“I think he’s really shy, y’know,” she says, leaning against the kitchen counter. “I’m sure he’s the guy JJ said just moved in. Quiet, keeps himself to himself. Not your usual type at all.”
I roll my eyes as I reach for a soda bottle. Not because she’s wrong—she isn’t, shy isn’t who I usually bring home—but because Emilia likes to regularly remind me how terrible my taste in men is. To be fair, I give her an opportunity to remind me every time a guy turns out to be the asshole the red flags told me he’d be, ignoring the signs in favor of string-free sex.
“If I wanted to be rejected by a man tonight, I’d have called my dad.” An awkward not-quite-a-laugh bubbles out of me as I fill up our glasses, careful not to spill the soda this time. “God, I can’t wait to get away from Maple Hills.”
Before I can say anything else, Emilia’s cellphone lights up in her hand. “I’m gonna step outside and take this call from Poppy. It’s breakfast time in Europe, you good for five minutes?”
“I’m sure I can keep myself out of trouble for five minutes, go. Give my love to Pops, please.”
Emilia kisses my temple affectionately. “You say that, but I’m not convinced. I’ll be back. Text me if you’re about to go missing.”
She looks genuinely excited as she makes her way toward the backyard to talk to her girlfriend. I love their love, I really do, but God they make me feel single. It’s hard being the official third wheel to two people disgustingly perfect for each other, especially because I’ve never had a real relationship in my life. I haven’t even had a first date. For the most part, I’m happy single, but sometimes, when they’re curled up together under a blanket at home, for a tiny moment that I’d never admit to, I do feel a little jealous.
When faced with two people so well suited, it’s impossible not to wonder what your own version of that might look like. But then I remember how fun being traumatized by my parent’s relationship was and the desire for my own evaporates as quickly as it arrived.
For all the romance books I’ve read and all the happy endings I’ve enjoyed, I can’t imagine my own. I’d like to hope I’ll have one, but hope can be dangerous.
Someone much smarter than me once said something poetic and clever about love being when you give someone the power to hurt you but trust them not to, but I can’t imagine ever trusting someone that much. I’d like to, though, maybe.
If I want my feelings hurt, I am more than capable of doing it to myself. It’s a skill I’ve honed over many years and arguably my best one.
Pulling my cellphone out of my purse, I decide to wait for Emilia by filling my time pretending to look at what people are saying about F1 qualifying from earlier today. My aimless scroll lasts ten seconds before I give in to the real reason I got my phone out: snooping on my dad’s latest girlfriend from my fake account.
It’s my current favorite way to hurt my own feelings and, luckily for me and my masochistic tendencies, Norah loves updating every second of her life on her stories, like she’s a thirteen-year-old with social media for the first time and I love being unhappy watching it.
I also love reporting the pointless lives she does for bullying and harassment.
At least ninety percent of the impulsive decisions I’ve made in the past month have been triggered by her posting about how wonderful my dad is—and yet here I am again, watching it. Her face fills the screen, far too close and terribly lit and then, in a move that makes my heart stop beating, she pans around to film my dad packing boxes in what appears to be in her daughter’s dorm room.
I’m not sure my dad would even know where I go to college if he didn’t pay my tuition.
I hate watching it, but I can’t stop. My entire life has been a fight for my dad’s time, so to watch him give it away so freely is like a punch to the gut.
When he didn’t travel to Spain for the Grand Prix this weekend because he had “important plans,” the foolish part of me that still hopes her dad isn’t a total jackass questioned if it was because he did want to prioritize saying goodbye to me before I leave for the summer. Now I know who he considers to be important and, once again, it isn’t me. I hate the type of person it’s turned me into, one desperate for attention and validation, and I hate that I’ve let my life become one shaped by kneejerk reactions to feeling forgotten.
For once, I want to make a decision because it will make me happy, not because something has triggered me into acting out.
I lock my phone screen and push my phone back into my purse as soon as the body in my peripheral vision gets too close. It’s not that Emilia doesn’t know I snoop, but it’s still embarrassing, particularly because her dad is actual perfection and as much as she tries, she’ll never understand.
It isn’t Emilia.
“Hey,” Russ says carefully. “Are you okay?”
Forcing a smile, I look up at him with as much enthusiasm as I can muster. “Yeah, I’m great. Are you?”
He watches me carefully before responding. “Are you really okay? Did someone bother you?”
“He’s been bothering me for twenty years, it’s totally fine.”
His mouth forms an “o” as he nods, apparently understanding immediately. “What can I do to make you feel better?” My brain immediately tells me to tell him to take his t-shirt off again, but that feels like the wrong move. So I shrug, because I don’t have the answer to what will make me feel better yet. “There must be something.”
“Tell me a secret.”
“A secret?” he repeats.
“Yeah.” I don’t know why I said it but he’s thinking about it. It’s a silly thing my sister and I started asking each other when we were kids. We’ve never been the closest siblings, but our middle ground has always been doing things we shouldn’t and it was our way of sharing.
“You make me nervous,” he says eventually, immediately taking a swig of his beer.
“That isn’t a secret,” I laugh. “That’s very obvious.”
He blows out a sigh and rubs his hand against his face. “I think you’re stunning.”
His admission catches me off guard. Stunning. I shake my head anyway, my hair dances in front of my eyes. “That isn’t a secret either . . .”
“You’re impossible,” he chuckles. His hand reaches out slowly, cautiously, tucking my hair behind my ear, hovering a little longer than necessary. “My secret is I don’t really like parties, but I’m glad I came to this one and met you. And when I couldn’t find you I was sad when I thought you’d left.”
Oh shit. “That was smooth.”
“Was it actually? Because I tried really fucking hard. I was really close to confessing to a crime I didn’t commit because of the pressure.” There he is.
“You did a great job.”
“Thanks, I don’t do this a lot. I’m uh, I’m not good at it.”
“You don’t go around telling strangers your secrets?” I hide my smile with a sip of my drink. A real smile this time.
“I don’t tell anyone usually, but I meant I’m not good at talking to people I’m interested in.”
I don’t know what it is about his uncertainty that I find so charming. Maybe it’s because even though he’s not sure of himself, he’s sure he wants to talk to me—and I’m clinging to those slivers of certainty with both hands. “You said you live here.”
“Because I do.”
“You have a room.”
“Is that a question? They don’t make me sleep outside if that’s what you mean.” This fucking guy. “Yeah, I have a room.”
Painful. Actually painful. “Are you going to . . . show it to me? You said you don’t like parties. We could get away from it.”
I practically see the lightbulb appear above his head when he realizes what I’m asking. “That depends. Are you drunk?”
“A little buzzed, but definitely not drunk. Are you drunk?”