I don’t want a rehashing of the computer lab scene though—where one sharp word meant a million apologies.
She leans even farther over the side of the car, to the point where Adrian’s grabbing the belt loop on her jean skirt. “I thought you were single?”
“I …” I don’t have an answer to that. It’s not something I can ask Jonah in front of an audience. It’s not something I’m ready to ask him. Or think about. And he’s tossing his keys impatiently between his hands. Looking everywhere but at me.
Which is probably a good thing, because I’m sure my expression is raw hope and desperate longing.
“Is that … the new kid?” Adrian asks. I’m not sure if it’s a question for Silvia or me, but it makes me cringe. The new kid? They should know his name—or ask. All my earlier arguments about the merits of the town crowd back up my throat and choke me.
He tacks on a “with her?” in a voice that’s neither quiet nor polite. The screen of a cell phone glows brightly in his fingers, illuminating his skeptical expression. He’s turning this moment into a text, a status update, or a tweet.
“Jonah,” I correct in a voice like flint, and I feel his eyes on me. “His name is Jonah.”
“We should go,” he says quietly. He gazes coolly at Adrian as he reaches around me to open the passenger door.
“Oh, you don’t have to! Sorry. We didn’t mean to interrupt! Adrian was just …” Silvia’s apologies dissolve into giggles.
“Showing her my parking space,” he finishes. “But we can go. You guys stay.”
“No, it’s fine.” But my voice is hollow, and if they weren’t so busy with each other, they’d hear I don’t mean it. Jonah has already shut his door and is shoving his key in the ignition. “Jonah and I will see you guys Sunday.”
I shut the door on good-byes and giggles, and he puts the car in drive.
Neither of us says a word, and this silence is thick and ominous, like whatever is said next will have permanent consequences.
As I’m fastening my seat belt, I get it—what Amelia wants from Peter and what he gives her. I finally, really understand a moment from earlier in the day in this parking lot at dismissal.
Amelia with her head on Peter’s shoulder.
His hand on her hair.
Peter’s other hand on the key to her car.
Her car.
The car Amelia has never let me drive. The car her parents started planning a year before her sixteenth birthday so she’d have time to change her mind about make, model, and color.
And the way she’d said, “I’m tired, baby. Take me home, please.” It was completely comfortable, completely confident.
And Peter’s response: tracing the line of her forehead. “If you didn’t keep such rock star hours, Lia …” And he’d smiled as she pulled his hand to her lips and murmured shhhh.
Eleven hours ago I’d dismissed it as cute. Now it means more. Peter isn’t one of Amelia’s fads or phases. They’re all in. And that’s what I want. That moment. That relationship. That trust. That.
The longing feels like someone has grabbed my insides and twisted. I want what Amelia and Peter have, but does Jonah fit in that picture? Do I want it with him?
I think the answer is yes and that terrifies me.
Based on how he reacted back there, his answer is no. His feelings were passion, not permanent. He’s probably thinking I was a silly mistake, a stupid footnote on his bad night.
“Home?” There is nothing of the hoarse desire in his voice anymore; it’s straight exhaustion with a sigh for punctuation.
“Yes, please.”
39
Jonah
2:46 A.M.
IT’S TIME TO BEGIN
I hate that kid in his shiny new Mustang. I’m less sure about the girl in the sequin tank top he had riding shotgun, but I’m willing to hate her too. I’m prepared to hate everyone at CPHS for the deer-in-headlights look on Brighton’s face when she was caught kissing me.
I bet she’ll micromanage the whole episode into a joke or a misunderstanding. You thought we were kissing? Oh, no. Not at all. I was: insert-suitable-activity-for-an-empty-parking-lot-at-three-a.m.
I can’t think of anything that fits that category, but I’m sure she’ll come up with a way to spin it. This night has been a holiday from reality, and we’ve reached the part where vacation ends and real life floods in.
After a drive that’s too long, too short, and way too silent, we’re in her driveway. The digits glowing on my dashboard are only a few hours before I usually wake up for school. She twists her hair into a knot and then lets it all drop around her shoulders, looking up and meeting my eyes for a millisecond.
I refuse to be the one who says good-bye first. I won’t make this easy on her by acting like I’m okay with what just went down and offering her an awkward hug. What is she thinking, head lowered, fidgeting with the hem of her dress? That she needs to let me down gently, that I’ll be heartbroken? She doesn’t seem to be in any big hurry to leave the car.
I hate that I don’t want her to.