We have to talk, he tells her.
Wil doesn’t get to Spanish until there are doce minutos left in the period. When he comes in, he looks at Se?ora Thompson and we all look at Se?ora Thompson and she gives him this poor baby look and she keeps teaching, but now it sounds like there is something caught in her throat. Anyone else, and she would have sent them straight to the office.
Wil slides into his seat without turning around. I want to stare into him, through his pupils into the wires that power the Wil machine, and read his mind. To know what he’s thinking, and know where we stand.
When the bell rings and everyone else has left, Wil says, “I’m sorry I was, uh, tardes, Se?ora.”
I want to hug him and say, God, you’re so bad at Spanish.
“I’m sure you had a good reason, Wil. Try to be on time tomorrow,” she says.
“Gracias.”
In the hall, he pulls me into the corner by the stairs. A group of sophomore guys takes a break from shoving one another into the closest row of lockers to stare. I edge even closer. I’m desperate to kiss him again, but I won’t. Not here. His eyes are brighter than I’ve ever seen them.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” I say.
He rests his hands on my hips and he falters, as if he isn’t sure. I rocket yes vibes. I guide his hands with mine. Our movements are halting, like a song that fades in and out from a station that’s far away.
“I ended it with Ana,” he says.
“Oh, Wil.” I collide with him. Slide my hands over his warm, solid chest and rest my head against his collarbone. I’ve missed the sound of his heartbeat, the smell of his skin. I drink him in. I want all of him. I want to make up for lost time.
I curl my fingers around his fingers. “Is she okay?” I murmur.
He shakes his head. “Nah.”
I pull back. “What’d you say?”
“That it wasn’t working. That we would have broken up after graduation anyway. Which is true.” His eyes are cloudy.
“Oh. Okay.” I wonder if he said my name, or she did. I wonder if Ana Acevedo has ever lost anything precious. She seems like the kind of person who might be able to take all the right turns in the life maze. Who might get through unscathed. I hope she is. Real loss is like water: Over the years, it erodes. Slowly makes full things hollow.
I’m sorry. I am, I tell her.
“I didn’t say anything about—about last night,” he admits. “I didn’t want to make it worse for Ana.”
I shake my head. “Yeah! Yeah. Of course.” I look at him and he looks at me. Ana’s name hangs between us.
“I want to go somewhere with you,” he says, reading my mind.
“Anywhere,” I say.
BRIDGE
Spring, Senior Year
WE rocket through the double doors, blowing through the barrier between school and the outside world. We surge down the steps, and when our feet touch the asphalt, we break into a sprint, my hair whipping behind us. We leave Ana’s hurt and Leigh’s furrowed brow and the curious boy stares behind us. We run toward us.
“I’ve never skipped school!” I screech, barely sidestepping a Vespa. “If I get busted for this, you’re dead, mister.”
Wil takes my hand. “Truck’s that way.” Urgently, he pulls me toward his dad’s pickup. We both lunge for the passenger side, and he throws open the door for me. “Get in.” His body dips toward mine, and he pulls me into him. We press our noses together and breathe into each other and then we let our lips touch, lighting each other on fire.
He kisses me once more, quick, and slams the door.
I lean back in my seat and close my eyes. My phone dings, and I ignore it. It’s probably Leigh, texting all the way from the land of Do you think you should?
“Where are we going?” I ask when he slides into the driver’s side seat.
“Don’t know.” He throws the truck into reverse and peels out of the parking lot. In under a minute, we’re leaping down Atlantic, windows down. I was expecting the beach, but we’re headed west, away from the water. The wind whips through the truck, tickling my damp skin. In here, with his fingers wrapped around mine and propped on the console, we’re safe.
We barrel down Atlantic, and at the last minute, he whips the truck across three lanes and we’re speeding down his block. He pulls into the empty driveway and kills the engine.
I thrust open the car door, and I hit the pavement on shaky legs. Inside, the house is silent. There are still a few boxes in the front hall, neatly labeled.
“More of his stuff,” Wil says before I have to ask.
I can’t imagine what it would be like to live in a house alongside Wilson’s ghost. I slip my hand into his, and he tugs me down the hall and into the breakfast nook. The only sound is the hum of the ancient refrigerator, the one Wilson refused to replace. Wil told me once that his mom wanted one of the sleek silver refrigerators, the kind that spits crushed ice and has a special drawer for things like kale.
I wander into the kitchen. There’s a grocery list pinned to the fridge in Wilson’s small, boxy handwriting. I recognize the letters from the napkin notes he would leave in Wil’s lunchbox: This is the last of the Halloween candy. Make it last. Or six more days till summer, buddy.
Wil catches me looking. “I can’t take it down.”
I turn and slide my arms around his waist, kissing his collarbone, tracing his lines with my mouth. With every kiss, I remember him. Our lips find each other’s slowly. I kick off my sandals, and he lifts me onto the kitchen counter. His warm hand slides up my leg and over my thigh. He takes his time reading me with his lips and hands. He rediscovers the small bump on my wrist, never the same after I broke it falling off my bike in fifth grade. I close my eyes and trace the long scar on his middle finger. We know all the places where the other has been broken. We know the unspoken details no one else can hear.
His mouth covers mine and a hot tear slips down my temple and follows my jawline. Kissing him, feeling his hands on me is like taking a first breath after years underwater: necessary, and almost painful. I have been desperate, aching for him.
And then the door slams. Wil lunges for a knife from the butcher block. His face electrifies.
“Wil! Don’t!” I shriek. I bolt upright and jump off the counter. My heels collide with the icy tile floor, sending aftershocks through me. My skin is damp, my heart electric.
We are gulping air when Henney appears in the doorway between the hall and the kitchen. She’s bundled tight in work clothes: black scrubs under a pink pastel blazer. She looks different, now that I know what Wilson did to her. I don’t want her to look different, but she does. Smaller somehow.
Henney clutches her chest. “What in the world?”