I laugh. “Why?”
“It’s magic.” He shrugs. “And because all grocery stores play early 2000s pop music. It’s federal law.”
I’m skeptical until the moment we walk into the store and “Stacy’s Mom” is playing.
“Oh hey. Twenty points to me,” I say.
Reid groans, leaning into the cart handle. “Beginner’s luck.” He eases the cart down the baking aisle, and literally makes it three steps before getting distracted by tubs of frosting. “Ohhh. Hey.” He picks up some Duncan Hines chocolate. “Oh man. I would sit and eat this with a spoon, like yogurt. Is that weird?”
“Is that a real question?” Seriously, I want to know: is there anyone who wouldn’t eat a tub of chocolate frosting like yogurt?
All of a sudden, I’m inspired. “Can I add a rule to our game?”
“Definitely!”
“Okay.” I grin. “Quick challenge. Ten points to whoever finds the grossest flavor of frosting in the next minute, starting . . . now.”
I set the stopwatch on my phone, and we both fall silent. I’m feeling very competitive, for some reason, which isn’t like me at all. Maybe this is what it’s like to be Cassie. She used to win all the competitions at camp: hot dog eating, pig latin speaking, watermelon seed spitting, and all the other things I never really cared about.
But I care about this. I want the ten points—these ten nebulous points that count toward literally nothing. And it’s exhilarating. I scan the shelves, and almost everything is pretty standard: home-style chocolate and Funfetti and cream cheese. There are a few contenders, like coconut pecan and key lime, but in the end, I have to throw my shade at Betty Crocker’s Limited Edition maple bacon. Not okay, Betty.
Reid is flailing at the forty-five-second mark. “Molly, help! They all look good.”
“You are joking.”
“Maybe I just like all frosting?”
I shake my head sadly. “I don’t even know what to say to that.”
My phone stopwatch beeps, and I reveal the maple bacon—which Reid hadn’t noticed. “Oh, that’s really funny,” he says.
“I know. I have to take a picture of this for my sister.”
He laughs. “Will you send it to me?”
“Um. Yeah. If you give me your number.” I feel my cheeks grow warm. I hope he doesn’t think I’m Asking For His Number. I don’t think I’m Asking For His Number.
I’m just asking for his number.
“Oh, right!” He gives it to me, and I text him the picture and add him to my contacts.
Then he pulls out his phone to add me to his.
It’s funny, but I almost wonder if he wanted us to exchange numbers. Because he totally could have snapped his own picture, instead of having me text mine.
For a second, I’m speechless.
But I’m saved by Avril Lavigne. “Sk8er Boi” starts playing, loudly and suddenly, and I finally exhale. “Twenty points,” I say, grinning.
“What? How are you so good at this game?”
I shrug, palms up. I become the shruggie emoji.
“I’m psychic,” I say.
God, this phone number thing. Not that it’s a thing. It’s definitely not a thing. And I don’t know why I’m suddenly so breathless. I guess lungs are giant traitors. As are stomachs. As are heartbeats.
There’s traffic on the way home, but it’s still light out, and there’s this quietness between us. In the supermarket, it was all jokes and teasing and games (which I destroyed, by the way—fifty points to zero). But in the car, I’m suddenly shy. And I think Reid is too.
“So you have a sister?”
“Yup.” I nod. “A twin.”
“Really?” He sounds surprised. Have I never told him about Cassie? But I guess when we’re at work, we talk about random stuff. We talk about the things we like, rather than the things we are.
“We’re fraternal,” I add, because it’s the first thing people ask.
“What’s she like?”
“Cassie?” I pause. “I don’t know. She’s totally fearless.”
“I don’t think anyone’s actually fearless,” Reid says. And then he clicks on his turn signal, even though we’re a block away from the turn. Even though the traffic’s so thick, we’re barely inching forward. It ticks like a metronome.
“Yeah, maybe,” I say, and I smile. Because I remember the look on Cassie’s face when she told me Mina was pansexual. When she knew she had a chance, but wasn’t sure how things would go. Maybe she was a little scared. I guess she didn’t need to be.
Then I remember the Facebook status update, which is starting to feel less like a gut punch and more like a joke. I mean, it’s funny. Reid would probably think it was funny. And I should definitely say something funny right now.
“You want to hear something weird?” I ask.
“Always.”
“Not like Tolkien weird.”
“Okay, Tolkien? Is not weird,” he says. “He’s probably the most basic fantasy author you could have picked.”
The funny thing is how much I want to tell him about Cassie. Not just about the Facebook thing and the funny parts, but about the other stuff too. About this strange, tiny shift between Cassie and me. I just have this feeling he’d understand, even though I have no reason to think that. Even though two minutes ago, Reid didn’t know Cassie existed.
“I mean, if you want weird,” he continues, “let me know, because—”
“Uh, no,” I say, and I smile a little bit. I feel clenched up inside.
“So, Cassie just started dating her first actual girlfriend. And guess how I found out.”
“How?” he asks, and I love that he doesn’t bat an eye at the word girlfriend. Not that I expected less from a Takoma Park boy, especially one related to Deborah and Ari. But still.
“From a Facebook status update.”
His eyebrows knit. “Oh.”
“Yeah.”
He pauses.
“How was she supposed to tell you?” he asks finally.
“Well, not from a status update.”
I have this immediate sinking feeling. I don’t know how I wanted Reid to react. I don’t know why I even care about Reid’s reaction. But something feels off. I’m not sure why I thought this would seem funny or cute. It’s just awkward, and kind of sad. I turn quickly toward the window.
“Molly?” he says after a moment.
“Yeah.”
We’re stopped at a light now, and I feel him watching me, trying to decide if he should say something. I stare at my wrists, at my bright rows of friendship bracelets. I taught Abby how to make them in the spring before she left, and we both still wear them, always. But thinking about Abby right now gives me this little prickle of sadness.
Because she’s in Georgia. And Cassie has a girlfriend. And everything and everyone are moving at a million miles an hour.
“You shouldn’t have had to find out on Facebook,” he says finally.
I shrug.