Page 116 of Kissing is the Easy Part

“We’re trying!” Mom laughs.

Dad adjusts his tone. “Fine. No KPIs, no metrics. Just casual parent-child conversation. So . . . what would you say is your biggest strength in the role?”

“Dad!”

“Okay, okay—serious question. Do you at least like the job?”

“I do. But I can’t believe how much folding needs to be done. I’ll spend an hour making everything look perfect, and then a customer walks in, grabs a sweater, unfolds five others, and leaves without buying anything. And don’t even get me started on fitting rooms.”

“You know, it’s funny,” Mom says, “considering how you never used to fold your own clothes growing up.”

Dad nods sagely. “Turns out, the amount of clothes a person folds in their lifetime is constant. If you don’t fold your own as a kid, karma makes you fold other people’s clothes for them.”

“Wow. That’s profound,” I say. “You should write a parenting book.”

Dad leans back, satisfied. “I’ll call itThe Unfolding Truth.”

“Subtitle: Why You Should Do Your Own Laundry Before Life Makes You,” Mom adds. “Hey, has working there made you want to shop more or less?”

“Oh, being around all those beautiful clothes absolutely makes me want to shop. When things come in, I start mentally putting outfits together.” I gesture at the plates on the table. “But I just blew my entire check on this meal because you insisted on ordering steak, Dad.”

Dad pauses midbite, looking guilty but not really. He pats me on the shoulder. “Welcome to adulthood.”

* * *

By the end of March, when I receive my acceptance letter from NYU, I’ve done four more puzzles. Carmen introduces me to a few more complex women, including Lady Chatterley, Madame Bovary, Eugénie Grandet, Thérèse Raquin, and Anna Karenina. She says we’ll start with European classics and then move on to modern literature. Besides strengthening my bonds with my core friend group, I party a little, but no rebound relationships this time.

Heartbreak is something I must face on my own.

I call Sean to share the news. He congratulates me but refuses to take any credit for it.

“Can I buy you dinner, or at least coffee?” I ask. “To thank you properly.”

“That’s really not necessary.”

“I miss you. I want to know how you are.”

“I’m fine. Thanks for asking.”

My stomach churns, but I try to keep it light. “You don’t talk to me anymore. What have you been doing lately?”

There’s a long pause before he speaks. He tells me he got in everywhere he applied to,obviously.“And I helped my grandfather build a boat. It’s something he’s always wanted to do. His health’s not great, so the goal’s to finish it before I go to college.” Three sentences in and his tone shifts. “Honestly, this is a depressing topic for me. Let’s drop it.”

After a short silence, I try again. “I hear you’re much better at German now.”

He responds with a string of rapid German sentences. I don’t catch a word, but his accent seems right on. “I have no idea what you said, but I’m guessing you’re going to impress German girls with that.”

“I don’t need to speak German to impress them. Some things are universal.”

For a fleeting second, he sounds like his old self. It’s such a delight to hear.

“I’ve been taking AP Fashion History,” I say.

“I heard. That’s pretty cool. Taking it senior year, second semester, no less.”

“It took some convincing to switch out my free period, but this is my first AP class ever. A milestone for me.”

“Good for you. Just 7,999,999,999 more classes to go before you’re on my level.”