But then the door to the storage area nudges open, wide enough to fit a giant coffee table made out of reclaimed local stump wood. With Reid pushing it.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi.” For a minute, we just stand there, not quite looking at each other. There’s this tuft of hair winging out above his ear. I have to shut my eyes. My heart and brain are jumping all over.
“Can we—”
“Molly, it’s fine.”
“Okay. Yeah.”
“Sorry.” I see him swallow, his Adam’s apple pressing outward. I cross my arms over my chest. He looks up at me, finally, and says, “I don’t want to talk about this here.”
“Okay,” I say again. I can’t catch my breath.
Then Ari calls him over to the register, and we don’t talk again for the entire workday.
He doesn’t walk me out. Our shifts end at the same time, but at the last moment, he disappears into the back room.
I take the back streets home, feeling heavy and dazed. My phone buzzes in my pocket, and it takes me a second to even register it. I feel almost like I’m floating. I’m barely aware of the weather and my body and my stiffly plodding feet.
It’s a text from Abby: Are u there? Can we Skype?
15 min, I type. Almost home.
As soon as I get there, I head straight to my room, settling onto my bed with my laptop. I log into Skype and dial Abby’s computer.
“Hey!” she says, her face super close to the webcam. And when she leans back, I see she’s not alone. “Molly, this is Simon!”
The famous Simon. He looks just like he does in photographs: messy blond hair and twinkly eyes behind hipster glasses. “Hi.” He grins.
“Hi.” I feel shy.
“Okay, so I don’t have a clue what any of this means,” Abby says, rolling her eyes, “but he has something very important to ask you. Just critically important.”
“Okay, this actually is important,” he says, nodding solemnly. “I need a second opinion. If you were sorting Abby into one of the Hogwarts houses, where would she go?”
“Obviously Gryffindor.”
“YES. Oh my God. Thank you.”
Abby shakes her head. “Yeah, so this one and his boyfriend just spent two hours arguing about whether I’m a Gryffindor or a Hufflelump.”
“Hufflelump?” Simon covers his face. “I can’t. Jesus Christ. Abby, you’re embarrassing yourself. Anyway,” he says, sliding his hands away, and giving me a thumbs-up, “Molly, you’re awesome.”
“Yup. She’s awesome. You’re awesome. Go gloat to your boyfriend,” Abby says, shooing him out.
As soon as he’s gone, her whole expression changes. “Hey. You okay?” Her brow furrows.
I nod slowly. I don’t know how Abby does this. Either she’s really perceptive, or I’m way more of an open book than I think I am. I’ve never quite been able to figure that out.
“Yeah, that’s not the nod of someone who’s okay.” She squints at me. “What’s up? Did you talk to your moms?”
“About . . .”
“About the booze.”
“Oh. No. This is . . .” I pause—and the silence just hangs there. The thing about Skype is that you can actually watch an awkward silence play out in real time. There’s Abby’s face, eyebrows knit, pressing her lips together slightly. And in a tiny rectangle in the corner: me, eyes cast downward. Probably because I’m watching myself and not the webcam. I’m sure there’s some kind of metaphor buried in that.
“Molly?”
“Hmm?”
“You’re in a daze.”
I blink. “I am? I am. I’m sorry.” I rub the bridge of my nose.
“Is it Cassie?”
“What?”
“Is she still pissed about orgasm-gate?” Abby stretches and leans back, and I catch a glimpse of her bedroom walls—pale pink, plastered with collages of Taylor Swift, The Fault in Our Stars, and the rest of her favorites. It’s just like her room in Takoma Park, but bigger—Abby’s world, expanded. “Because that’s dumb. Want me to yell at her for you?”
I laugh weakly. “Thanks.”
“Seriously, have you guys talked about this?”
“No.” I scoot back, leaning against the wall.
“You need to talk about it.”
“I know, but the wedding’s in ten days, and, just, you know. I don’t want everything to be weird.”
“You don’t want it to be weird? I think that ship has sailed.” She raises her eyebrows. “Seriously, just talk to her. You’ll feel better.”
“I know.”
“Good.”
We’re both quiet. I watch her draw a nervous breath.
“Okay, listen,” she says finally. “I don’t want to overwhelm you, but, uh.” She looks me in the eye. “Can we talk about this guy Reid?”
The breath whooshes out of me.
“What about him?”
“Well, Olivia called me.”
I feel this wave of panic. I touch my cheeks, and they’re burning. “What?”
“So.” She lifts her shoulders. “Who is he? What’s going on with you guys?”
“She said something was going on?”
“I’m just speculating.”
“With her and Reid?”
“Molly.” Abby rubs her eyelids. “No. Okay. That is not what Olivia said.”
My heart pounds. “What did she say?”
“Let’s start with this. Do you like this guy?” She twists her mouth sideways. It’s the Abby version of the Molly Face. It’s the patented Abby Suso don’t bullshit me face.
“I feel like we’ve been talking a lot about me. How are you? How’s Nick?”
“Oh, we’re great. Our relationship is great. You know what helped a lot with that?” She stares me down. “Admitting I liked him.”
She knows, and I know she knows, and she knows I know she knows, and onward to infinity. But I can’t make myself say it. Twenty-seven crushes, and the first time it actually counts, I can’t seem to make the words come. Honestly, there must be something wrong with my wiring. Because girls are supposed to tell each other everything. It’s the fundamental law of friendship.
I like Reid. I have a crush on Reid. I want to make out with Reid. I’m half in love with Reid. More than half. Way past half.
“See, you tricked me,” Abby says, wagging a finger. “I thought you liked Hipster Will.”
“I don’t.”
“But you hung out with him.”
“Olivia told you that?”
She nods. “But you’re not interested in Will.”
I bite my lip. “No.” Nor is he interested in me.
“Then why’d you hang out with him?”
“I don’t know.”
“You totally know.” She’s smiling faintly. “Come on. I think you need to say this. Like, own it. It’s okay.”
“Yeah.” I nod. “I’m . . .”
There’s this pause.
She looks at me. “Wow. Like, you can’t. You actually can’t admit it.”
I cover my face.
“This is so sad and adorable.”
“I’m twelve years old. I know.”
“You seriously are.” She laughs. “Which is okay! But you’re gonna have to turn thirteen.”
I shrug.
“All right. I’m going to draw this out of you. First question. If you’re not into Will, why did you hang out with him?”
“Okay, I’m not—”
“Answer the question.”
I take a deep breath. “Because Reid was hanging out with Olivia.”
“Yeah, you might have misinterpreted that.” She grins. “But let’s keep going. So, Reid was hanging out with Olivia, and then you called Will . . .”
“No, I texted him.”
“Whatever. You got in touch with Will because you wanted . . .” She trails off.
“I wanted to make Reid jealous.”
“Because you like him.”
“I like him.”
>
“There you go.”
“Yeah.” And I’m blushing so hard, and it’s stupid, because I’m not in middle school. I’m not twelve. I’m not this much of a mess.
“You like him!” Abby says.
“But it’s not anything. We haven’t even kissed.”
“Yet.” She’s beaming.
“Stop being smug.”
“You don’t even know smug. Wait till you kiss him. Come find me then.”
“I’m not going to find you.”
She bursts out laughing. “Yeah, okay. Do you know what you didn’t just say?”
My whole body is blushing. Because I know she knows, and probably everyone in the entire world knows.
I didn’t say I wouldn’t kiss him.
Maybe I actually will.
HI. I KNOW I PROBABLY shouldn’t be texting you this late
But I need to tell you some stuff, and I don’t want to talk myself out of it. So, yeah.
First of all, I’m really sorry.
Reid, I am so sorry. I was an asshole to you. You probably don’t want to talk to me right now.
I totally get it.
It’s not fair of me to be a jerk about you hanging out with Olivia
Especially when I was hanging out with Will
That sucked. And I’m sorry.
But here’s the thing
Actually, here’s a lot of things
There are some things we’ve never talked about that we probably should talk about.
Like how I’m not interested in Will. And he’s not interested in me.
And how everything’s just a little off-kilter right now, like with Cassie and Mina.
Which has nothing to do with Olivia!
And is obviously not a good reason to keep you from making out with her.
Except
Please don’t make out with Olivia.
Because that’s the other thing.
I don’t think you should make out with Olivia.
Because
I can’t believe I’m about to say this
THREE DOTS.
HE’S TYPING SOMETHING.
My hands are shaking so hard, I can barely hold my phone.
My stomach aches, and the area below my stomach aches, and the area below that aches. There is a good deal of lustful aching occurring.
Hey. I’m here, he writes.
Hey. Hi.
Three dots.
Hi! Okay. So, I guess we should talk?
Yes
But maybe we should do it in person
My heart beats extra fast. Yes. Okay. Where are you?
Home. Where are you?
Home!
I can be there in five, he says.
Here’s the thing they don’t tell you about time: there are spaces in between seconds. And sixty seconds is actually a pretty huge number. Three hundred seconds might as well be infinity seconds.
I slip outside and settle onto the porch swing to wait for him.
And then he’s here.
He’s wearing new sneakers. It’s the first thing I notice. Brownish-gray with white laces, vaguely vintage looking.
“Hey.”
“Hey.” I smile up at him. “Want to sit?”
“Yes. Okay.” He nods firmly—and he looks so sweetly intense that I have to giggle. He sinks down beside me, close enough that our legs touch. I am very aware that our legs are touching. I think my brain must have been built for this kind of awareness.
“I like your shoes,” I say.
“Oh, thanks.” He runs a hand through his hair. He seems jittery and unsettled. “That was Olivia’s idea.”
“Yeah.”
He turns to face me. “So, let’s talk about Olivia.”
I need to breathe. I need to be cool. If Reid tells me he kissed her, I have to be happy for him. For them.
I nod, and he’s quiet. We swing back and forth gently.
“Are you guys together?” I ask finally.
“What? No. I told you that.”
“But you like her.”
“No! Not like that. I want to introduce her to Douglas.” He pauses, and I can see him swallow. “I’ve been talking to her about you.”
His eyes flick toward me, his fingers trailing along the armrest of the swing. I can barely catch my breath.
It’s the middle of the night.
I’m on the porch swing.
Next to Reid.
Reid, with a needlessly detailed map of Middle Earth on his shirt. Reid, with his hazel-gold eyes and wire-rimmed glasses and the starlight in his hair and his very soft mouth. Not that I’d know. But I highly suspect his mouth is soft.
I stare at my knees.
“So, do you want to talk about the thing?” he asks, after a moment.
“The thing?”
“The thing you were about to tell me.”
“Oh yeah. The Thing.” I smile slightly.
“The Not Supposed to Make Out with Olivia Thing.”
“Yes. That is a Thing.”
“And there’s a reason for this Thing.”
“Yes.”
“Beyond the fact that she’s not the person I’m in love with.”
“In love?”
“I don’t know.” He smiles. And then he picks up my hand and threads our fingers together.
Oh.
My heart’s in my throat.
“I’m going to kiss you,” I say, and I hear my voice shaking.
“That’s a good idea.”
He wraps his arms around me, and the swing creaks faintly. I think my brain has become unglued. I lean forward. Somehow, my body knows how to do this.
And I do this.
His mouth is softer than I even thought.
I sneak him up to my bedroom. I’m actually sneaking a boy up to my bedroom. And for a minute, we just stand there grinning at each other.
Did I mention Reid is in my bedroom?
He steps closer. “Yeah, I’m just going to—” And almost before I can process it, his lips are on mine.
I don’t think. For once. And I’m not even slightly careful. My eyes slide shut, and my hands slip over his shoulders, and I kiss him back. I kiss him like it was my idea. I don’t know what I’m doing, but maybe it doesn’t matter, because we’re kissing. Again. Finally. Finally. His hands find my waist, and he pulls me even closer. So close I can feel his heartbeat. And then I feel him smile against my lips, and I open my eyes. “What?” My lips tug upward.
“No, I’m just . . .” He hugs me tightly. “This is actually happening.”
“Yeah.” I smile.
“Right.” He kisses me again, softly. “I’m just so . . .”
“I know.” I tuck my head into his shoulder and sigh.
We’re quiet for a moment. And then we both speak at once.
“I’m really glad—”
“Do you want to—”
He laughs. “You go first.”
I swallow. “Do you want to go over there?” And I’m blushing. God. I don’t know how to do this part. I don’t know how to say this in a movie way.
Hey, so my bed’s over there.
Hey, we could try this horizontally.
Anyway, he gets it. He nudges his shoes off and climbs onto my bed, stretching his arms out toward me. I take his hands, and he tugs me closer.
“I don’t want to crush you.”
“You won’t.” His eyes are bright behind his glasses.
“Okay, but . . .”
“Here.” He pulls me gently onto the bed and wraps his arms around me. “This okay?”
“Yeah.” Every part of my body is pressed against part of his. “You’re sure I’m not—”
“You’re not crushing me.” He smiles.
“And my hair’s in your face.”
“I like it. Is that weird?”
“I don’t know.” I laugh, but the sound falls away as soon as our lips meet.
And it’s different, lying down. I don’t know how to explain it.
But there’s this prickle below my abdomen, and it makes me want to kiss him even more. Kiss him everywhere. I tilt my face sideways and press my lips against the line of his jaw. Into the crook of his neck. I slide down and kiss him gently on the collarbone.
“Oh,” he says, more breath than sound. And there’s this sudden, soft pressure against my jeans. I think he’s hard.
God.
My heart is pounding.
“I’m just—” he says. I thread my hands into his hair and kiss him harder. His eyes drift closed again. And I think I might understand. Almost. I think I know why this is such a big deal. To some people.
To me.
But he pauses, breathing heavily. “Molly, I don’t want . . .”
“Oh. God. Sorry, I didn’t mean . . .” I pull myself up clumsily.
“No, no. I mean, I want to. But not.” He exhales. “Maybe not yet.”
“Me either. I’m so sorry.”
He sits up, sliding his legs out, and he grabs my hand. “But seriously,” he says. “I want to.”
“Okay.”
“Like, a lot.” I look at him sideways, and his dimple flickers.
God. I can’t stop staring at our hands. Reid threads our fingers together and softly traces his thumb along the length of my index finger. And something below my stomach squeezes taut. Maybe it’s actually possible to combust with joy. Maybe that’s actually a thing.
“So, did you even check your mailbox?” he asks, completely out of nowhere.
“What?”
He leans back and smiles up at me, still breathing hard.
“Wait, you sent me something?”
“Nope.” He grins.
“I’m so confused.” I lean back next to him, and he tilts his head toward mine.
“I didn’t send you anything,” he says. “I just think someone else might have.”
“Good to know,” I say, and I bury my face in his chest.
It’s funny. I didn’t know I could feel like myself in this kind of moment.
But I do. I feel extremely me.
BUT WOW. NO ONE WARNS you how tender your mouth feels after making out.
Making out. That was me.
I press my lips gently with my fingertips and immediately tap into my phone’s selfie camera to examine them. They look bee-stung and swollen. I look like a different Molly. Now I’m wondering how people kiss without the whole world knowing. Maybe it’s like flossing. Maybe if you keep kissing, your lips get used to it. I think I could do that. I could make kissing a habit.