You grab it, then crawl back onto the bed, settling in next to me.
You pull a stack of picture books out of the bag. “When I was a kid and got really sick, my mom would hang out in my room and read books to me. They were a good distraction.”
As opposed to my mom, who, since I can remember, always stays a good ten feet away from me when I’m sick.
“Are you going to read me stories?” Because oh my god that is the cutest—
You nod. “Which one do you want first?”
My eyes catch on yours and you smile. Then you reach out and slide the back of your fingers across my cheek. For a second I can’t breathe.
You hold up Goodnight, Moon. “This one was my favorite.”
“Then I want that one,” I say.
You rest your back against my pillows, then reach out so that I’m lying in the crook of your arm, my hand against your chest.
“Comfy?” you ask.
I nod. “Perfect.”
I can feel your heart beating under my hand. You cough slightly, then begin, your breath gently stirring my hair.
“In the great green room there was a telephone…”
I lose count of how many stories you read me. You do all the voices. If there’s a song you sing it. You hold me close to you so that, by the end, my head is against your chest. The smell of you is crack to me—that spicy cologne and whatever else makes you you. If I hadn’t been throwing up my guts all day, I might have had the courage to kiss you. But probably not.
“Feeling any better?” you murmur after you close The Very Hungry Caterpillar.
I nod and look up at you. “I hope I don’t get you sick.”
You smile, running your hand through my hair. “It’d be worth it.”
I want to stay in this moment, suspended forever. I don’t know yet that this tenderness between us will be impossible by the end. I have no idea how much you will hurt me.
You stay for another hour, playing your guitar as I eat. Your mom’s chicken soup is delicious.
At nine my mom knocks on the door.
“Grace? You need to rest now if you’re going to get to school tomorrow morning.”
“Okay,” I call.
You stand up. “That’s my cue.”
You insist on getting me comfortably settled, then squeeze my hand.
“How are you sick and pretty at the same time?” you say.
“Flattery will get you everywhere.”
You shake your head. “Good night, Miss Carter.”
“Good night, Mr. Davis.”
You shut the door behind you and I lie on my side, turning off the lamp. My pillow smells like you and it’s still warm from where you’d been leaning against it. I hug it to me.
I’m asleep in seconds.
EIGHT
After that night, I allow myself to think that you might actually be falling for me.
I can’t believe it, but I really think you are. There are the looks, those searing glances that own me. The hugs you don’t give anyone else. The way you’ve started appearing at my locker between classes. The texts that say things like Thanks for getting me through the day and, as a joke when you were walking behind me, Nice ass, Miss Carter. Little gifts: Pepsi Freezes during rehearsal, a light for my clipboard so I can see backstage, bags of food when I have my long shifts at the Pot.
And a song.
You grab my hand and pull me into an empty classroom before rehearsal. You’re carrying your acoustic in the other hand.
“I wrote you a song,” you say, without preamble.
I stare at you. Did I just hear Gavin Davis tell me he wrote a song for me?
“It’s rough,” you say. “I couldn’t sleep last night and I…” You rub the back of your neck, your cheeks going the softest shade of pink.
“Are you blushing?” I say, half laughing, half turning into a pile of mush.
“Shut up.” You grin and play the first chords, a midtempo sound that reminds me a little of Ed Sheeran.
“I never thought I—” You stop. Clear your throat. “God, you’re making me nervous.”
I smile and slide behind you, so close I could kiss your neck if I wanted to, which I do—want to, that is.
“Is this better?” I murmur, my lips close to your ear. Who is this secret vixen living inside me and where has she been all this time?
You reach one hand back and I take it, let you pull me around so I’m facing you again.
“I want to see your face,” you say with that perfect half smile. “That’s the best part.”
You let go of my hand, look down, take a breath. Then: I never thought I’d find a girl like you Someone who makes me feel so damn brand-new She never turns her nose up at me She never tries to fucking change me She never leaves without saying good-bye You shrug as your fingers leave the strings. “That’s just the first verse. It still needs a lot of work.”
I stare at you and something like panic flits across your face.
“I said too much,” you mumble. “You hate it? I know that second line is shit.”
I shake my head, find my voice. “I … I love it. It’s … Gav, I—”
A goofy grin spreads across your face.
“What?” I say.
“I love when you call me Gav.”
I hadn’t even realized I’d done it.
This is us now. For the past few weeks we’ve been skating around whatever this is, running headlong into a heart-shaped mystery. People are starting to notice. There are lots of raised eyebrows, especially from Nat and Lys.
“So. You and Gavin—spill,” Nat says as she slides into a perfect split.
We’re working on a new combo for dance P.E. and I keep screwing it up because I can’t help replaying the last hug you gave me. It was so long that I’m pretty sure it qualifies as holding.
“I have no idea what’s going on,” I answer, honest. “I think he likes me, but—”
“You think? That boy is head over heels for you, anyone can see that,” she says.
“Yeah?” I ask, grinning.
“Um. Yeah.” She shakes her head. “Who would have thought—you and Gavin Davis.”
It’s like winning the boy lottery.
I smile. “Who would have thought.”
You say I’m the only person who understands you. The only person who doesn’t judge you. We can talk to each other about anything. And yet we’re not together. We haven’t kissed except for on the cheek or the few gallant times you’ve kissed my hand. It’s almost like we know that if we kiss kiss, that will be it. We won’t be able to fool our parents, our friends, ourselves any longer. Right now, we can say we’re taking it slow, that of course we’re considering how maybe it isn’t good for you to be in a relationship right now. You did promise your parents you wouldn’t date anyone until after you graduate. Which, by the way, will happen in a few months—and that brings us to the other reason we shouldn’t be we: Guys in college don’t usually have girlfriends in high school.
But then this happens:
“I want to kiss you so bad,” you say. You’re leaning against the lockers, holding my books while I work on the combination. I go still. “But we shouldn’t. I mean, we’re like … a frouple.”
I’ve lost track of the numbers and have to start over.
“A frouple?”
Thirty-nine, ten, twenty-two …
“Yeah. You know. Friends that are almost a couple. A frouple. And frouples don’t kiss because then they’d be … couples.”