The Creeping

“You see all these losers in the yellow shirts?” His eyes laugh. “We were in a science camp the summer before sophomore year. A few go to Wildwood, but mostly they’re from all over Minnesota. They’re all at camp this summer, but I couldn’t take the time off from work. This girl here”—he points to the blonde—“this is Anna. We met a year ago at BigBox. We dated for four months and are strictly friends now. I gave her a ride home because she was there with another friend of mine—Toby from school with the thick-framed glasses and braces—and she wasn’t into it.” He grins like it’s a funny story. “This is Harry.” He taps a photo of two boys sitting on the hood of a vintage car painted cherry red. “I helped him rebuild his Dad’s ’67 Mustang last summer. We’re going to take it to a track in a few weeks. This brunette is Sarah. We dated for all of eighth grade. It wasn’t serious and we had nothing in common, but she was my first girlfriend, after you.” He freezes. Did he just call me his girlfriend? Well, maybe that’s what we were. We were just kids, but we were every bit as much of a couple as I’ve ever been with anyone. Obviously minus the sex stuff. When I don’t object, he launches into a short bio of every person pictured on his board.

Fifteen minutes later Mrs. Worth shouts from downstairs that dinner is ready. I’ve been quietly listening, gradually letting my guilt wane as Sam tells me about his life, post–Hella Stella. It’s difficult to hear he’s been mostly happy without me, but I guess it would be worse if he’d been pining away. I drown the jealousy by picturing every guy I’ve made out with over the past five years. The only problem is this makes me queasy. Every one of those kisses took me further and further away from my first kiss with Sam. The only kiss that ever really meant anything.

“Wait a second, there’s one more here.” He shuffles through papers in a desk drawer. “Here we are. This is my oldest friend. She’s a raging ass most of the time, but I just can’t get rid of her.” He winks at me and tacks up the photo in the center of the board. It’s one his mom took while we were swinging in his backyard forever ago. She captured us mid leg pump as we were reaching to grasp hands. Our arms splayed in the air, like once our fingers touched we would take flight. Vaguely, I remember believing we would.

“And you’re right”—he nails me with a solemn stare, the sort of stare you fall into—“I wouldn’t need you to pull me in for a kiss. All you’d have to do is say the word and I’d be all over you.”





Chapter Eleven


I think Sam’s mom can hear my heart thumping, wildly trying to free itself from the cage of my ribs, during dinner. Sam’s words bounce around in my head, and I can’t quit being completely turned on by them. Gag me, but somehow it’s the hottest thing anyone’s ever said to me. Epically random, since I don’t even think Sam’s hot. I appraise him slyly over a spoonful of rice. Okay, so maybe that little crease between his eyebrows from concentrating too much is adorable, and maybe there’s something kissable about those freckles, and maybe the lean muscles corded in his arms are quiver-worthy?

But hello? How can I be falling for Sam with all that’s going on? Or at all? That is what’s happening, isn’t it? Am I falling for Sam Worth? Falling back into Sam Worth?

Sam’s dad never comes home, a knowing look exchanged between Sam and his mom, so it’s only the three of us at the round kitchen table.

“Stella, tell me what you’ve been up to.” Mrs. Worth launches her first of many questions. I tell her everything I think a mom would want to hear. She beams proudly when Sam says we compete against each other for the second spot in our class—Michaela usually comes in first. She tilts her head and listens when I tell her about the last article I wrote for the Wildwood Herald. She applauds when I tell her I might work as the Herald’s editor senior year. She coos sympathetically when I share that I haven’t seen my mother since Christmas Day. It reminds me of long summer afternoons spent by Sam’s pool, with his mom serving us lemonade and teaching us to backflip into the deep end. She’s always been the kind of mother I wish I had.

That is, until she scrapes her fork along her plate and finishes her last bite. “Do you have a boy you’re seeing?” Her voice is low and velvety, but her words needle my eardrums.

I stare at the points of my fork; if I jammed them into my arm, would she be too distracted to make me answer? “No, not really,” I say after too long.

She leans forward, resting her elbows on the table. “Really? It’s hard to believe that such a pretty girl doesn’t have a boy.”

“Mom, stop,” Sam groans. “You don’t have to answer, Stella.”

I fidget in my chair. Mrs. Worth keeps her eyes on me, waiting for more. I swear the grandfather clock ticking in the living room has been turned up ten decibels. It’s all I hear as I say, “I don’t really date much. I mean, I go out on dates, I just don’t have boyfriends.” I stop. I’ve already said too much. This apron-wearing, stay-at-home mom will not understand. The fabric of my camisole pulls uncomfortably against the itchy skin on my chest. Great. I’m breaking out in hives, red welts rising as they watch.

Mrs. Worth scoffs at Sam, “Don’t be silly. It’s a harmless question.” She smiles warmly at me. “You’ll get no judgment from me. I barely know what I want and I’m . . . well, let’s just say I’m older than you. I can’t imagine knowing what you want when you’re your age.” She shrugs and slides her chair back from the table.

She shoos me out of the kitchen when I try to carry plates over to the sink. “You two go watch a movie or something.”