“Prohibition was actually 1920, so—” Ethan interrupted, but you shot him a look that shut him right up.
“Regardless, she’s ending it all because everything sucks,” you said. “But then she meets this guy who manages to show her that all is not lost, and there’s love out there for her—” you glanced at me and I could swear the corners of your lips turned up ever so slightly “—and that kiss is the moment that she takes life into her own hands for the first time, and takes what she wants instead of what’s been forced on or expected of her. So the way I see it, the kiss is her making the choice to live. Which I’d say is a pretty fucking important moment. Wouldn’t you?” You raised your eyebrows expectantly, and Ethan just stared at you with the exact same dumbfounded admiration I was trying so hard to repress.
“That’s exactly it, babe,” he said excitedly. “But it’s a spur-of-the moment choice, one that she doesn’t see coming, and I want it to feel urgent and sudden. That’s why I don’t think it should be rehearsed.” He turned to me with a smug smile, and it was all I could do to keep from throttling him. Still, I nodded, slowly, like I totally understood.
“Yeah, we probably shouldn’t practice it,” I said. And as it came out of my mouth, I realized that I meant it.
I didn’t want our first kiss to be on a stage, in front of Ethan, or in front of anyone. I didn’t want it to be public and I didn’t want it to be planned.
When I kissed you for the first time, I wanted it to matter. And I wanted you to know it.
Chapter Nine
February 2
100 days left
I WAS HOPING we would walk to the train together. We’d taken to splitting off while Ethan stayed behind to type up his notes for the next rehearsal, and those two blocks from campus to the 66th Street subway station had become the best part of my day. It was a perfect distance, not long enough to get into a real conversation that might lead to uncomfortable questions—like Hey, have you seen Ethan naked? or Do you live in your grandparents’ rent-controlled apartment? Because you smell a lot like Ben-Gay and a Golden Sands Yankee Candle—but just long enough for little jokes and sidelong glances, long enough for me to grab your sleeve as the traffic whizzed past on Broadway. Long enough for you to smile and push the hair out of your face and say, “Relax, I grew up here. I’m not about to get flattened into a New York Post headline.” Long enough to get me through to the next time I saw you.
But that day, you had other plans.
“I promised Joy I’d get coffee,” you said as we spilled out through the heavy front door onto Amsterdam Avenue, the bitter wind whipping your scarf around your face. It was less than two weeks to Valentine’s Day, and all the store windows were plastered with giant hearts and winking Cupids. As if anyone needed the reminder.
“Cool, cool,” I said, shrugging like it didn’t make a difference.
“I feel like I’ve barely seen her,” you said. “She’s been ghosting during lunch lately.”
I nodded, or at least sort of wobbled my chin noncommittally. I liked Joy but hadn’t really spoken to her one-on-one since the party, when she’d saved me from the Drunk Girl Chorus. Selfishly, I mostly wanted to get to know her better so that I could get closer to you.
“Tell her I say hey,” I said. You cocked your head and narrowed your eyes.
“How many Y’s?” you asked.
“What?”
“You know.” Your lips parted slowly in a sly smile. “Just ‘hey,’ or, like—” you wiggled your eyebrows lasciviously “‘—heyyyyyy’?”
“How about just ‘hi,’” I laughed.
“‘Hi’ or ‘hiiiiiiiiiiiiii’?” You were cracking up, but I wasn’t sure what you were doing. You were acting like I was into Joy, which had come out of nowhere. And sure, she was cute and seemed cool, but she wasn’t the one who—as Nana would say—had her hooks in me. The expression always made me think of meat processing, but if you could get past the gross visual it made sense. You’d gotten under my skin, and there wasn’t anything I could do about it. You felt—and I know this is a terrible analogy given what happened but I really don’t know how else to say it—like a drug.
“The first one,” I said.
“Got it,” you said, giving me a little salute before turning south on Broadway, toward Starbucks. “See you tomorrow, Rodolpho.” I watched you walk for a few seconds, shamelessly hoping you’d look back, but you just stomped ahead, your bag bouncing precariously on your shoulder, one strap hanging loose, as if everything could spill out onto the street at any second.
Not knowing where we stood, I felt just as unstable.
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