“Oh.”
“He’s the first person who told me that I should do what I want with my life. That it’s my life to live. That I’m not allowed to live according to my father’s logic. My dad’s dream is for me to be a CEO of some corporation. He only signed me up for violin because playing an instrument is supposed to help you be better at math. I could hardly even hold a pencil, and yet he had me holding a violin and a bow and going to classes two times a week and making me wake up every day before school to practice at five A.M. Only it completely backfired on him, because I’m mediocre at math, but apparently I’m a whiz at music.”
I nod. “My dad makes me untangle all my knots.”
“What?”
“He has all these rules. One is called ‘Learning from past mistakes.’ Like, he absolutely hates when my cords get all tangled. Headphones. Computer cords.” I laugh. “And a necklace? God forbid. He says, ‘If you’d just take a minute to do it right, you’ll save yourself hours of frustration later. Learn from your past mistakes, Viviana. Learn, and change your future behaviors.’ But the thing is, he’s the one who’s frustrated by it. They’re my cords, my necklaces, so why do they bother him?”
“Here,” he says, reaching for the strings on my hoodie.
I laugh. “What are you doing?”
He leans in close and ties the end of each string into a double and then a triple knot. His fingers brush the skin on my neck, and I can’t help but shiver.
“There,” Evan says. “Your knots are none of his business.”
His eyes meet mine, and we both smile. Lightning streaks across the sky and we start counting in unison—“One one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand”—all the way to five one thousand, when the building shakes around us with what feels like an explosion of thunder. Even though we knew it was coming, we both jump. He grabs for my hands at the same time that I grab for his, and we’re suddenly holding each other tight, and then we’re laughing at the ridiculousness of our own surprise.
His hands are warm around mine, and I don’t want to let go.
Stop it, Viviana, I think. Learn from your past mistakes.
I pull my hands out of his grip and scoot a few inches away.
“So, my dad has rules, too,” Evan says. I’m thankful that he’s the first to break the silence. “First one: No crying. My dad likes to say ‘CEOs don’t cry, son.’ Like he would know what a CEO does or doesn’t do. He’s low-level management at H&R Block.”
“You cry?” I ask.
“Not anymore. I used to. At sad movies and things like that. And certain songs.”
“Like what?”
“‘Eleanor Rigby,’” he says with a smile. “Every time.” He sings a few lines for me. He has a beautiful voice. I really wish he didn’t have such a beautiful voice.
“They have crying salons in Japan now,” I say. “Like you can pay to sit in a room that’s not your house so you can watch sad movies and cry.” I feel like I’m just saying words, trying to distract us from whatever it is that’s happening.
“I might actually love that. Except that they could just play Beatles songs and I’d be fine.”
“But you wouldn’t be allowed,” I say. “It’s women only.”
“Sexist bastards.”
“Yup.” I laugh.
Evan looks at me. “I’m sorry your dad is such a jerk.”
“Me, too. About yours, I mean.”
“I just know that when I’m a dad, I’m going to be completely different. My kids will get to follow their hearts, no strings attached.”
I smile. “That’s awesome.”
The sky fills up with lightning, and then, without pause, the close roaring of thunder, as though to punctuate this thought. The rumbling storm surrounds us, and I feel like we’re both trying not to reach out to each other. At least, I know I’m trying.
“Why were you such a jerk to Sammie?” I ask, partly to bring his attention back to Sammie, partly because I’m curious.
“What are you talking about?”
“The whole horoscope thing. It wasn’t very nice. Why were you antagonizing her like that?”
He looks shocked—and hurt. “Was I? Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be a jerk.”
“Then why were you? What was that about?”
He smiles. “I guess I was trying to antagonize you.”
“Why would you try to do that?”
“I already told you. I like you. I liked the fact that you were finally talking to me. I was trying to get your attention.”
Great. I was trying bring thoughts of Sammie back into the room, and we end up here again.
Evan turns around and starts tracing circles on the foggy windows. He doesn’t say anything else for a good minute, and I’m not sure how to respond, where to even begin.
Finally, he looks at me. “You don’t remember me, do you?”
My heart leaps into my throat. “What do you mean?”
“Anne Boyd’s birthday party.” He bites his lip. “I think I was a freshman? You were in middle school, right?”
I don’t know what to say. What to admit. What would I say if Sammie were here? Where is she?
I stumble to check my phone.
It’s 6:55.
Nothing from Sammie.