“Have a good appointment, Ms. Flores,” Burke says, polite as always, as we walk inside. I jam my shoulder into the door to make sure it stays closed, and Russ, who sits on the couch, sticks out his lip at me, looking up from a board book about airplanes.
“Hey, Russ,” I say, “remember Burke?” and Russ looks up at Burke, says, “Yes,” and waves furiously. Burke grins, sitting down in the armchair near the couch, and props his combat boots up on the coffee table. “Your brother’s the only one who doesn’t stare at my clothes,” he says to me, and I’m like, “Hey, I don’t stare,” and he says, “You stare the most, dude,” and I sigh, dumping my backpack onto the floor.
“Matt?” Russ says.
I sit by him on the couch. “Yeah?”
“Where is Olivia?” he asks, and I say, “I don’t know,” and he says, “Will she come again?”
“Yo, wait,” Burke says. “Like, Olivia Olivia? When was she here?” and I’m like, “Saturday—we have this project thing on Inferno for English,” and Burke says, “Well?” and I’m like, “Well, what?” and he says, “I don’t know—how’d it go?” and I shrug, slouching down in the sofa, feeling self-conscious. “I don’t know, man,” I say. “I can’t stop thinking about her.” I feel stupid saying it, but it’s a serious problem. I keep remembering her hunched over my kitchen table, her teeth buried in her bottom lip in concentration. I keep seeing the way she twitched her head to get her long hair out of her eyes, and hearing her gut-laughter, which came out at things I said without even thinking they were funny. I keep imagining her fast, clear voice and the wide points of her smile, and I keep wanting to see it all again.
I look down at Russell, who’s still staring up at me, wide-eyed, waiting for a verdict. “I don’t know, Russ,” I say. “I hope she’ll be back,” and he nods so hard, his whole body bounces before going back to his board book.
Burke lowers his voice. I sit forward to hear him, leaning my elbows on my knees. “So,” he says, “did anything happen?” and I’m like, “We talked on the phone last week, and it got kind of serious, so on Saturday it was, like, tense, you know?” I fist one hand in my hair. “Man, I’m so into her, but the project’s done Thursday, and . . . I don’t know.”
“So talk to her,” Burke says, as if it’s that simple.
I give him a skeptical look. “Right,” I say. “Like she doesn’t have a hundred other guys chasing after her already.”
“Never know until you ask.” Burke flicks his nose ring idly. “Come on.” He heads into the hall to the kitchen, and I follow, glancing at Russ to make sure he’s still engrossed in finding which plane fits which silhouette.
Burke sits at the kitchen table, and I drop into the seat across from him. “How would I talk to her?” I say, and he’s like, “You have her number,” and I’m like, “Well, yeah, but—”
“So text her,” he says, and I’m like, “What? No, that’s an awful idea,” and he says, “Why?” and his eyes challenge me to come up with something that doesn’t sound like me being a wimp. Though I guess I am a wimp when it comes to this. “I’m fucking terrified, dude,” I say. “I’ve had, like, three conversations with her, so how the hell am I this . . . like this, you know?”
“Like what? Interested?” Burke unzips his backpack, pulling out a stack of books so thick, it’s a miracle he fit them inside. “Look,” he says, cracking open his econ textbook, “you’ve got this English thing, so text her a joke or something about it. Act natural.”
“You want me to text Olivia a joke about Dante,” I say, thinking about the infinite ways this could go wrong. Burke says, “Well, you gotta read the book first.”
I straighten up, indignant. “Hey. I did read it.”
Burke’s head pops up from his textbook. “You read Inferno?” he says, and I’m like, “Don’t sound so surprised,” and he’s like, “But I am surprised. Like, fucking floored, dude.”
I sigh. “I finished it yesterday. I don’t know what I thought—it’d maybe give us something to talk about?”
“Wow,” he says. “So, wait, hold on, you don’t just want to get in her pants,” and I’m like, “That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Burke. Jesus!”
“Hey, chill.” Burke messes up his hair, which is dark purple this week. “So text her and say you finished reading it.”
“But I—”
“No, don’t argue. Just do it. Man, do I have to force you into everything? I swear, when you get married, I’m gonna be standing at the altar pinching you between every vow.”
I frown but take out my phone. My fingers move with agonizing slowness, trying to keep the words tied up in my hands, but I make my way through, tap by tap. Hey so I finished reading inferno, I type, thinking about all the movies I’ve seen where guys write girls letters, long, dramatic, eloquent letters confessing their feelings, and as I stare down at this stupid six-word text, I somehow feel that it’s totally equivalent, that this is my own end-all-be-all confession that will betray once and for all the fact that I care.
I send the text.