It makes sense. He appeared. He’s cute. I have a crush on him the way you have a crush on a musician or an actor. Not in a real way. He’s convenient. He’s on my mind because of this morning. I like that he flirts with me. And I miss being around him all the time. But that’s not the same thing as having real feelings for him.
It’s not like I’m considering completing the second part of that Assignment. The part where I actually start dating someone else, to make Joe jealous. That would be too far.
But there I am anyway, talking about the buckles on his boots and the fact that I’ve known him since I was six. Acting like I have feelings for him. Acting like he is my Sasha Cotton.
Joe nods and nods.
By the time we have finished kissing, it’s dark outside and both of our phones keep buzzing and beeping and singing and blinking.
He’s even ignored a call or two from Sasha. I can’t contain the bliss I feel at that knowledge. I want to spend our last five minutes together staring into each other’s eyes and making promises about What Happens Now. But Joe’s hands are nudging their way under the waistband of my pants.
It makes me miss our conversations online. It is the thing I have been wanting: him close to me, him tugging at me, choosing me, wanting me most of all. But here I am, sweater discarded, top button of jeans popped open. And all I can think of is how sweet it was to hear the ping of his chats, and see the words as they appeared onscreen: halting, erratic, unpredictable. I didn’t know where we were going.
Now, I think I know.
“I wish the drive home were longer,” I say to Joe after he walks me out to my car and kisses me through the open window once I’m inside.
“Hm?”
“Never mind,” I say.
What I meant was: everything changes after tonight, and I’m not sure I’m ready.
What I meant was: this is the last perfect moment before I do more terrifying things.
STAR:
Here are a bunch of secrets.
I want to get married.
Yeah, I mean, I know. I’ve lived in L.A. for less than a week, and maybe we don’t know each other that well. But I want to know I’ll never lose him. I want to know I can live this life and that it is mine.
There’s a picture hidden in his bedside table, I think of an ex-girlfriend. She’s a redhead and one of the skinniest girls I’ve ever seen. I asked him about it, and he said he meant to throw it away but never got around to it. Which is funny, because throwing something away isn’t hard, isn’t something that takes time.
I threw it away for him.
ZED: Propose.
STAR: What?
ZED: Assignment. Propose.
Fifteen.
BITTY: Assignment completed. I told Joe I have feelings for someone else, too.
ZED: What about the rest?
BITTY: The rest of what?
ZED: What about actually going for this mystery person? To make Joe jealous. Action’s better than words, right?
BITTY: Right.
I am trying to be agreeable. But I am already so worked up about having to do drugs with my father that I’m not sure I can handle anything else. I don’t want to say as much. I want to be steely and strong and spontaneous. I want to be an LBC-er. I want to be like Star, telling a million secrets and getting the world’s biggest Assignment.
I mean, a proposal. Shit.
STAR: Jesus, Zed, give the girl a chance to breathe. One Assignment at a time, right?
ZED: She seems pretty formidable to me. Reminds me of you.
STAR: Still. Come on. Her Assignment today is for real. Don’t overwhelm the new girl.
ZED: Is it possible you’re projecting? I haven’t heard any updates on your Assignment yet.
Star doesn’t reply.
I wonder what smoking weed will feel like. If it will make me giggly or dizzy or sick. I wonder if Paul will coach me through it or, like, ground me for life or start wanting to smoke up together all the time.
Maybe I don’t know him well enough to even guess what his response will be. Or maybe I don’t know myself well enough to know what my own response will be either.
Paul’s at the kitchen table with coffee and clear eyes when I wander down Saturday morning before I head to Tea Cozy.
“Little Bitty,” he says with a sober smile. My heart rate spikes. Hearing my LBC name out loud makes my hands shake. I should not have used a name that Paul calls me all the time. He gets up to pour me a coffee and make me some toast. I love when Paul makes me breakfast, even when it’s only toast or cereal. I like that sometimes he’s in charge. I don’t commit to sitting down. I don’t think I can sit across the table from him and act like a normal person right now.
“Big ole Paul,” I say, and do my impression of a person with a boring day ahead, smiling at her father.
“You feeling better today?” he says. It’s a strange question, because it’s not the question he actually wants to ask. I assume he wants to know if I’m still mad at him, if we can move forward without actually acknowledging the terrible things we said to each other.
“Are you?” I say.