I throw the door open.
Sam is just standing there watching me, a puzzled look on his face. “Sometimes I wonder if one of us was adopted,” he says. “And by one of us, I mean you. Come down to dinner. It’s fish tacos, your favorite. Dad made the guac, too.” He starts jogging down the stairs, and then stops.
“Were you with Elliot last night?” he asks.
I swallow. “How’d you hear about that?”
“Someone saw you guys on your bikes.”
I nod. “Yeah, we rode home together from a friend’s party,” I say, as though explaining the logistics will hide the more significant details. The fact that we then went to the beach, and oh, that we totally made out for hours, then got in a massive fight and now Clara is back.
Sam’s jaw moves back and forth. “Not like Elliot to hit up a Cedar Spring party, especially not these days,” he observes, watching me carefully.
“Yeah, I guess he felt like he should give it a shot or something, before we all graduate.” The words come out too quickly, and I immediately wish I could take them all back.
“Be careful, AB,” Sam says. “You and Elliot are really . . . different. Just watch yourself.” Sometimes I think of my brother as just some kind of big bear who lives in my house, never puts the seat down, and chews his cereal too loudly. But the truth is, he sees me much more clearly than I realize.
“Careful with what?” I ask, playing dumb.
“Don’t play dumb,” Sam says, and I am no longer playing dumb. I am dumb. “Neither of us wants to have this discussion, so let’s just keep it brief. Elliot is my best friend, but he’s terrible with girls. Just be careful.”
“I wasn’t even—” I start to say, but Sam has already reached the bottom of the staircase.
My shoulder slump, and with a sigh, I head back into my room. Sam only knows the half of it. What would he say if he really knew what was going on?
I lie back down on my bed. If all this is really happening, what do I expect to happen next? For the baking show host to reach out of the screen and offer me some cake? This is not like me. I am above all things a rational human being. I shake myself, go to my mirror, and run a comb through my hair, then notice how flushed my cheeks are, and decide it’s finally time to open a window.
No sooner than I do, however, the strangest thing happens. A paper airplane flies softly through the window and lands directly on my desk. I approach it delicately, as though it’s an explosive device or a potentially dangerous animal.
But as soon as I unfold the airplane, my blood runs cold. Written in typewriter font on a piece of delicate white paper is the following line:
Just then Will knocked on Annabelle’s door,
bringing her exactly what she needed.
“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” I say. And a moment later, I hear it. A set of knuckles softly hitting my bedroom door. Tap tap tap.
“Annabelle?” I hear Will say.
I sigh, and consider pretending I’m not in here.
“I know you’re in there,” Will says. “Your brother told me when he let me in.”
I roll my eyes, then open the door. But there is no Will there. There is a Will hand, and it’s holding a giant waffle cone, one perfect scoop of Oreo ice cream nestled in the middle.
Will steps into frame. “You’re alive!” He smiles.
“I’m alive,” I say, trying to hide how tired I feel.
“You haven’t been answering my texts,” he says, unfazed by my less than hospitable welcome.
“I don’t have my phone,” I explain. A lot of good that did.
Will gives me a look. He should hate me right now. I disappeared from his party with another guy, and I haven’t even bothered to explain. But instead he says, “Don’t be difficult, Annabelle. Let me feed you. You and I both know that ice cream makes it all better.”
Reluctantly, I take the ice cream cone, and let Will into my room. By this point I’ve gotten used to seeing Elliot in here, sprawled out on the couch, his arms tucked behind his head. But Will looks out of place. He seems nervous about where to look or where to sit.
“So this is the top-secret lair of Miss Annabelle Burns,” he says, placing his hands in his pockets and looking around.
“This is where the magic happens,” I reply.
“Nice bookshelf,” he observes, wandering over to it. “How’d you arrange it? Alphabetical?”
“Right now it’s by genre,” I explain, feeling embarrassed.
Will nods. “Mine is currently arranged by author’s first name.”
This should impress me, should make me swoon, and a week ago it would have, like the car organizer did. But by now I know it’s all a farce. None of it means anything.
If Will senses the tension, he chooses to push through it. “Then, of course, I have a whole section for my comic books,” he adds.
“You read comic books?” I blurt out in surprise.
“Only my whole life. Why?” Will seems surprised right back.
“You just don’t strike me as the type,” I say.
“If that’s how you feel, then you haven’t read many comic books,” Will tells me. “They aren’t all superheroes and villains. Though . . . there is a lot of that. Maybe I can show them to you sometime.”
“I’d like that,” I say, and I mean it.
“So what happened to you last night?” Will switches topics, and it catches me off guard. He’s looking at me sincerely now. I consider telling him the truth, that Elliot and I kissed, but what’s the point? It’s not like I’m going to be with Elliot anyway. It’s not like anything’s really going to change as long as Lucy Keating is running the show.
“I wasn’t feeling well, so Elliot took me home. Sorry we borrowed your bike. I can drop it off whenever you want.”
“I don’t care about the bike, Annabelle. I care about you.” It’s romantic. Epically so, in fact. But does it really mean anything?
I take a breath. “Will . . . why are you here?”
“What do you mean?” he asks.
“You’re right; I didn’t tell you. I just left your party, without saying good-bye. It was rude. And yet, here you are with an ice cream cone.” I’m pushing him to think about it. To consider, for a moment, if this is even what he really wants.
Will shrugs. “You haven’t eaten any of it, by the way.” He points to the cone in my hand.
Slowly, and just for show, I scoop a big bite up with my tongue.
Will watches me while I chew, and waits for me to swallow. “And?” he asks.
I smile, and actually feel a laugh coming on.
“I knew it,” he says.
“You’re weird,” I say.