The weird thing is, a part of me wants to say no. A part of me wants to stay here on the couch with Elliot, doing nothing at all, making sure he doesn’t fall asleep.
But that’s crazy. I can’t do that, for a million reasons. Because of the message it will send to Will, and because it’s Elliot Apfel.
And then Elliot answers for me. “You should go, AB,” he says. His brown eyes are surprisingly steady beneath the bag of peas, his voice level.
“But what about your head?” I ask. “What if you fall asleep and die?”
“My dad is here going through invoices in the garage. He’ll keep an eye out. And plus, there’s a new episode of Game of Thrones I still haven’t seen. I’ll be okay.”
I bite my lip. I look at Will, who is checking something on his phone.
“Really,” Elliot says. “Go.”
For some reason, this hurts. It surprises me, a tiny pain throbbing just below my rib cage. It makes me swallow. It makes me unable to meet his eyes. Would it kill him to be the tiniest bit grateful? Maybe a simple thank-you for saving him and, I don’t know, an apology for ruining my date?
Or, it occurs to me, that maybe I just want him to want me to stay.
“’Kay,” is all I manage to say. “Feel better.” I grab my bag and walk out, and I don’t stop moving until I’m in the passenger seat of Will’s car. The magic cedar smell soothes me a bit, and when Will hops in next to me pulling a wool sweater over his head, a goofy grin on his face, the rest of the pain disappears.
“Okay, I have two options,” Will says simply. “One: I could drive you home, which let’s face it, is a pretty sorry end to a Thursday night.”
“Uh-huh?” I ask suspiciously.
“Or two: You could tell me where a guy can find a decent ice cream cone in this town. Because I’ve been looking for days, and everything seems to be vegan, and I don’t even know how a person makes vegan ice cream.”
At this I can’t help but put my hands over my mouth to hide my grin.
“What?” Will asks. “What’s so funny?”
“You’ve come to the right place,” I say in a tone that’s all business. In my family, we say a pint of ice cream doesn’t survive the night. I love it more than coffee. More than the newspaper. Maybe even more than running.
“Thank God,” Will says dramatically. “Save me, Annabelle!”
“Head straight on Fourth, and take a right on Rose,” I say. And leave Elliot far behind.
And just like that, we’re off to finish the date we started.
Apparently, Sea Salt Creamery has a patio now, lined with extra-sparkly twinkle lights. They didn’t last week, when I came with my dad. Now, here with Will, the effect is surprisingly romantic.
“When did you get these?” I ask the waitress who drops off our sundaes.
“I don’t know.” She shrugs, hardly looking at me. She reaches a hand behind her head to tighten her ponytail. “I know you said two scoops, but I gave you three.” She tilts her head and smiles at Will.
I practically roll my eyes. Will might actually be perfect if he hadn’t ordered a banana split. I’ve long had a squishy-fruit aversion.
“Everyone likes you,” I say as the waitress walks off. The waitress, the people behind and in front of us in line, even this young couple’s baby who wouldn’t stop crying, but turned totally Gerber when Will leaned over its stroller. “Everywhere you go, people, like, swoon.”
“That’s not true,” Will protests. “And besides, everyone likes you, too.”
“No, they don’t.” I shake my head. “I mean, people don’t hate me or anything; I’m nice, but they misunderstand me sometimes. Or I misunderstand them.”
I bite my lip, and think about last week when Lee was showing off a new leather jacket she got for her birthday from Barney’s, and I told her I’d seen one exactly like it on the Boardwalk for forty bucks. Ava told me the point was to compliment Lee’s jacket. The point was not that she could have bought a cheaper one.
“I like that you’re honest,” Will says. “I’m this nice because my parents taught me it’s how you have to be. But it means it’s hard to know how they actually feel about anything.”
“Well, maybe I can teach you to be more of a jerk.” I smile.
“And I can teach you to be a pushover.” Will grins. We meet each other’s eyes a moment, and I relish in the fact that I am on a real date with a real guy, and I don’t seem to have done anything awkward to mess it up yet.
“So, I wanna talk more about Annabelle Burns, the journalist,” Will says.
I give him a look over my cone. “You do?” Other than my parents, I’ve never had someone be so interested in me before.
“I do.” Will nods.
“What do you wanna know?” I ask.
Will looks off to the side for a moment, thinking. “So you like stories, as long as they’re real?”
I shrug. “Yeah, that’s one way of putting it. And I love to write. And edit. I love to take a group of words that just aren’t working in harmony and turn them into something readable and interesting. I’m not sure there is anything more satisfying in the whole world.”
“I’ve never thought about words like that before.” Will chews on his spoon for a moment. “But you don’t like fiction?”
I sigh. “It’s not that I don’t like it; I’m just not any good at it. And when it comes to reading, I prefer things that are actually real. Not made from someone’s imagination. Why are you taking Fiction, by the way?”
Will scrunches up his nose for a second. “I guess I just thought it would be an easy class to come into at the last minute, after I transferred. But also, I thought it would be a fun challenge before I go off to college. See if I can really hack it.” He grins widely, exuding optimism from the tips of his toes to the top of his head. “But back to more important matters,” Will changes the subject. “You gotta have a bite.” He scoops up a giant spoonful of his banana split, and holds it out to me.
“No thanks,” I say. “I’m not a fan of bananas.”
“Well, that’s good,” Will replies, “since this is a peanut-butter sundae.” He gives me a weird look, and when I glance down, I am looking at a spoon with chocolate ice cream and a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup wedged into it.
Now, this is genuinely weird. I was there. I heard him order it. I thought to myself, Yuck, bananas.
Will is still waiting, and so is the spoon. “Quick, before it turns into a milk shake.” His words are insistent but his tone is patient as ever. But my heart is beating a little bit faster.
“What’s wrong?” Will asks. I close my eyes for a second. My skin is prickling.
I look up into Will’s eyes to try to explain, but something is different here, too. His hair? His face? I can’t figure it out, but perfect blue-eyed Will is just . . . not himself.
And that’s when I realize he’s actually not. Perfect blue-eyed Will’s eyes are not blue right now. They’re brown like Elliot’s.