the other one to find in the Dutchman’s pocket. At first, I was pretty squeamish about reaching in there to retrieve the glass jar Noah provided, but I’m getting over it.

There are no more heart or hug emojis in our texts. No kisses when we meet... or part. Sometimes we accidentally hold hands, but when we realize it’s happened, we stop. There are no long hugs or arms around my shoulders.

And, wow. I miss all of that.

Still, I know we’re probably crossing a few romantic lines. People who are “just friends” don’t leave each other secret notes in hidden places. At least not after about fifth grade. And although I know Noah is my friend—the deepest, truest, most wonderful friend I’ve ever known—my heart still holds him as something more. And those rare occasions when we do get together, my heart silently sings a ballad worthy of the stage.

It’s been a warm week, but this particular day dawns with a slight chill. A foggy, late-May mist hangs the promise of rain in the air, but I’m meeting Noah at the waterfall today. The weather’s gloom can’tdampen my anticipation.

He isn’t as carefree.

“Noah?”

“Hmm?”

“You’ve been awfully quiet this afternoon. Is something wrong?”

“Yeah.” He takes a deep breath. “I think a lot of things are wrong.”

“Like . . . ?”

Noah squeezes my hand and then sets it in my lap. As usual, I don’t recall the moment our fingers entwined. Had I reached for him? Had he reached for me? Does it matter? From his frown, I assume it does.

“Sorry.” I swallow around a pang of guilt. “It’s... it’s hard to remember.”

“No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have suggested we come here. We have to stop meeting here.”

“Why?”

“Your mom’s conditions were that we needed to be out in the open, right?”

“You can’t get more open than this. It’s a nature preserve. A public area.”

“True, but we never see otherpeoplehere, so I’m pretty sure it’s not quite what your mom had in mind.”

Noah picks up a small stick and rolls it between his palms. “When you left the house this afternoon, did you tell your parents where you were going?”

“Yes.”

Noah nods, looking down at the water below our dangling feet. He clears his throat. “Did you tell them that I was going to be here?”

“No.”

The disappointment in his glance burns through me, revealing... guilt.