I stare at the sky, still full of multicolored twinkles, and am disappointed that Sophie isn’t able to see it, too. Because she’d love it.
“Yes, Soph,” I say, and glance at my watch. 11:59. Where was Max? He disappeared after our dance, and I haven’t seen him since. “I think about cheese fungus all the time.” Then I start laughing again.
“Mmm, fungus,” Sophie says between giggles, and we laugh even harder. “I love you, Al,” Sophie says once we’ve settled down, and leans her head on my shoulder.
“I love you, too, Soph,” I say, standing up and giving her head a little pat.
“Do you know who else I like?” she asks.
“I have an idea,” I say, rolling my eyes.
“Max.”
“No kidding,” I say.
“I get it now,” she says. “And I see the way he looks at you, and I love that.”
“Then why is he always disappearing? Like, where is he now?” I say, throwing my hands up in the air with a sigh. “I’m going to go to bed, all right? Will you be okay?”
“Okay, you go to bed,” she says with a big smile.
“Sure you don’t wanna come?” I ask.
Sophie just shakes her head. “I’m good. I’m gonna stay out here a little longer and see if I can make these stars change color like they do for you.”
I smile. “Holler if you need me.”
“I will,” she says, snuggling up more in the blankets. “And Al?” she calls.
“Yeah, Soph?” I wait.
“I know he’s always disappearing. But do you know what?”
“What?” I ask.
Sophie turns her head practically upside down so she can say this last part while looking back at me. “He always shows up. At CDD that night you broke in, on your front stoop with coffee . . . even in your dreams. He shows up.”
Bartholomew Burns told me there was a spare room open on his floor, lived in by a girl who was away on a trip with her a cappella group, which sounded pretty normal to me. Perhaps I’d have to deal with a few too many Taylor Swift posters, but I could live with that. Besides, I like Taylor Swift. I just don’t announce it publicly. But when I open the door to 201, there is no Taylor Swift, no pink beanbag chairs, no shabby chic vanity mirror.
There are ponies. Ponies, and only ponies, everywhere.
Pony posters on the walls. Riding ribbons spanning an entire bulletin board, pony sheets, and photographs of a dark brown horse with a white spot between its eyes on every possible surface.
“Valerie is a riding champion,” Bartholomew Burns says when he walks by and catches me still standing in the doorway, gaping in awe. “Did I forget to mention that?”
“What’s the horse’s name?” is all I can think to ask.
“Theodore,” he answers, before trotting down the stairs.
I brush my teeth and pick out a copy of Horse and Hound magazine off her desk to read myself to sleep, trying not to make eye contact with Theodore in his many incarnations. I’ve just dozed off with the magazine across my chest when I hear someone come into the room.
I open my eyes with a start, fully expecting to have to apologize to Valerie, who surely will have somehow returned early from her trip and is wondering who the heck is in her pony bed, and I am stunned to see Max instead.
“Hi,” is all he says. He stands there, one hand in his pocket, one hand still on the door, his eyes wide.
“Hi,” I say, sitting up on my elbows, my eyes a little fuzzy, as Max takes a seat at the end of the bed. “Is everything okay? Did Oliver finally blow the speakers downstairs?”
“No.” Max chuckles. “Not yet anyway.” He’s facing away from me, and his posture is rigid, his hands clutching the sides of the mattress. “So.”
And suddenly I think I know what’s happening. “Wait,” I say.
“What?” He turns and looks at me, confused.
“I don’t think you should be in here.” The words come out a little desperate before I even have a chance to decide if I want to say them or not. He is just too close, and he looks so good. And if he’s still not sure what he wants, or if he’s just going to choose Celeste after everything, I really need him to leave.
Max looks at me now, straight into my eyes. And then he just says, “Why?” And my heart starts to pound a million miles a minute, because him asking why he shouldn’t be here is like an acknowledgment of everything that is happening.
I swallow. “I thought you wanted to be alone,” is all I can manage to say.
“I did say that,” Max says now, his eyes not leaving mine. “So,” he tries again. “I don’t know what to do. I’ve been walking around campus, wracking my brain, trying to figure out what to do. Because I want to get better, really. I know we have to get better. I know the dreams have to stop. But I also don’t want to lose you.”