Carrying two glasses of water, Jamie puts them on the glass coffee table and sits in the chair next to me.
“What are you drawing?” He’s wearing shorts and a white V-neck shirt. The sides of his dark hair sit just above his ears, but he’s pushed his bangs away from his eyes. It kind of reminds me of James Dean, which can only ever be a good thing.
“I’m practicing faces,” I reply, closing my book to hide the unfinished doodles. “Did you take any pictures today at the beach?”
He smiles. “I did. The weather was perfect for it—slightly overcast, but nice enough that there were actual people around to photograph.”
“Sorry I’ve been spending so much time with Hiroshi,” I say. “I hope it’s not rude, staying at your house and not really being around. I just want to finish this painting, and I don’t think I’ll ever get an opportunity like this for the rest of my life.”
“You don’t need to apologize. I’d do the same thing.” He rests his head back.
I pick up the glass of water and draw lines in the condensation.
Jamie stares at his knees. “Do you want to go somewhere tonight?”
The cold glass fights against my hands. “Go where?”
“To a party. Rei invited us.”
I didn’t know he and Rei were in touch. “When?”
“A little while ago. She texted me.”
They exchanged numbers? Did I miss something? Do they like each other?
My heart drops.
He taps his finger against the armrest. “I know you don’t like parties, so it’s not a big deal if you’d rather not go.”
Does that mean he wants to go alone? So he can see Rei alone? Would he rather I just stayed home? Does he like Rei? When did this happen?
I’m pretty sure I look like I’m going to throw up. “Oh. Right. Well, I can just work on my sketches. I don’t mind.”
There’s sadness in his eyes, except it’s almost like he was expecting it.
I squeeze the glass of water in my hands and try to imagine the cold reaching the flush in my face. Jamie pulls out his phone and starts texting.
Staring at the still water, I ask, “What time are you leaving?”
He puts his phone down and frowns. “I’m not.”
“But I thought—”
“I’m not going to go to the party without you.”
“Why not?”
“I want to spend time with you. Don’t you know that I—” He stops himself and shakes his head. “Never mind. We can watch a movie or something.” He shrugs like it doesn’t matter, but it doesn’t hide his frustration.
It makes me feel horribly guilty.
I make a decision. I’m going to do something for Jamie. I’m going to be the one giving up something for him. “Let’s go. I’ll be fine.”
He blinks. “Are you sure?”
“Mm-hmm. Positive.”
The anxious bugs start to envelop my skin, and once again I’m so nervous I feel like I’m about to pass out.
For Jamie, I try to ignore it.
? ? ?
Rei’s apartment is on the third floor. The living room looks like a dance studio, with a big open space, exposed brick walls, and metal overhead lighting. The kitchen is tucked away behind a row of counters to the right, and an L-shaped leather couch sits in front of a wide television on the left. One of Hiroshi’s paintings—squirrels having a tea party—hangs between the two back windows.
Rei waves us inside the room. She’s wearing a white dress and her hair is in a long braid.
“Wow,” Jamie says, looking around. “This place is awesome.”
She nods and makes a face. “Thanks. My parents bought it as a rental, but I get to keep one of the rooms for when I’m back here visiting.” She laughs. “I’m pretty sure it was Dad’s last-ditch attempt to get me to stay in California.”
I try to avoid the crowd nearby, but Rei practically ushers us toward them.
“Here, I’ll introduce you to everyone. This is my part-time roommate, Aubrey. And that’s Troy, Liam, Monica. . . .” She lists off every person in the room, but I lose track after the first few names. I’m too busy trying not to make eye contact with people while giving off the illusion that I am.
Jamie smiles and shakes everyone’s hands. It’s so natural that it makes what I’m doing seem so much worse.
“So are you the one who has been painting with Rei’s dad? Man, you’re like the luckiest person alive,” a stocky boy with red curls says, his face swollen with awe.
WHAT I WANT TO SAY:
“It’s amazing. I can’t believe he’s actually taking time out of his day to help me. I’m learning so much. It’s the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me.”
WHAT I ACTUALLY SAY:
A string of incoherent, clustered syllables.
“What was that?” the boy asks again, his pudgy fingers locked around a can of soda.
Jamie’s eyes dip to the floor. It happens so fast that I’m sure he’s hoping I didn’t catch it, but I did. He’s embarrassed for me. Or of me. What’s the difference, really? Everyone else is watching me, waiting for me to speak. All I want is for someone to start talking about themselves—for someone to talk about anything except me.
“Are you an artist too?” Jamie asks the redhead.
“Oh yeah.” His shoulders settle, and his body relaxes. “I’m in illustration.” He tells Jamie about his classes and his dream job. My brain is too fuzzy to pay attention—I feel like Jamie has just saved my life.
The conversation shifts from school to mutual friends to inside jokes I’m not a part of—relief rushes over me. I can breathe again.
Rei asks if we want anything to drink—I say no, and Jamie asks for any kind of soda—and it somehow becomes just the two of us again.
“You doing okay?” he asks thoughtfully. When I nod, he adds, “You can uncross your arms, you know.”
My arms limp to my sides. I wish he wasn’t drawing attention to me—I wish he could ignore my awkwardness the way Emery used to. Pointing it out makes it so much worse.
He lowers his head. “You kind of look like you want to be anywhere but here.”
My back stiffens, and defense rushes through me. “I’m trying. Maybe give me a little credit? This isn’t easy.”
“I just wish you didn’t look so uncomfortable.”
“I was fine. Now I feel like I’m ruining your night.”
“Can you please not overthink this?”
“Can you please be a little more patient with something I have no control over?”
There’s fire between us. Our bodies are stiff; our words are so specific. I don’t know when the tension started—days ago, maybe—and it’s finally starting to bubble over. We stare at each other like we’re about to go to war, until both of us realize almost at the same time that neither of us wants to fight.
“Truce?” Jamie lifts his brow.
“Truce,” I repeat.
“Look.” Jamie puts his hand against my back—my skin buzzes—and he leads me in front of him. “Do you honestly think anyone here is at all bothered that you aren’t the most talkative person here?”
I look around. Everyone is either smiling, or talking, or drinking, but none of them are looking at me.
“I guess not,” I say quietly.