“Have at it,” Elliot says, as if it’s obvious. “Trust me, it will help.”
“But I don’t play drums,” I say. “I don’t play anything.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Elliot says. “That makes it even better.”
I hesitate, then sit down at the drum set and reorient my grip until the sticks feel comfortable and light in my palms. And then with one more glance at Elliot, I let the first stick fall against the barrel of the drum, followed by the second stick. They increase in rhythm and intensity until suddenly I am wailing down hard. And when I look back at Elliot one last time he just stands there, arms crossed, grinning from ear to ear.
12
Sorry I’m Late
IT IS so “Will” to show up at school brand spanking new, just months before we all leave forever, and within no time at all host a party more crowded than I could throw after four years.
I walk through his living room and out a set of large doors that open onto a terrace overlooking an expansive pool, where I find him surrounded by friends, dressed in red swim trunks and a T-shirt. His eyes light up when he sees me, and I smile right back. I feel bad about what happened earlier, and I’ve decided to heed Ava’s words. Will is amazing, and okay, so maybe he was written for me. But is that the worst thing in the world?
“Excuse me,” he tells nobody in particular, squeezing through and around people to make his way over, his gaze never leaving my face. Without a word, he pulls me into a warm hug, and I can’t help but feel safe here. I have never been this girl before. Yes, I have the popular friends, but I’ve never had the guy.
“Hi,” he says with a side smirk as soon as he pulls away. “You look . . .” He doesn’t finish his sentence, but instead just shakes his head.
I blush, and look down at the dress Ava picked out for me. It’s a dusty rose, with spaghetti straps and buttons down the front. She complained for the zillionth time why I don’t own anything with a pattern, and I told her for the zillionth time that patterns are rarely flattering, and never practical.
“Stop,” I say to Will, giving him a playful shove. I saw a girl do something like it in a movie. Given my limited experience on how to behave around guys, I’ve been doing my research.
“I would, but I can’t. Bad at lying, remember?” Will says. His pupils are gigantic, and his cheeks are rosy. I’m not sure if it’s from me or if he’s already a little drunk. “Are you good?”
I open my mouth, trying to find the words. “I’ve had the weirdest week,” I say. “But I think it’s about to get better.”
Will cocks his head to one side with a small smile. “Do you want something to eat?” he asks, and when I say yes, he takes my hand and leads me through the party to the kitchen.
Spread out on the table is an array of burgers, chips, guacamole, and—like a prized piece of jewelry in an art museum—a bowl of poke.
“You have poke?” I ask, quickly grabbing a chip so I can scoop some into my mouth. “This is my favorite!”
Will shrugs. “It’s decent. I think I added too much salt.”
As I bite down on the delicious fish, my eyes light up. “You made this?” I ask when I’ve stopped chewing.
Will gives me a proud look. “It’s my specialty. My grandma’s recipe.”
Just then Ava wanders in, tugging Navid by the arm. “Hey,” she says, stopping and wrapping her arms around Navid’s midsection, her head resting just below his collarbone.
That was fast, I think. I don’t even know how she does it. But I just grin. “Hey,” I say back.
“She has arrived!” Navid grins, straightening his glasses. “We’ve been waiting for you, Annabelle.”
“Did you hear that Will made the poke?” Ava looks at me, eyes wide, as though what she’s really trying to say is, Did you hear Will was made for you, and let’s all just accept that this is a very good thing.
“I did,” I reply.
“Isn’t it so good?” Ava asks.
“It’s okay; a little salty, though.” I make a face. Then I give Will a big smile.
“Oh, that’s it, you’re going in,” Will says, and grabs me around the waist. I start shrieking and laughing as he pulls me back in the direction of the pool.
“No!” I cry. “No, no, no, please!” Will pulls back for a moment and we look at each other. My arms are around his neck and his beautiful eyelashes are angled down at me. Behind his back, I can see people whispering.
“Okay,” he says softly. “Sorry.”
“That’s okay,” I say, and swallow. And then I want to punch myself when, without thinking, I look over my shoulder.
“What are you looking for?” Will asks.
“Nothing.” I shrug. “Just seeing who’s here.”
“Everyone who matters is right here.” He smiles, and puts an arm around my shoulders as we head back inside. “You want a beer?”
An hour later, I’m feeling pretty great in Will’s kitchen. I don’t drink, basically ever, because I don’t like the idea of losing control, but I’m letting Ava talk me into it tonight, and Navid and Will. Still, something is gnawing away at my insides, and the beer seems to muffle it, but not with complete success. It keeps rising to the top, from my stomach up to my brain: Where is Elliot?
“You’re distracted,” Ava whispers when Will goes to help with some kind of issue with the music speakers, and Navid gets pulled into conversation with someone from his history class.
“Am I?” I ask. “I thought I was hiding it.”
“You can’t hide it from me.” She sways a bit, but she’s okay. She’s already drinking water. “Annabelle, I know you like Elliot. A part of me wonders if maybe you always have. But I’m not sure he’s the one. And more important, I’m not sure he’s coming.”
At this piece of advice, the thing gnawing at my insides seems to wake up a little bit, snore slightly, and then turn over.
“I know,” I say, and shrug.
“Have you considered the fact that maybe, yes, in some wild universe Will was made for you. Written for you, every part of him. But maybe even if he wasn’t, he’d still, like, be made for you?” she asks. “Have you also considered that maybe your life could be worse than having this incredible guy falling at your feet?”