Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I open the bottom drawer of my bedside table, ready to empty out the contents in the trash can, when I find the pictures.
I keep still for a long second, my right hand hovering above them, unable to do anything but stare.
I recognize them as the pictures Ela gave me as a parting gift before we left for college. I was supposed to tape them to the walls of my dorm room to remember our high school years but I never did. I still don’t know why.
Maybe the nostalgia I felt whenever I looked at them was too painful.
I take a deep breath and pull them out, spreading them on top of my bed.
There’s a picture of me and Sydney, attempting to feed Cheese, Ela’s dog. Sydney’s long hair is covering her face but you can still see her laughing. I, on the other hand, am looking away, down on my knees, my hand on Cheese’s collar.
There’s another one with the four of us, sitting at the ice cream parlor. Ela, Sydney, and I are huddled around a milkshake, Andrew standing behind us looking confused. Ela had convinced us to recreate that famous Friends portrait but forgot to mention it to Andrew, who stood up at the last minute.
Then there’s another one of me, taking a picture of Ela on my phone. I was making fun of her because she was obsessed with taking Polaroids and they almost always came out wrong. I was trying to show her my phone could take better pictures when she took this one, which is the only reason I’m not frowning or making a face.
I start laughing, ruffling through the images, until I come up with the one that makes my heart stop. The only one I ever wanted to leave behind.
I remember that day perfectly. Ela and I had spent all morning working on homework and, when James came to pick me up, she insisted she wanted to say hello.
When we came out to her front yard, she told us to pose for a photograph. I thought she was joking, but then James put an arm around my shoulder and leaned in to kiss me and I started to panic.
Which is why, in the picture, I have a hand up, in front of my face, but I’m smiling, flustered. James is looking at me, so only his profile and a sliver of his smile are visible, his curls dancing in the afternoon light. He’s about to plant a kiss on the top of my head.
For a moment, I can almost believe I’m there, Ela’s laugh ringing in my ears, James smelling like cigarettes, the white cardigan I was obsessed with wrapped tightly around myself.
But then the doorbell rings and I’m pulled back, blinking all those painful memories away.
I push the pictures inside the drawer again, forcing myself to swallow down the nostalgia in my chest and climb down the stairs.

Chapter Text

And when I felt like I was an old cardigan
Under someone's bed
You put me on and said I was your favorite

Chapter Text

When I open my eyes, I can feel the sun filtering through my window, like a warning. I’m running late. I can tell even before I look at my phone or at the clock that sits on my bedside table. For a second, I don’t move, letting the panic I feel wash over me.
But then I’m up, all movement and flurry as I desperately change into clothes that I barely look at, layering whatever can fit into my body.
I wonder why none of my alarms rang in time but then I remember turning them off on Thursday so I could sleep some more on Friday since there was no school. It didn’t work at all. I woke up around the same time as I always do, my body reacting to my needs even before I can tell what they are.
Which is probably what’s saved my ass today. My body going: “Oh, I’m up!” as soon as the sun hit my face.
I wonder why Lore hasn’t woken me up yet; she’s usually peeking out through the door, asking if I’m ready. (I usually am).
Not today.
I’m a bit surprised by this. Although Lore has always let me take the lead in my own life, never much intervening, she knows how much I hate being late. Luckily, I’m a control freak who gets everything ready the night before, and now, all I have to do is get my backpack and I’m ready. I climb down the stairs so fast, I nearly trip once.
When I enter the kitchen, I find Lore, standing by the back door, a lit cigarette dangling between her fingers, carelessly. I hesitate at the door for a second. I’ve only seen Lore smoke twice in my lifetime. Once, after my dad left. I was seven. I watched her standing by our living room’s front window, looking out. Not noticing me. The only other time we were in Cuernavaca, Lore’s hometown. It was my aunt Eva’s 45th birthday. All three of them, my mom and her two sisters, were drunk and happy, laughing like a chorus of hyenas, hiccupping in between laughs. I watched them, laughing along with them even though I barely understood their jokes. I just wanted to be part of it. Lore and aunt Eva were both smoking and the smell of cigarettes wafted slowly toward me. All I could think about then was my dad. Maybe that’s all Lore could think about too.
I’ve never seen her smoking since, but today, here she is, the cigarette burning bright against the morning light.
“Good morning,” I say, warily.
For a second, she seems surprised to see me. And then, just as quickly, she flicks her cigarette and turns around.
“Good morning,” she says, her voice almost a whisper.
I walk into the kitchen, examining the stove top but there’s nothing there. No pans, no casseroles, no nothing.
I hesitate and my mom notices the expression on my face. She reaches out to the cabinets and takes out a bowl, placing it next to a box of cereal and some milk.
“I’ll give you some money for the cafeteria,” she explains, with a shrug.
I almost turn around and walk out. I’m not very hungry, to be honest, and I’d rather not eat than be late for school, but my mom looks so distracted, so distressed, that I slump into the chair and basically inhale my food. I’m done in less than five minutes and then I’m washing my dishes quickly, hoping she notices my stress and decides to cooperate with me.
She’s still looking out the window when I’m finished.
“Should we go?” I ask her, trying to sound calm.
She looks at me and then pats her jeans, still distracted.
“I don’t know where my keys are,” she says, almost in a mumble.
“I could just walk,” I offer, a sharp edge to my voice.
She frowns at me and begins walking to the other room.
Through the door, I hear her say: “You need to relax.”
This, I’ve been told many times. By many different people. Relax. “So, we’re late. Relax.” “It’s just homework, relax.”
But my body seems incapable of doing it. I can feel the muscles tightening inside of me upon hearing her words. Almost like a challenge. “Yeah? You want me to relax? Look how I just wind tighter and tighter.”
I’ve always been like this. Ela says I need to get it checked out. (Ela’s my best friend; she’s allowed to say mean shit like that). I can’t explain it. Losing control over things gets me so anxious, so stressed, I used to run into the bathroom, certain I would vomit out of sheer stress. (I never did, thankfully). Lore was so worried she took me to see a therapist. But then the therapist was too expensive and I got so stressed out at the idea of spending valuable money I could be saving for college on a therapist that I started getting rashes all over my body. Eventually, she stopped paying for the therapist and instead, began taking care of organizing everything I couldn’t.
She’s not usually the one to tell me to relax, because she knows it’s not something I do on purpose. It’s not something I enjoy.
I stare at her back for a second too long, but then I’m following her out, as she looks for her keys. When I get too anxious, I can get a bit mean. So instead of saying anything, or hurrying her up, I climb into the car and wait for her. It doesn’t take too long before she joins me.
I don’t know why, today of all days, she’s moving so slowly. For a second, I wonder if it’d be faster if I just walked. School’s not that far. But it’s been snowing and the floor is all slippery and I’m too clumsy to be able to walk on it upright. (I´ve already fallen once this week). (Okay, maybe twice).
I’m shaking my left foot in a nervous tick without noticing when Lore parks a block away from school and puts a hand on my knee.
I jump at her touch, my body on edge.
I give her a tense smile and I’m about to open the door and walk out when she starts speaking.
“I need to talk to you,” she tells me, returning my smile, that same edge of anxiety on her face.
“Okay,” I say, frowning a little.
“After school. Don’t take too long to come home, okay?”
“Why not now?” I ask, annoyed.
“I don’t wanna make you late,” she says, with a sad smile.
I’m about to roll my eyes at her, but then she leans forward, and pushes a strand of hair out my face, tucking it behind my left ear.
“I love you,” she tells me, with a sad look in her eyes that makes worry start burning in my chest.
“I love you, too,” I tell her, my voice soft and understanding.
Even though I can be a bit of a control freak and definitely insensitive when I’m stressed, I still love my mom. I still worry about the sadness in her eyes.
She gives me a quick little kiss on the cheek and then pats my shoulder, once, indicating that I should go.
I stay for a second longer but then I’m out the door and walking as fast as I can without running. (I don’t wanna fall and arrive at school all covered in bruises and dirt).
When I reach the second floor, I can see someone entering the classroom and I feel a wave of relief rolling over me. I can’t be that late if people are still arriving. (I refuse to look at my phone because I know whatever I find there will only worsen my anxiety and will absolutely distract me and I can’t afford to do either right now). I quicken my pace, but the maddening urgency is starting to fade. Yes, I’m late. But not shamelessly late. Not late enough that I’ll have Ms. Anderson shoot me a look that says “It was better if you hadn’t shown up at all.”
But then I open the door and I know I was wrong to feel relieved.
James Wolfe is taking his seat, far at the back.
I feel a wave of shame splashing all over me.
James Wolfe is always late. Like late-late. The kind of late that makes you wonder why he’s shown up at all. Half the class already passed.
Which means I am shamelessly late. Worse, even. Descaradamente late. Which, I know, technically means the same but it’s somehow a lot worse to be descarada than shameless. I can hear Grandma Beatriz’s voice in my ear. Descarada. Being descarada is on another level. James’ level. He’s always descaradamente late.
I drag myself to a seat in front of Ela, avoiding her questioning look and trying not to disrupt the class.
“Perfect,” Ms. Anderson is saying, waving her hand like she’s dismissing the issue. “Since you two were the last to arrive, you will make another team. Now, can someone please remind me where we left off last class?”
I hear someone answering from the back of the class as I take out my things, as quickly as I can.
I spend the rest of the class making up for my tardiness. Participating twice as usual and then quoting an essay I read a few weeks ago, for fun. (When I said this to Ela she made a face like I was throwing an insult at her.) Ela says sometimes I can be really insufferable. Today, I am sure, is one of those times.
When the class is over and Anderson dismisses us, I turn around to look at Ela, who looks tired and possibly in a bad mood.
“What did I miss?” I ask her.
“Anderson gave us instructions for our final work. It has to be an essay on any of the texts we’re reading this semester. She said it should be a sort of personal essay, not about how the text works but how it relates to you. Something like that.”
She hands me her notebook, where she wrote down the task in that handwriting of hers that I barely understand. I copy everything down, already coming up with ideas in my head.
“And it has to be done in pairs.”
I feel dismayed. Cold panic sinking into my chest.
“But wait, who’s my partner?”
Ela smiles at the panicked expression on my face.
“James, I think. Since you two were late.”
The cold panic in my chest seems to swell as I turn around to look for him and find that he’s already gone.
I clench my fists, frustrated, as I pack up my backpack and join Ela at the door.
I’m already dreading this assignment.
I don’t know James Wolfe all that well. We’ve been in the same grade for as long as I can remember, but we’ve never talked much. He seems friendly. I know he and Sydney used to work together during the summer at her parents’ convenience store, and I know she likes him. But he and I have only spoken to each other a few times. He’s never approached me and I’m not one to go out of my way to make friends outside of my small group. I know he’s fairly liked throughout school. Maybe if I didn’t have to approach him because of an assignment I wouldn’t be feeling this dread. (Though I probably would’ve never approached him otherwise).
I can feel the anxiety rising inside of me, threatening to drown me as I walk to Chemistry Lab.
It’s just… James seems to loathe school. I don’t know it for sure, but it seems like it. He never hands in homework, at least not on time. He’s always distracted in class, and he never has anything to say. And he’s always, always late. Later than any student should be allowed to be late. So late that I’ve never actually seen him around during homeroom and we’ve been in the same group together for years. And I truly mean never. Most teachers are so tired of chastising him that they don’t say anything. They just ignore him when he walks into class 30 minutes late. Sometimes even an hour late. A few teachers tried to deny him entrance to class altogether if he didn’t show up on time but he mostly just shrugs and turns around on the spot. Not bothered at all about losing yet another class.
I can’t imagine anyone like that putting a lot of effort into his schoolwork.
I can’t imagine anyone like that trying to do his work at all. And I hate having to insist on everything. I avoid team assignments so I don’t have to work twice as much. The only person I actually like working with is Ela but Ela doesn’t really like working with me. (Maybe I understand it). (I don’t know how willing I’d be to work with me if I wasn’t me).
I brace myself for an opportunity to talk to him, keeping an eye out in the halls. We need to start working on this essay as soon as possible. But there’s no luck.
I make myself a promise that if I don’t find him anywhere today, I’ll approach one of his friends and ask for his number. And, sure, yes, this prospect terrifies me. I’m really bad at approaching people I’ve never talked to before, but I can do it if it means I can worry a little less about this assignment.
By the end of the school day, I realize I’ll probably have to set the plan in motion since I haven’t seen James all day. Thankfully, when I walk out into the parking lot, I find his group of friends all huddled together, chatting happily and laughing.
I approach them warily. Both Daniel Jeong and Daniel Torres are there, and Maya and Tatiana.
They’re all pretty friendly, I must admit. But that doesn’t quell the panic rising in my chest. I had a pretty huge crush on Daniel T. for the better part of last year, after I heard he stood up for Ela after a couple of assholes called her a dyke. (Not that Ela minded much, to be honest). It went away pretty quickly because I’m not very good at talking to people, let alone someone as cute as Daniel T., with his short black hair and his square jaw.
I take a deep breath and walk towards the gang, clenching my fists at my sides to keep myself steady. Daniel T. notices me first, and he smiles. I feel my heart skip a beat and immediately, I bite hard on my tongue, once.
“Hey,” I say, trying to give him a friendly smile. “Have you seen James around?”
Daniel Jeong smiles and points with his chin toward the parking lot behind the school. The one nobody really uses, except for junkies and skaters. I suppose James can be counted as both a junky and a skater.
“Check there,” he tells me. “If he isn’t there, then he’s probably gone home.”
As it turns out, he’s absolutely right, because when I turn around the corner, I can see James, jumping around on his skateboard, earphones plugged into his ears.
I approach him, slowly, watching him as he jumps, hoping he’ll notice me.
“Hello,” I say, when I’m close enough he can hear me.
James turns around, clearly surprised to see me.
“Hey, Betty,” he says, as he takes off one of his earbuds, a friendly smile dancing on his lips.
“Hey,” I say again, clumsily. “Ahem. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but we’re paired together for the English assignment.”
“Right, yeah. I remember something like that.”
He’s still smiling, expectantly.
“Right, so I thought we could start right away. Like, this week.”
His smile turns amused now, as he watches me.
“Isn’t the assignment due in like, two months?”
“Yeah,” I tell him, trying hard not to blush, suddenly aware of how much of a nerd I can be. “But the sooner we start, the more time we have to finish, and our workload can be a lot lighter.”
“Do you always work like that?” he asks, squinting a little, that amused smile still on his face.
“Well…” I hesitate for a second. “No, not really. But since we’re working together, I figured this way would be better.”
“Why?” he asks, with a slight frown. “Don’t you trust me to finish all of my work on time?”
“Well, no,” I say, plainly, truthfully. “Not really.”
He laughs at that, a huge laugh that makes him throw his head back. He drops his skateboard and reaches out to take out his phone from one of his pockets.
“I guess that’s fair,” he admits, still smiling, amused. He hands me his phone, so I can write mine down. “I’ll text you and we can agree on a date.”
“No,” I tell him, serious, but trying not to sound unfriendly, as I hand him my own phone. “We can agree on a date now and I’ll just text you my address and we can work at my place.”
He raises an eyebrow, still smiling, but he doesn’t seem nearly as amused, as he writes down his own number on my phone.
“You mean business,” he tells me, teasing, but clearly not pleased. “I’m free Thursday. We can meet then.”
“Thursday’s fine,” I say, taking back my phone and smiling again.
“Thursday it is, then.”
He picks up his skateboard and throws his backpack onto one shoulder, plugging his earbud back into his ear.
“I’ll see you around, Betty,” he tells me, friendly again, before turning around. I wave at him, feeling already a little frustrated before walking away.
At least, I can check it off my list, (an actual list, not a metaphorical one), before heading to my favorite ice cream parlor to meet Ela and Sydney.
I know I promised Lore I would go home after school, but I feel the beginning of something like dread starting to form in my stomach, especially when I think of her, smoking, looking out the window. I decide I’ll have some ice cream and then I’ll head home, preparing myself mentally, in the meantime, for whatever may come.
I find Ela and Sydney sitting together at one of the few available tables. They’re talking fast, in low voices and I wonder if they’re fighting again. For as long as I’ve known Ela and Sydney together, they always seem to be fighting. Ela usually tells me of their disagreements, which tend to be small and stupid, (though I don’t say this). I’m not sure why they choose to be together if they’re always fighting but I suppose that works for some relationships. (And I’m too inexperienced myself to be throwing judgment, really). When she sees me, Ela smiles, holding out the mint chip ice cream she bought for me.
“Did you find James?” she asks, as a way of greeting.
I nod, placing my backpack on the same chair both Sydney and Ela have placed theirs, though it looks like it’ll barely fit.
“He didn’t seem very eager to start working right away.”
Both Ela and Sidney laugh at that.
“Not surprisingly.”
I roll my eyes at her, scooping some ice cream into my mouth.
“Well, he has to work. I won’t let him drag me down.”
“James is not that bad,” Sydney tells me, in between sips of her milkshake. “He just has a bad reputation.”
“Well, I have to account for either,” I say, matter of factly.
“You really are bad at that control thing,” Ela says, waving her hand at me, in a gesture that says: “It’s not a big deal.”
“Maybe. But it’ll be good for both of us to start right away.”
“Will it?”
“It’ll be good for him.”
That makes Sydney laugh.
“You’re being harsh, I think. He’s actually really nice.”
“I’m not trying to be his friend,” I explain to her, trying hard not to sound dismissive.
“Maybe you should be.” Ela is looking at me with amusement in her eyes. “Maybe that way you could befriend Daniel Torres, too.”
She gives me a playful nudge in the ribs as she raises both eyebrows, in a comical gesture.
I feel myself starting to blush and I bite down on my tongue, as Sydney lets out a little yelp of surprise
“What?” she asks me, opening her eyes wide. “You have a crush on Daniel Torres?”
She sounds a little too surprised. I focus on my ice cream, ignoring her.
“Why?” she asks then. “He’s not even that cute. James is cuter.”
“Whatever,” I say, rolling my eyes at them, trying desperately to think of something else to say, something to change the subject. My face is already as red as it can possibly get.
“She’s right,” Ela agrees. “He’s way cuter, and nicer, too.”
“How would you know?” I say, ignoring the heavy look that’s passing between them. “You’re both lesbians.”
They both laugh at that, exchanging a look that says clearly, I don’t know how it works.
“Bi,” Ela points out, focusing her attention on the ice cream. “And anyway, you don’t have to like boys to know he’s cute,” she adds as if it was obvious. “He’s got that French-World-War-I-soldier kinda face.”
“Oh, yeah, that’s exactly it,” Sydney agrees, looking half serious, half amused.
“What does that even mean?” I ask, completely annoyed.
“It’s the nose, I think,” Ela says as if that was the only explanation needed.
“Oh, absolutely,” Sydney agrees, amused, following Ela’s lead.
I just frown at that.

I arrive home a little later than I should have. I hesitate between finding Lore and going straight to my room to start working on homework, but when I open the door, there she is, sitting on the living room floor, with a bunch of photographs in front of her. She doesn’t immediately call to my attention, so I just stand there, my backpack hanging from one shoulder, until she says, quietly, almost as if she was talking to the floor.
“You’re late.”
I feel remorse starting to creep up on me as I walk to sit next to her, in the only space not occupied by all the photographs. Of us, I realize, as I fold my legs beneath me and turn to look at her. Of the three of us. My dad, me, and Lore, who looks exactly the same, only with a few more wrinkles
In the one closest to her, there’s us, me at five years old, at my father’s family beach house. She’s smiling at the camera, squinting her eyes because of the sun. Her hair is loose and long and is blowing across her face. She’s holding my hand, and I’m crouching next to her, looking down at the sand on my feet. I’m wearing two dutch-braids that are already falling apart. (Lore’s terrible at hairdos). I’ve seen this photograph a couple of times through the years, but it’s never been displayed in our home, mostly because behind us there’s the beach house, which we’ve never been to since dad left. I feel confused as I look through the photographs. There’s mom, before she got pregnant, laughing next to dad, who has an arm around her shoulders. He’s not really laughing; he looks like he’s trying to look serious for the camera, but has a spark in his eyes, nonetheless.
There’s another one, with Lore, my dad, and my grandma. Lore’s pregnant with me in this picture. She’s wearing an orange dress, embroidered in red. She’s smiling in the picture but she looks a little nervous. She’s standing between my dad and his mother. They look so alike that it’s almost eerie, that same face in two wholly different people. They’ve even dressed similarly. She’s wearing a long, brown trench coat, her hair tied into a high bun. He’s wearing dress pants and his hair is slicked back. I didn’t know this grandma much, (she died when I was two), but in the photographs I’ve seen of her, she always looks bored, distracted, indifferent. Lore looks so out of place in this picture, it’s almost jarring.
I turn to look at her, with a question in my eyes and she hands me a picture. This one has us three, sitting on the front porch. Lore’s leaning forward, holding me steady. She’s not wearing her glasses, so her eyes look smaller than usual. Next to her is dad, smiling too, holding my left hand. His hair is longer in this picture; it curls a little at his jaw. He’s waving at the unknown person behind the camera. I’m standing between the two, well, not really standing, I’m too little in this picture to be standing on my own. I’m wearing diapers and a green onesie, unbuttoned. I imagine we must look like a happy family in this picture. Mom, dad, and little baby me, all smiling. This was, of course, before my dad left us. He isn’t in any of the pictures on our walls now, almost as if he never existed.
The truth is, I don’t remember him enough to miss him. I remember he didn’t like it when my mom and I watched telenovelas. I was too small to know what the telenovelas were all about, but I remember he used to say they would rot my brain, and sometimes he and Lore would get into huge fights about this. I remember the way the beach house smelled, like cleaning products. I remember he used to buy me books he would read to me. The first novel I ever read, I read with him. Every night before bed he would come and read a single chapter to me until he forgot for a few weeks. I was so fascinated by the book I didn’t care when he didn’t show up to read to me one night and instead finished it on my own before he could remember to come back. I remember him laughing when I told him I had already finished and was looking for another book to read.
I remember the night he left. I remember what my mom said to me then and how easy it was to just keep going as if he’d never really lived with us.
“Do you miss him?” Lore asks, watching me.
I shake my head, shrugging.
“You got along really well,” she tells me as if she was telling me a story I didn’t know.
I don’t say anything. She hands me another picture. This one has me and my dad. I’m a little older, must be around four, and I’m sitting on his lap. I’m wearing a black dress with sheep on it. He has a polo shirt underneath a red sweater. I wonder if my dad always dressed like this. The kind of outfit you picture old college professors wearing, suede elbow pads and black shoes. I wonder if he still dresses like this and what he would think of what my mom has done with his house. This is technically his house, but it has Lore written all over it. My dad looks like the kind of person that would have abstract art on his walls and would pose for pictures with a glass of red wine in his hand. I find the photographs of him in this house to be completely strange. Like some alternate reality where he is my dad and he does live here.
“Do you ever think about him?”
She speaks quietly, slowly, so unlike her normal self. And she’s looking at me with such caution that I start to feel a little scared.
“Why? Is he dead?”
“What? No!” She looks genuinely surprised that this would be my first assumption. “Why would you say that?”
“You’re acting weird.”
She shakes her head no, and then closes her eyes, taking off her glasses and putting them on the floor next to her.
“He’s not dead, Betty,” she says, opening her eyes and turning to look at me. “He called me the other day. He said he wanted to get in touch with us. With you.”
She places a gentle hand on my left knee.
“Why?” I look at her with a frown on my face, fully expecting to see my reaction reflected in hers.
“Because he wants to make amends.”
“For leaving?” my voice sounds louder than usual, even to me, a confrontation brimming beneath it.
“He’s your dad, corazón.”
I don’t say anything for a minute. I can tell she’s trying to soothe me and I don’t like it. I don’t like the way she’s looking at me either, sad, sympathetic.
“I haven’t seen him in ten years,” I say, finally, because she seems to be waiting for me to react.
“And he regrets that. He wants to make up for it.” She stops for a second as if deciding how to best continue this conversation. “And he has helped us, financially, through the years. He didn’t just abandon you.”
“So? Doesn’t he have to do that, according to the law?”
She sighs, and moves her hand away from my knee, massaging the spot between her eyebrows, as if she was trying to relax.
“Betty, no seas así.”
“Like what?”
“Estás haciendo berrinche, even before you know what I’m gonna say.”
I feel the heat creeping up on my face. She just said I’m throwing a tantrum as if this wasn’t all because my dad, who disappeared for more than half my fucking life, has suddenly decided to come back. As if that was all normal and welcome.
“No, I’m not,” I say, defensively, but feeling like a child, who is absolutely throwing a tantrum. “But I don’t understand why you’re acting like this isn’t a big deal. Like he can just come back, no questions asked.”
“No, I’m not saying he can just come back. I’m asking you to give him a chance. Just talk to him on the phone. See how you feel about that.”
I don’t say anything, just stare at her, aghast. Talk to him on the phone?! So she is serious about this. Has she already planned a phone call with him, behind my back?!
“He wants to get to know you.”
“Why?”
“Betty,” she says again as if I’d already disappointed her.
I gather all the photographs in my hand and give them to her.
“Why don’t you talk to him? You give him a chance!”
“I already did,” she explains, patiently, which I find infuriating. She’s acting like I’m the unreasonable one. “I think he’s truly sorry and wants to make up for it. Give him a chance. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to have him in your life. Maybe it can make you happy.”
“Are you telling me I have to talk to him? Or is it my choice?”
She looks at me for a long time, as if she was deciding what to do, her face hardening with every second that passes by.
“He will call Saturday morning. I told him you’d speak with him.”
“So, ordering me to,” I say, matter of factly.
“If that’s how you want to see it,” she sounds defeated, frustrated, disappointed.
I feel tears starting to prickle my eyes, so I get up, grab my backpack and turn around, without saying anything more.

Chapter Text

All week all I can think about is Lore’s words from last Monday. “He wants to get to know you.” “Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea.” I’m still shocked by her request, by her orders really. And the way she acted, like I was a child just throwing a tantrum. And then, “He’ll call Saturday morning,” just like that, no rebuttals. And now, I guess I do have to talk to him. I guess I could just refuse to answer the phone, but I don’t imagine that will help my I’m-not-a-child-throwing-a-tantrum case. I keep trying to imagine the conversation, to imagine what he might say, how someone apologizes to their child after leaving for ten years and never calling once to say hello, not even on their birthday.
I feel like crying all of the time. This is unfair. I shouldn’t be feeling like this. I’m not the irresponsible parent who chose to leave. And I’m so angry at Lore for the role she had to play in this that I mostly ignore her all week. But I do miss her. I do wish she’d be on my side. I want her to apologize and then tell me this is the stupidest idea she’s ever had and to just forget about it. To tell me my dad is an asshole and to never worry about him again. But she never does and we just keep on ignoring each other, gravitating in the same space but not interacting much.
I’m so caught up in the confusion unfolding in my head that I’m surprised when James approaches me after class one day. At first, I’m not even sure he’s talking to me, except he’s smiling at me, and then I guess he is talking to me.
“Hey,” he says. “You never sent me your address.”
Right, it’s Thursday already. And we agreed to meet today. I was the one who didn’t trust him to arrange a date, and now I’m the one who forgot all about it. I look away, feeling a little ashamed.
“Oh, shit. I’m sorry. I forgot,” I say, trying to convey how sorry I am.
James shrugs, shaking his head a little as if to say it’s okay.
“Are we still doing something or…?”
“Of course!” I interrupt, not wanting to give him an excuse to get out of this. “I don’t think we can go to my house, though,” I confess, thinking back to Lore, and the unfamiliar silence that passes between us since Monday. “Should we go to yours?”
“Um…” James hesitates, frowning a little. “Maybe we could go to the ice cream parlor around the corner.”
I’m about to object, but then he adds, quickly:
“It’s not like we’ll have to write a lot or anything - right?”
I laugh a little at that.
“No,” I confess, and James smiles, pleased.
“Okay then,” he says, tilting his head a little.
He starts walking by my side, his skateboard dangling from his right hand.
“How was your week, Betty?” James asks, after a minute or so.
I think about what to say for a second. Chaotic, awful, terrible. I wish it hadn’t happened at all. Instead, I say:
“Fine.”
James looks at me, with a slight frown. I can tell that he doesn’t buy it, but he also doesn’t ask anything else.
“How about yours?”
He shrugs.
“How come you forgot about today when you were so insistent before?”
I blush, furiously. I bite my lip, trying desperately for something to say that doesn’t involve having to tell him all about my dad coming back into my life. But when I turn to look at him I see that he’s smiling, playfully, and know that he doesn’t mean to upset me.
I roll my eyes at him, the way I would if it was Ela teasing me.
“I have a lot on my mind.”
He laughs at that.
“I bet you do,” he agrees.
But I feel so bad that I forgot about our meeting that as soon as we choose a table I take out a notebook and a pencil from my backpack. He looks at me, almost alarmed, and points to the menu behind the counter.
“Aren’t we gonna order first?”
“Um, sure,” I say because I guess it is better to take it easy on him. He could’ve just not shown up at all and I wouldn’t have noticed. I order my usual mint chip ice cream and he orders dark chocolate.
When our ice creams are back and I’m about to start working he pushes his in front of me and asks, all friendly:
“Want some?”
I look at it with a slight frown.
“I don’t like chocolate ice cream,” I tell him. Then I hesitate for a second, before pushing mine toward him. “Do you want some?”
Truthfully, I’m not one to share food with others so easily. My mom thinks this is funny but Ela always gets annoyed. James, however, doesn’t seem to notice.
“You don’t like chocolate?” he asks, with an expression on his face that’s halfway between surprised and offended.
“I don’t like chocolate ice cream,” I clarify. “Chocolate is delicious.”
“Aren’t they the same?” he asks, confused.
“No, chocolate ice cream is disgusting. It doesn’t even taste like chocolate.”
“But you’re eating mint chip. It has chocolate on it.”
“But it isn’t chocolate ice cream,” I say, impatiently.
He’s smiling again, apparently amused by this. He shrugs as if to say this isn’t all that important.
“So,” I say, because I’m impatient. “We have to write an essay on any of the texts we have read so far. I don’t think we’re supposed to analyze it, formally, just write about how we can relate to it.”
I take out my notebook and the list of texts we can work with.
“Do you have a preference for any of them?”
James is looking out the window and I wonder if he’s even paying attention to me.
“These are the ones I’d like to work with,” I say, putting a little star next to each text. I push the list in front of him, forcing him to turn and look at it.
He only looks for a second before saying:
“I liked Prufrock.”
“Really?” I ask, surprised.
“It’s one of my favorites,” he explains, with a playful smile.
“Mine too,” I admit.
I take out my notebook and write “Love song of J. Alfred Prufrock” and then below it, his name and mine.
“That was easier than I expected,” I tell him. “How about next time we each bring a couple of ideas on what to write the essay about. Like themes, comparisons, anything. And we’re done for today.”
“Really?”
Now he’s the one who sounds surprised. I put away my notebook trying not to laugh at the expression on his face. He looks happy, pleased, the smile returning in full force.
I nod.
“I told you we could start early and not work as much,” I hesitate before adding. “But also, I forgot to do any more planning. So this can be it, for today.”
He laughs, amused at my last comment, and relaxes in his seat.
“Sounds perfect,” he agrees.
“But you have to come up with ideas for next time, okay?”
He raises an eyebrow at me, but he’s still smiling.
“Betty,” he says, calmly, leaning a little towards me, “how come you don’t trust me?”
I blush, immediately, intensely. He’s looking at me but I look away because I’m too ashamed to return his gaze.
“I-” I think about lying, about pretending like I do trust him but I know he won’t buy it. “I’m sorry,” I say, instead. “You don’t seem to like school much,” I explain.
“I don’t like school,” he agrees. His attention is back on the window so I relax a little. “But I won’t let you down, I promise.”
Even though I have a problem with relenting control, I realize, amazingly, that I do believe him. I smile at him, grateful, and nod, once.
I start eating my ice cream, feeling a little awkward now that all the work has been done.
He’s looking at me, amused, so I try to relax.
“Are you named after Betty Lou?” he asks, after a second.
“No,” I say, confused. “Why?”
“Just making conversation,” he shrugs.
“Are you named after James Marsden?”
He laughs at this, that same big, open laugh.
“I’m named after my grandpa, and maybe James Taylor, too. I don’t think anyone’s named after James Marsden, though.”
I shake my head, laughing a little too.
“I’m named after Betty la fea,” I explain, trying to be friendly, too.
“What’s that?”
“A Colombian telenovela my mom absolutely loves.”
He smiles, intrigued.
“Do you like it?” he asks.
I hesitate for a second but then decide he’s been nice to me all day and maybe I should just try to be nice back. He isn’t all that bad.
“I used to hate it,” I admit. “But now it really feels like my name.”
“Why?”
“Betty la fea means Betty the ugly one. I used to wonder if my mom thought I was ugly and that’s why she called me that. But I think she just did it because that character means a lot to her.”
And maybe, to piss off my dad, but I don’t say that.
He’s frowning a little now, examining me. I feel a little awkward to have revealed such a painful truth, so I distract myself with the ice cream in front of me.
“You’re not ugly,” he says, simply, after a while.
I realize I’m beginning to blush and I curse, inwardly. I hate my inability to receive any kind of compliment without immediately turning red in the face. But James doesn’t seem to notice.
“Do you think your parents put a lot of effort into your name?” he asks, looking out the window again. I shrug. “I think my dad just chose the first name to pop into his head,” he admits.
There’s something in his voice that’s changed. He doesn’t sound as cheerful or playful as before. He’s frowning, slightly. I’m unsure of what to say to that and I think desperately of a reply, a joke, a witty remark, anything.
Thankfully, before I have to come up with something, I see Ela and Andrew approaching us. Ela waves at me and then smiles at James, who smiles back at her, friendly. Andrew looks a little timid; he’s biting his inner cheek but gives me a friendly smile. In that way, Andrew and I are very similar. We haven’t known each other for as long as Ela and I have, but we’re very alike. We’re both nerds obsessed with getting into the college of our dreams. Nerds who just stand around awkwardly at parties. He’s probably my second best friend but Ela often says this is only because I don’t have any other friends.
“Hey,” James says, when they’re close enough that they can hear us.
“Hey,” Ela smiles back, pushing a chair towards our table, clearly intending to join us. “Are we interrupting?” she asks, looking at me with caution.
I shake my head, smiling at her. There’s only one person who can openly mock me about my control issues and that’s Ela.
“What do you make of Betty’s hatred of chocolate ice cream?” James asks when they’re both sitting down, pointing his head at me, and looking at my friends.
“I don’t hate chocolate ice cream,” I say, rolling my eyes.
“She’s on the wrong side of history,” Ela says, smiling, amused.
“Absolutely,” James agrees, returning her smile but looking at me.
“Whatever.”
“You know, if you roll your eyes too much they might get stuck there,” Ela tells me, clearly encouraged by James, who’s laughing now.
“Did you just come here to mock me?” I ask her, pretending to be annoyed.
“Nah, we came here to wait for Sydney and I wanted to know if you were driving James crazy with your OCD.”
“Not yet,” James says, looking completely serious, though there’s a hint of playfulness in his voice. (I don’t know how he manages that). “I actually think it’ll be her OCD what gets me through this assignment.”
I smile at him, unsure of what to make of his words.
“Well, that, and the fact that she’ll kill you if you lower her GPA,” Andrew intervenes, shooting me an apologetic look while still smiling a little.
“Literally kill you,” Ela agrees.
“Is that so?” James returns their smiles, seemingly amused at the prospect. “You’re too small to kill me.”
I’m about to roll my eyes at him when Andrew talks again.
“Don’t underestimate her. We have a bet going and she can’t afford to lose.”
James turns to look at me, his amused smile now taking hold of his entire face.
“We don’t have a bet going.”
(We do, but it’s not a literal bet). Andrew gives me a poignant look like he’s saying I shouldn’t be ashamed of it.
“Well, Betty,” James says, with a feigned solemn expression that no one could really believe, “bet or no bet, I promise you, you will not lose.”
I do roll my eyes at him then,
“Doesn’t she drive you crazy with her OCD?” he asks my friends now, ignoring me.
“We’ve learned to handle it.”
Ela smiles at me and then takes her scoop and steals some of my ice cream. I roll my eyes at her now and think about stealing some of hers but then I remember she’s having chocolate and macadamia nut and decide against it.
James is still smiling, amused, when his phone starts to ring, (or buzz, really). He frowns, looking at it like something horrible might come out of it if he touches it, and after a few seconds, he picks up the phone, smiling at us, before standing up and walking away to answer.
“So, how’s it really going?” Ela asks me when he’s gone.
“Fine,” I say, rolling my eyes at her. For a second, I feel an intense desire to reach out and hug her, maybe even reach out and start crying and confessing all of the anger I’ve been feeling since Monday. But it probably wouldn’t be a good idea to do it in front of both Andrew and James.
“Is he as bad as you thought he’d be?”
“No,” I say, still feeling a little ashamed to have been prejudiced. “He’s fine.”
“See? I told you there was no need to be so control-freaky!”
She gives me a nudge with her elbow, raising her eyebrows and pointing her chin towards James, who’s outside, talking on the phone.
“And he’s way cuter than Daniel Torres.”
I blush a little, involuntarily and she starts laughing at me.
I have always been like this. Unable to control my body's reactions. Even when I don’t have a reason to blush, it escapes my control. Ela loves teasing me because she knows how much I hate it.
“Why does it matter that he’s cuter than Daniel Torres?” Andrew asks, confused.
“It doesn’t,” I say, at the same time that Ela says:
“She has a crush on him, but I think it’s time to move on.”
I shush her frantically, unable to get any redder as I see James approaching us. Ela starts laughing maniacally at my reaction.
I’m hoping James didn’t hear her. It’d be the last thing I’d want, for James Wolfe to think I have a crush on him just as we’re starting to work well together on this project.
But when he returns he seems to be a little distracted. He’s not smiling anymore, and there’s the slightest frown on his forehead.
“I gotta go,” he tells us, packing up his things, (well, only his phone, really), and picking up his skateboard.
“Oh, hey,” I say, forgetting all about Ela’s teasing, and taking out my planner. “When should we meet next?”
James seems confused, as he looks from the phone in his hand to my planner.
“I-” he hesitates. “I guess next Thursday could work too.”
“Okay,” I write it down on my planner, quickly. “I’ll text you my address.”
He raises an eyebrow at me, his amused smile returning slowly to his lips.
“I will,” I tell him, starting to blush again.
He smiles now, a wide, open smile that shows off all of his teeth.
“I know you will.”

As it turns out, the dreaded Saturday morning phone call comes and goes without earth-shattering consequences. We don’t talk much. He calls me Tris, which I think is weird, but then my full name is Beatriz, so it makes sense. But he pronounces it with a perfect American accent and I almost hate it. He tells me he’s glad I agreed to talk to him. I debate for a second whether to tell him the truth, that Lore forced me, and I wouldn’t have done it of my own accord. But I mostly don’t say anything. He asks me about school and my friends and a general overview of my life and I give him plenty of yes and nos to go around, but I don't elaborate much on any particular answer. Finally, he tells me he and Lore are planning to meet with me, soon, (he’s not very specific and I feel a panic rising in my chest). I give him a non-commital grunt and when he says goodbye and promises he’ll call again, I hang up the phone, muttering a “goodbye” that I’m sure doesn’t carry through. I’m not sure what I expected from this phone call, but I never would’ve pictured it going like this. Without any apologies, explanations, or much of anything. I suppose they’re intending to ease me into the conversation, but I wish they’d just be done with it. Say your apologies and let me move on.
So I guess it wasn’t that bad. I could endure conversations where I just have to nod and shake my head from time to time if that’s all it takes. But I’m not sure it’ll be all that it takes.
I feel so miserable at the prospect of being forced to get to know this person who abandoned me at seven years old, that I find myself crying in bed that Saturday night, holding onto my stuffed cow, (it really is a cow, my grandmother gave it to me two years before she died), (Grandma Beatriz, I mean). I try not to make any noise, so Lore won’t hear me and won’t show up acting all caring and understanding.
The next day, Ela shows up at my house, carrying her favorite movie with her. I’m not sure if my mom called her. She does it, sometimes, when I’m feeling very sad and need cheering up. Either way, I let her in, a little relieved by her presence.
Lore can try to act like she’s being the rational adult one, but I know Ela will agree with me.
She plops down on my bed as soon as I close the door.
“I’m so hungover,” she whines. “How come you didn’t wanna come last night?”
Sometimes Ela does this. Act like I’m invited to every party she is. And, in a way, I am. People don’t deny me entrance to any party, but Ela doesn’t always remember to let me know first, so I can’t actually choose whether or not to go. I’m not really sure I would’ve joined her, either way, to be completely honest. I felt terrible last night.
“I wasn’t up for anything.”
“What’s your problem?” She asks, raising her head a little and putting all her weight on her elbows.
I crawl into bed next to her, sitting with my legs folded underneath me.
“My dad called the other day,” I say, expecting that’ll be enough explanation.
She frowns a little, turning to look at me.
“Your dad? Real dad?”
“I don’t have any other dad.”
“And?”
I shrug, looking at my hands resting on my knees.
“Apparently, he wants to reconnect with us.” I stop for a second. “With me.”
I feel the tears prickling in my eyes, wanting to come out.
I turn to look at Ela, who’s still frowning.
“Okay, so, what’s the problem?” she asks, seemingly unable to understand my ailment.
“He left us!” I exclaim, feeling my voice rising a little. “And now he wants to come back and act like he wants to reconnect.”
“Maybe he genuinely does. He realized his mistake and now he wants to make it up to you.”
“You sound exactly like my mother,” I say, hearing the disappointment in my voice.
“Well, she has a point.” Ela doesn’t look at me as she says this. She lets her head fall back on the mattress underneath us.
“I don’t care what he wants. He left when I was seven and never once called me, not even for my birthday, not when grandma died, not ever!”
“Okay, so, he’s been a shitty dad. Maybe he’ll be a good one now.”
She has her eyes closed and speaks slowly, patiently, as if I was a kid and she needed to be patient with me.
“I don’t care about now,” I say, almost shouting. “It’s too late now.”
“Calm down, all right?” She stretches her hands in front of me as if to signal I should contain myself. “You’re acting like he did something horrible to you.”
“He did.”
“He left. You’ve grown up without him and you’ve been fine. Maybe it was better for you that he left.”
“That’s not the point,” I say, exasperated, desperately wanting her to see my side.
“The point is he’s back and you’re acting like he’s doing this fucking horrible thing by coming back.”
“Because I don’t want him back!”
Ela lets out a frustrated sigh.
“It’s not like he’s forcing you to accept him.”
“Lore is,” I say, intensely, hoping maybe she’ll finally see what’s so upsetting about this.
“What do you mean?” She’s back on her elbows, frowning slightly and I’m hoping she can finally understand the despair and misery I’ve been feeling for the past week. I know Ela hates people being weak, shattering under any ordinary situation, but she’s usually more tolerant of me.
“She’s making me talk to him on the phone! She said we’re meeting with him at some point next week or something.”
Ela rolls her eyes and I feel a stab of pain in my chest. I thought she’d understand. I thought she’d take my side, no questions asked.
“So talk to him and get it over with. You don’t have to accept him back if you don’t want to.”
“But I don’t want to talk to him.”
“Ugh, Betty,” she touches her forehead in a frustrated gesture. “You’re acting like this is the biggest tragedy you’ve ever faced. Talk to him. Get it over with and move on with your life. This whining won’t help.”
I imagine I must look funny, my mouth gaping open and my eyes gone all wide and teary upon hearing her words. I feel betrayed. Like my best friend has turned her back on me and said don’t count me in. I want to shake her and make her understand why I’m so hurt.
I cross my arms over my chest and look away, as Ela stands up to grab my computer.
“Can we just watch something?” she asks, dismissive.
I nod, moving to make space for her in my bed but unwilling to say anything else, feeling furious, exasperated, and frustrated, but most of all sad.
Friends should take your side. Best friends, especially. Isn’t that the whole point of having a best friend? You can do no wrong with them?
Ela moves to sit on the bed, looking for a movie we could watch and I move aside, neither of us really saying anything else.

Chapter Text

“Hey,” James says, standing on my front porch, his backpack hanging from one shoulder. Surprisingly, he arrived on time. (Thankfully, I wrote myself a reminder to text him my address. I won’t make the same stupid mistake twice.)
“Hey,” I push the door wider to let him in.
He steps into my house, and stands in the foyer, balancing a little on his tiptoes.
“So,” he starts, “should we go to your room?”
I feel the heat starting to spread to my face. (Stupid!)
“The living room will do,” I say, trying to sound casual and pointing to my notebook and pencil case, already spread out on the living room floor in front of me.
He grins and dumps his backpack on the floor before taking a seat, directly in front of my line of vision, using the couch behind him for support.
I open my notebook, grateful for the opportunity to start working on this assignment right away and, hopefully, putting my mind off of my fight with Ela. The truth is, we rarely ever fight. Sure, we get into discussions sometimes but we never really fight. Neither of us knows how to handle the situation. We never stop talking, or anything like that. Usually, we just act a bit awkward, and this time is no different. All week, we’ve fluttered around each other, exchanging quick words and shallow replies, letting the tension hover around us. Normally, when this happens, neither of us acknowledges the fight. Instead, we let the tension fade away, unless one of us apologizes. But I’m not sure I’m willing to be the one to ask for forgiveness this time. I still don’t believe I’m in the wrong here, even if everyone’s acting like I’m a spoiled child. And Ela should be on my side, what are best friends for if not sticking by you even at your stupidest? (Not that this is my stupidest).
I feel the pain and anger I’ve been suppressing all week brimming to the surface so I clench my fists, trying to focus all of my attention on the assignment before me.
“Everything all right?” James asks, noticing my expression.
“It’s nothing,” I say, opening my notebook. “So,” I start, going all business mode. “Did you think of anything we can work on?”
“Yeah,” he says, taking out a notebook from his backpack. “Sort of.”
He must notice the frown I give him because he quickly adds:
“I mean, I did. I just don’t have them written down in like, academic terms or whatever.” I’m not sure what to say to that. He shoves his notebook in front of me and I realize that he has some things written down, in a bullet list. Not all of it makes sense to me, his handwriting is all sharp edges, blurred together.
“Um,” he says, pulling his notebook back, a slight tinge of nerves in his voice. “I didn’t know where to start so I thought about the reasons why I like the poem so much. And I thought about the ending. ‘Till human voices wake us, and we drown.’ It’s my favorite part of the poem because sometimes it feels like that, you know?”
I nod because I do know what he means, though I’m not sure we’re talking about the same it. But I do know that sometimes it definitely feels like that.
“So I thought we could talk about that. About how sometimes it feels like you’re trapped in some ocean and just watching the world, not really belonging to either.”
I realize he’s blushing a little when he finishes. Not really blushing-blushing, just looking abashed.
“Yeah,” I say, trying to show him that it’s a good idea. “I kept thinking of that line, ‘that is not what I meant at all.’ Because I often feel like I’m trying to say something, but people don’t understand me. No matter how many times or in how many ways I say it. And I know that it’s not because they don’t want to understand me, but just because they can’t and I don’t know how to make them understand. No matter how much I try.”
Now I’m the one who’s feeling abashed. My words strike me as true even as I say them. I feel like I can’t make Lore and Ela understand why I hate the idea of having to interact with my dad. And I’m not all too sure that’s their fault. I don’t think I’ve ever talked to anyone about this. It’s not like there are that many opportunities to explain to people how it feels like you’re speaking in completely different languages sometimes.
“Yeah,” he’s smiling as if he did really understand it.
“So maybe we can work on something like that.” I pull my notebook closer and start writing down our ideas.
“We could talk about how Prufrock always seems to be looking at the world, not really participating in it. And maybe… maybe it’s because he can’t make himself understood!”
I’m excited now, as we approach a more concrete idea. I can get like this with homework sometimes. Especially with homework about literature.
James is nodding, mirroring my excitement. I think for a second that maybe he’s mocking me, but then he speaks:
“And maybe the ending, when he mentions how the mermaids don’t talk to him is that maybe you just get to watch them, without being with them, because that’s enough. It’s better than waking up.”
I’m not sure we are talking about the same thing, but for now, I think, we can work with this.
I write down everything and then turn to look at him.
“Okay, so how do we say this in an essay way?”
“I thought you were supposed to be good at this.”
I roll my eyes at him.
“You said you’d help.”
“All right,” he turns my notebook towards him and frowns, thinking. “The reason Prufrock is such a compelling poem is that it mirrors the need for human connection and communication and it showcases our constant failure at it.”
“Yeah,” I say, trying not to beam at him. “That’s a perfect place to start.”
He smiles, looking genuinely pleased that he managed to put that sentence together.
We spend an hour trying to turn that sentence into our thesis statement and then another working on a rough outline that could work, for now.
We don’t do half as bad as I had anticipated from our first encounter.
Since the essay isn’t really about formally analyzing the poem, in some ways it’s easier to come up with ideas that don't need to be fully supported by the text. But we seem to be suffering from the same Prufrock disease, incapable of communicating fully what we mean, what it is that we want the other to see, and it takes us a while to get used to how the other works.
At some point, James just points to a line in the poem, “It is impossible to say just what I mean!” as if that was all the explanation needed.
I can see there is something to glimpse beneath the words, something important, so I nod in agreement, even though I’m still not sure we’re glimpsing at the same thing.
After we’re done, I realize I’m having more fun at this moment than I’ve had in my entire week.
Maybe that’s why, when I close my notebook and James leans forward and says “Are poems your favorite thing?” clearly intending to make conversation, I answer, eagerly, honestly.
“No, I wouldn’t say poems. Just books in general.”
He leans back and watches me with amusement in his eyes.
“Are you gonna call me a nerd?”
He shakes his head, frowning, as if offended by the assumption.
“Everybody’s got a favorite thing.”
“What’s your favorite thing?”
“Movies, I guess,” he says as if it wasn’t a big deal. “The science fiction type.”
I lean back in my seat, trying to seem friendly and open, and not at all like I’m judging him for being the kind of geek Ela would have fun with.
“You mean like Star Wars?”
He bites his cheek as if deciding how to answer.
“Yeah, sometimes, I guess. More like Blade Runner. Oh,” he claims, excited. “Did you watch the newest Mad Max?” He doesn’t wait for me to answer. “That one’s pretty cool.” He has that same abashed look from before.
“I’ll keep it in mind,” I tell him, not entirely sure if I mean it.
He smiles, genuinely pleased.
“Okay, your turn,” he says. “You get to recommend a book now.”
I shake my head.
“I don’t really like recommending books to people,” I admit.
He looks at me, frowning.
“Why not?”
“Well, because I don’t really know what kind of books you’ll like. I wanna be able to recommend a book that the person will actually enjoy.”
“I just told you what I like. The science fiction type.”
I consider it for a minute. The first things that come to mind are the kind of books I would recommend to Ela. But, somehow, I don’t think James is talking about the same thing.
“Okay,” I say, turning to look at him. He’s watching me as if this whole exchange was highly amusing for him. “The Illustrated Man. Ray Bradbury. Maybe you’ll like that one.”
He tips his head towards me as if to thank me and writes down the name of the book on the palm of his hand with a pen he stole from me, at some point.
I feel the impulse to roll my eyes at him, (as if that was a good place to write anything down) but control myself.
“Is it one of your favorites?” He’s raising an eyebrow and I’m not altogether sure he isn’t mocking me on some level.
“No, but it is pretty good.”
He nods once and leans back on the couch behind him.
I’m starting to feel a little awkward, now that we’re done with work and neither of us has moved.
“D’you wanna listen to some music?” I say, desperately trying to fill in the silence.
He looks at me, suddenly paying attention, and gives me an excited smile.
“Yes! I’m curious to know what is ‘Betty’ music.”
I laugh at that, trying to keep myself from rolling my eyes at him again. I take out my phone and play a random song on the little speaker Lore uses to watch TV.
The first song to play is a ballad, and I feel myself flushing immediately. I’m not really sure what he expects ‘Betty’ music to be, but I’m pretty sure I’m not proving him wrong. He leans his head against the sofa, saying “of course,” in a quiet whisper.
I do roll my eyes at him, then, since he can’t see me, his eyes fixed on the ceiling above him.
“Okay, so what’s ‘James’ music?” I challenge him, annoyed.
“Stoner music,” he shrugs, closing his eyes.
“That could mean anything.”
He shrugs again, dismissive.
“You can just play a song you like,” I say, frustrated.
“No, I like this a lot.”
He still hasn’t opened his eyes as he begins to hum along with the song. (Surprisingly, he seems to know it).
I try to relax a little, following his example and spreading my legs in front of me, humming along with him.
The song quickly changes into a rap song, playing loud, fast.
“No way,” he opens his eyes and leans forward. “That can’t be ‘Betty’ music.”
I do roll my eyes at him, then, pointedly.
“I think I’m the only authority on what is and isn’t Betty music.”
The song is so loud and so infectious that I start rapping alongside the singer, fixing my eyes on the TV, so as not to look at him.
James is looking at me with an expression that’s halfway between amusement and bewilderment. After a second, he joins me, so loud that he’s almost shouting.
This makes me laugh, and I raise my voice, slightly, to match his. We’re almost shouting then, both of us repeating the words to perfection. I find it so funny, James Wolfe and I, sitting on my living room floor, singing, nearly shouting, about sex and drugs and god, (I think the song’s about god, anyway), that when the song ends, I start laughing, maybe a little too much. I cover my mouth, embarrassed, but James doesn’t seem to notice.
He moves towards me and takes my phone.
“Okay, my turn.” He tells me, playing a new song.
I don’t recognize the band, but it’s quite similar to the one from before. Now I’m the one who leans her head back and closes her eyes, trying to focus on the song and not on the fact that James has moved closer to me and is singing, under his breath.
After a while, the song ends and another one begins, a slow waltz that makes me feel like wrapping my arms around my legs and hiding my face in a pillow.
I open my eyes and find that James has copied my movements. His legs pushed against his chest, his arms resting on his knees, his eyes closed. He’s swaying his head a little too, to the rhythm of the music.
I’m not sure why, maybe it’s because he can’t see me, or maybe it’s because this moment right here is the most fun I’ve had all week, but I turn to look at him with attention.
Of course I knew, even before Ela and Sydney started teasing me, that James was widely considered to be cute. But I’d never stopped to think why. What it is that my friends call a “French-World-War-I-soldier” kind of face. How he’s handsome. What features on his face come together to create beauty. Not all of them fit together nicely, I realize, with surprise. His nose is a bit too big for his face and slightly crooked. His eyebrows are so thick, you can almost see every individual hair trailing away from the tips. His mouth is so thin and red, it’s almost comical. And his cheeks are so hollow sometimes I wonder if he doesn’t bite them to make them look like that.
“Are you staring at me?” James asks, suddenly, without opening his eyes.
Immediately, my gaze darts toward the wall in front of me, away from his face, and I start to blush, intensely.
I try to think of something smart or witty to say, some way to prove that I’m not a creep who stares at unaware boys. He opens his eyes, slowly, amused and I try to force myself to come up with something. (Anything!) (Anything is better than silence!).
At that exact moment, the door flies open, and Lore walks in, carrying a package and a bag of groceries with her.
James and I startle, moving a little away from each other as my mom turns to take in the scene in front of her.
“Oh, hi, we’re just doing some homework,” I say, feeling relieved to not have to answer James’ question.
“Hi, Mrs. Green,” James says, getting up and gathering his things.
(Lore’s last name is not Green but I’m not about to correct his mistake.) I get up too, following his example, and turn to look at her.
She raises an eyebrow, only slightly.
“Hi,” she turns to look at me, as I turn off the music.
“This is James,” I say, all awkward and clumsy, and possibly blushing, (I’m too agitated to know it for sure).
“Hi, James,” she repeats, before handing me the package and then adding. “Find a place for it in my studio, okay?” before disappearing into the kitchen.
“I should go,” James says behind me.
I don’t look him in the eye, still feeling embarrassed that he caught me looking at him like a complete creep.
“Thursday next week then?” he asks me, while we walk towards the open door.
I smile now, thankful that he’s keeping his promise to not let me down.
“Thursday next week it is,” I say, as he gives me a smile, before turning around and walking away.

By the time the weekend arrives, I’ve mostly forgotten all about my dad and the possibility of actually meeting with him. That is until he calls late on Saturday night to let me know he’s coming by tomorrow and by the next morning, I’ve already imagined all the possibilities in which this day could go oh so terribly wrong. I’ve tried acting optimistic too, but somehow, no good outcome scenario comes to mind.
So I spend the day in my room, working on homework and texting Andrew, who’s convinced he will fail his math test because he fell asleep studying and then couldn’t remember how to solve the most complicated equation on the test. Whatever. I’ve always been terrible at math. If anything is bringing down my GPA, it’s going to be math. I don’t have a lot of sympathy for him but I feel so alienated from everyone else that I’m glad to at least be talking to Andrew, even if it’s about math. We start playing chess online and I’m about to beat him for the third time when I hear the door open downstairs and a pair of voices come floating up the stairs. I recognize Oliver’s almost at once. It’s deep and clear, like the voice of someone who’s used to being heard. The same voice I remember from my memories of him.
I don’t move, listening to the conversation below, only able to discern a few words, something being said about college and the house and my name, repeated again and again.
I stay still for a long while, hoping that’ll be enough not to drag me into this nightmare, but then I hear Lore’s voice, calling out to me, which I decide to ignore until she’s calling again, and I know that if I don’t come down, she’ll come looking for me.
My heart starts beating so fast as I walk down the stairs, that I fear for a moment that I might be getting a heart attack or something, my palms have gone all sweaty and clammy and my legs feel like jelly. For a second, all I can hear is the beating of my heart against my eardrums, and then, as I approach the first floor and catch a glimpse of my long-lost dad, nothing, as if I was submerged underwater and the world had been left behind, only the slightest whispers catching up to me.
Oliver turns to me. Unlike Lore, he doesn’t look exactly as he did in those old pictures. He looks older now. His hair is turning gray in some spots, and there’s a line on his forehead, to signal his permanent frown. He is, however, wearing similar clothes as he did before. The same suede elbow pads and cashmere sweaters. He’s saying something and I can’t quite make sense of it, the words coming out blurry and taped together.
“Betty,” Lore says, looking at me, sternly.
“What?”
“How are you?” That’s Oliver, taking a step toward me, holding a box in his hands.
“I’m good,” I say, climbing down the last step.
“I brought you something,” he pushes the box in front of me, and I’m forced to take it. I stare at it, at the violet wrapping paper, smoothed to perfection. I don’t know if he’s expecting me to open it, but I don’t.
“And he brought cake,” Lore says, pointing to the small table we use to eat at. There’s nothing on it but the cake, and I look at it for a while, trying to decide if the three of us will fit in it.
She points both hands toward it, meaning we should all go seat, and we follow her, me lagging slightly behind.
When we’re seated and she’s poured some coffee for Oliver and a cup of tea from me (I don’t drink coffee), she comes to sit by my side and smiles at us.
“How’s school, Tris?” Oliver asks, turning to me, his back stiff, his hands turned into fists. He already asked this last time we spoke and all I said then was, “good,” but right now, Lore is looking at me, both eyebrows slightly raised, as if in warning. She’s smiling too, but her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
“School’s good,” I say. “I’m doing really well.”
“Have you thought about where you’re going to college?”
“Um,” I hesitate. “Columbia, probably.”
Oliver smiles, proud, and I look away from him. Somehow, it feels wrong. He shouldn’t get to be proud of me.
“Have you thought about a major?”
“Creative writing,” I say and it comes out almost eager. (I hate myself for this).
“Columbia has one of the best creative writing programs in the U.S.” he adds as if I didn’t already know this. (I want to roll my eyes at him but I’m certain it would not go well).
“Harvard does too. I bet I could help you with the admissions process if you chose Harvard.”
For a second, I’m not too sure of what to say.
I know Oliver graduated from Harvard. He met my mom while still in college. She was studying as an exchange student at the much less prestigious University of Boston. They met at a bar, Lore was hanging out with her friends and they challenged Oliver and his friends to a game of pool and Lore won. At least, that’s the story she’s told me.
And all my life, I’ve known Oliver is wealthy. To surrender your home to your former partner and your abandoned child must mean you have other homes to call yours, like the house on the beach.
But I’d never truly considered Harvard, even if Oliver’s past meant I could be a legacy student. Mainly because, up until now, I didn’t think we could afford it, (I mean, as it is, Lore and I can barely afford Columbia). I wonder if this means Oliver is offering to pay for it. I imagine for a second what it would be like if I just said yes. Harvard is a bigger name than Columbia, and I’m sure their creative writing program is excellent. I could do it. But I don’t want to. I’ve dreamt about Columbia and New York ever since Lore and I watched an episode of an old TV show where the main character moves to New York to become an artist. She wasn’t studying to be a writer, but I fell in love with the dream nevertheless. And then I did some research and found that Columbia consistently ranks as one of the top two creative writing programs in the country.
“I’m going to Columbia,” I say, stubbornly. It isn’t that I don’t appreciate his offer. It’s that I don’t want him to dictate my plans for the future. I’ve done all the research on my own, I’ve excelled at everything I knew was needed to get into Columbia and his sudden return to my life won’t change my plans.
“Okay, then, I’m sure I’ll still be able to help with the admissions process. Or the tuition.”
I turn to look at Lore now. She’s smiling at me, encouraging. I’m not sure what to say to that. Should I be grateful? (I don’t want to be grateful).
“Okay,” I say, simply.
“She wants to be a writer,” Lore tells Oliver, turning to him. She says this as if Oliver was someone I only just met. As if she was introducing two friends to each other for the first time.
“Do you write often?”
“From time to time,” I say.
The truth is I write all the time. I write for an hour every day, at the very least. I write even more on the weekends. I used to write in class when I was getting really bored until I started lagging behind and then decided I would only write when I could focus my entire attention on it. But for some reason, I don’t want to reveal this truth to him.
“That’s good,” he says. “To be a good writer you must practice all the time. And read, too. Who’s your favorite writer?”
I stare at him for a few long seconds. I know the answer. It comes to me in a second, but my lips don’t seem willing to cooperate with me. I’m not sure why, but this feels like another of those personal questions I feel unwilling to answer. I look at Oliver and I feel the pain I’d been keeping at bay suddenly take hold of my entire body. I don’t know this person, I think to myself. I don’t want to talk about this with a stranger.
It feels like an intimate question. Like answering it might bear my soul naked to him.
But he’s clearly expecting an answer and Lore is looking at me like she’s just as interested to hear. Like she hasn’t heard me rant about my favorite books and authors a million different times before.
“Sandra Cisneros,” I say, even though it’s only half true. “Rainbow Rowell. And Elena Garro.”
He looks at me with an unreadable expression on his face. (Maybe I’d be able to read it if I knew him better).
“Women literature, I see,” he says, and I feel heat starting to spread through my face.
I feel a mix of embarrassment and anger starting to spread through my body, and I can’t quite make sense of my own thoughts. His words repeating again and again in my head. “Women literature.” What does that even mean? It feels dismissive, somehow, as if the kind of books I read needed to be distinguished from “just literature.”
I look away, at Lore, who’s frowning a little.
“Just literature,” she says, echoing my thoughts. He turns to look at her, a little surprised, and his expression shifts slightly.
“Right,” he says, his voice coming out a little strained. “I read The House on Mango Street when I was in college. I liked it. A bit too idyllic for me, perhaps,” he says this with a smile, as if I cared what he thought of one of my favorite books of all time.
I return his smile, half-heartedly.
“Have you considered any other majors?”
“What for?” My voice comes out brisk and short, annoyed, and Lore shoots me a look.
“Well, writing is a great idea, but it’s hard to make it as a writer. You could study English Literature and make a career as an academic.”
“But I want to be a writer,” I insist, and again I feel like a child throwing a tantrum.
“And that’s a great pursuit. But right now, talent isn’t the only thing you need to become a writer. People these days aren’t reading good literature. You need to know what sells, and often that means sacrificing the quality of your writing.”
I’m not really sure what it is that’s festering inside my chest. A mix between anger and shame and something more, some pain I can’t quite describe. “People these days aren’t reading good literature.” I think back at the amount of best sellers that hide in my bookshelves. I can’t imagine he considers them to be “good literature,” whatever that means. I think of the amount of time I’ve spent watching videos on YouTube of enthusiastic girls raving about their favorite books and their favorite authors. All the different books I’ve read and loved because of them. I feel a sting in my chest and for a second I wonder if I’m going to cry, so I blink away the tears and turn to look at Lore, unable to come up with an answer.
She’s looking at him, with a smile that seems forced.
“She wants to be a writer,” she tells him, ending the conversation.
He nods and then smiles at both of us, and there’s something that isn’t quite right with his smile, a stiffness there.
“My partner, Jennifer, is the lead curator at the Boston Museum of Fine Arts. They have a lot of poetry events throughout the year. Maybe you could come to one.”
This time, I can’t help the rise of excitement in my chest. Sure, so far, this evening with Oliver has been dreadful. He’s said a bunch of shitty things that could be constituted as insults, and he doesn’t seem to believe I’ll be able to make it as a writer. But the prospect of attending an event full of poets seems too good to be true. Certainly, too good to be rejected.
“That’d be… amazing!” I say before I can contain my excitement.
Lore is smiling at Oliver, grateful, and I feel a little nauseated to have to witness the look on her face right now.
“Great!” Oliver returns my smile, eager, and I almost stop smiling because I refuse to connect with him at any level. “Maybe we could go out for dinner next time, what do you think? Just the two of us. Lore has agreed.”
I turn to look at my mom, who’s smiling and shaking her head a little, to signal she has.
Lorena, I think to myself. Not Lore. Only people who care about her can call her Lore.
“Sure,” I say instead, and I wish my voice could communicate the cold indifference I want to feel toward him, but it doesn’t, it still comes out excited and warm.
“Great! Then I guess we can meet next weekend. I’ll plan it out with your mom and I’ll let you know, is that okay?”
Your mom. As if parenthood only belonged to her. As if he wasn’t also part of this equation.
“Okay.”
“I have to go,” he says, looking at the fancy golden watch on his wrist. “Try the cake,” he says, more to Lore than me. “It’s coffee cake. Your favorite.”
And then, for the first time since I’ve known her, she blushes. Not a lot, just the slightest tinge of red on her cheeks.
“Thanks,” she says, standing up, and walking him to the door.
They’re saying something to each other as they walk, but I can’t hear them. (Maybe I don’t want to). I stare at the cake as they walk to his car. These are two things I didn’t know about Lore. Coffee cake is her favorite, and she’s the kind of person who blushes. I wonder if, like me, she sometimes loses control of her body, if she’s regretting this sign of weakness right now, as she walks her former partner to his car, the way I would.
I hear her footsteps coming closer, alone, and I hurry towards my bedroom, carrying the box Oliver gave me. I find myself unable to face this new version of her, the version that blushes and loses her footing when a man offers her coffee cakes. Okay, not just a man, Oliver. Oliver, whom she must have loved once. Oliver, who is the father of her child.
I don’t know this version of her and I’m not all too convinced I like it. I put on my earphones as soon as I walk into my room and if she calls for me, I can’t hear her and she doesn’t insist.

Chapter Text

It’s a Saturday morning and I’m walking to James’ house. The last time we met, he told me he’d be occupied all week and suggested we meet at his place today, early on so we could have plenty of time (my suggestion, not his). It sounds like a good enough plan for me and it’s not like I might have woken up hungover today. (He might) (I hadn’t considered this possibility). I am a bit tired, though. I haven’t been able to sleep well at all for the past two weeks.
I’ve been replaying my last meeting with Oliver in my head all week. His words keep ringing in my mind, like the lyrics to an annoying radio song that you’ve memorized, unwillingly. The question of what “women literature” or “good literature” are keeps hunting me when I least expect it. I’ll be in math class and suddenly I’ll wonder if Rainbow Rowell’s novels (my favorite!) are any good. I’ve never asked myself this before. All I cared about was that I enjoyed them, that was good enough for me. I hate this feeling. The crushing sensation in my chest. I feel like a child in need of approval from a parent. I guess that’s what I am. But I don’t want to be. I hate myself for this. I don’t want to need his approval. I hate him. I hate that he’s returned and that he’s making me reevaluate everything that I once held dear to my heart. I hate him for the shame I feel at the thought of my own literature as less than. “Women literature.” As if it was any different somehow.
And I hate myself for the excitement I feel whenever I think about attending any poetry events. I’ve considered saying I’ve changed my mind and have no interest in going, after all. But I can’t bring myself to do it. It’s exactly what I imagined my dream future would be. Poetry events and poet friends and night-long, sophisticated conversations on literature. It makes me brim with excitement, despite myself.
I don’t know how to reconcile everything I’ve been feeling. All the anger and the pain and the enthusiasm. Not for the first time, I wish things with Lore weren’t so cold. I wish I could tell her how I feel. But when it comes to her, my feelings are clear, pure anger. I don’t know how she could just sit there, smiling and mediating between Oliver and me. As if it wasn’t the craziest dinner we’ve ever had. As if the man sitting next to her hadn’t walked out on her ten years ago. Just because he could. I felt like grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking her until she started acting normal again, like the Lore I’ve known my whole life. The Lore who watched me cry when I turned eight and my dad wasn’t there. The Lore who knows me better than anyone else in the world, and should know the kind of pain she’s inflicting on me.
After Oliver left, I hid his present at the back of my closet, buried beneath my old clothes. I don’t want to open it. I don’t care what it might be. I don’t want to know what constitutes a present in his eyes, whether a good one or not. So for now, I pretend it doesn’t exist, which works just as well as pretending our last meeting never took place. Which is to say it doesn’t work at all.
I feel blue. My days feel blue, like all the light has been sucked out of them. This is not the first time in my life I’ve felt like this, but I usually have Lore and Ela to rely on. I can usually count on them to lighten up my mood or to hover around me with some quick fix that may or may not work but that makes me feel loved and taken care of all the same.
Not this time. This time, Lore and I mostly just exist around each other, without interacting much. (She said to let her know next time I have a boy come over and I nearly rolled my eyes at her) (Because, one, I did not have a “boy over,” we were working on an assignment). (And two, she’s never actually cared much before).
Ela and I haven’t talked much either. Sure, we talk in school, but most times we’re both parts of a group conversation and aren’t really talking to each other. I’m pretty sure Ela and Sydney are fighting again. Normally, Ela comes to me, to complain about Sydney and I’ll listen, nodding my head in agreement, even when she’s in the wrong. No questions asked.
And, yes, I like Sydney a lot. I even consider her my friend, (even though Ela sometimes insists she doesn’t actually count as my friend). She’s usually the more reasonable of the two, but Ela and I have been friends since I was 5. We both tried to set up our parents after my dad left. She was the one who told Mr. Lucas I was feeling sick and took me to the bathroom when I started having an anxiety attack. I played her favorite movies for an entire afternoon after her mom told her wanting to be a veterinarian was a child’s dream, and that if she was serious about her future she should aim to be a surgeon. (She was only 12). She held my hand while we slept together during that week I spend at her home when Grandma Beatriz died. I always take her side. She’s my best friend. And I expected her to do the same.
All week I’ve been hearing Sydney and Ela snapping at each other. Ela will make some mean little comment and Sydney will turn around, furious and hurt, and leave, without saying anything. Then Ella will roll her eyes and say she’s being dramatic and Andrew and I will not say anything, just stand there, awkwardly. I want to agree with her but my mouth refuses. So, I don’t say anything, and Ela doesn’t say anything, and we just keep going. Our resentments stuck to our throats.
I feel like a ghost, wandering around miserably, waiting to be seen.
I can’t believe the only thing I have to look forward to is my study sessions with James. These hours we’ve spent together discussing a single poem are probably the best thing in my life right now. (How pathetic!). We don’t even talk that much about anything that isn’t the assignment, (although James takes any opportunity he can get to tease me for being a nerd), but somehow, it still feels like a little break from the gloomy cloud around me.
Surprisingly, during our last work session, I realized I do like James. All my earlier reservations about him seem to have vanished. Sure, he clearly doesn’t like school and would probably steer every conversation to a different topic if it wasn’t for me constantly nagging him. But once you move past that, he’s actually pretty all right. He’s really nice and friendly. And smart, too. Half of our ideas have come from him. And even though he keeps insisting our essay is too academic and should probably be more personal, (I’m not sure how we’re supposed to write a personal essay between two people), he has great ideas and has proven to be good at analyzing poetry. At some point, he confesses that he does pay attention in class and sometimes even (gasp!) writes down some of Ms. Anderson’s recommendations, if they sound cool.
So I’m not all that upset to be walking to his place right now. It’s not like I have a lot more to do, anyway. As I approach his house, (it must be his house, because his car is parked right outside), I recognize him, sitting on the stairs to his front porch. He doesn’t seem to notice me at first, he’s just staring off into the distance, a cigarette dangling between his fingers. I approach him warily; there’s something almost jarring in seeing him like this, no smile, no teasing eyebrows, no laughter brimming under his smile.
He notices me only when I enter his direct line of vision, and though he smiles, he looks a little bit strained.
“Hey,” I say when I’m close enough that he can hear me. I wonder for a second if he forgot we were supposed to meet today and feel a pit at the bottom of my stomach, as a wave of disappointment washes over me.
“Hey, Betty,” he smiles a little wider now and stands to breach the distance between us. He’s smiling openly, but there’s a tension in his shoulders. “You’re early.”
I shrug, incapable of thinking of something else to say, as he puts the cigarette in his ear.
“So,” he starts, “I don’t think we’ll be able to work here today. D’you think we could go to your place?”
He’s blushing a little now, the redness spreading to his ears.
That’s when I notice the sounds coming from his house. It sounds like multiple people are inside, talking very loudly over each other. After a second I realize it’s not actual people. It’s the TV, turned on so loud I can almost make the words being said.
And, beneath it, another pair of voices, talking fast and loud.
I blush then too, realizing the situation unfolding inside his house.
“Yeah, that could work,” I say, trying to drown out the noise.
He’s not looking at me as he walks to his car, passing a hand through his hair, looking almost tired.
“It’s not very far,” I say because I don’t mind walking home.
He shrugs, unlocking the doors.
“Just in case.”
I hesitate for a second before climbing onto the passenger seat.
His car smells heavily of cigarettes and something more, something familiar that I can’t quite place. I catch a glimpse of his skateboard in the backseat, along with his backpack, which looks untouched. There’s a bunch of stuff all over the car, a mess of hoodies, notebooks, what looks to be a pencil case, bottles of water, and even a bunch of old CDs. The cup holder is filled with cigarette stubs and some pennies. The driver seat has a wool cover that looks extremely out of place.
When he turns on the engine, the stereo starts playing excessively loud.
“Shit,” he mutters, turning the volume down quickly.
I don’t recognize the music playing, but I can hear him humming along, quietly, as we move through the streets.
We arrive at my house pretty quickly, which only proves my point, but James looks so distracted, I don’t say anything.
For some reason, the expression on his face makes me feel a little gloomy.
Lore isn’t here, (she’s gone out to meet some college friends or something) (I wasn’t actually paying attention when she told me). As soon as we enter my house, James takes a seat exactly at the same spot as last time, dropping his stuff onto the floor.
I copy his movements and we start working, as usual, James is being a little quieter than expected. He’s participating with ideas, but he isn’t trying to make jokes or steer the conversation away from work. Which makes it easier to work on the assignment, but it also makes me feel a little weird.
Thankfully, we are now used to working with each other. We exchange notebooks so I can read his annotations, (I can understand his handwriting a little now), and he can incorporate some of my ideas into his paragraphs.
When he hands me his notebook, I realize he’s drawn little figures all across the margins. There are weird little birds, leaves that look like insects, and skull-shaped spaceships (at least, I think they’re spaceships) (I can’t believe what a nerd he is!). I stare at them for a second too long, because he says, a little abashed.
“Drawing helps me concentrate, sometimes.”
I shake my head, still captivated by the drawings.
“They’re good,” I say, smiling at him. He returns my smile half-heartedly.
I feel a sudden need to reach out and hug him or comfort him in any way I can. But I don’t. We’re not friends. And I hardly ever hug my friends anyway. But I can’t just ignore the pained expression on his face. I think about saying something to him, but he starts writing something in my notebook and I think it might be better to just work on the assignment like we’re supposed to.
When we’re done, he pushes his things away from him and turns to look at me, with an expression I can’t quite decipher. Because I don’t know how to respond, I just do the only thing that comes to mind, play music. That seems to relax him.
He leans against the sofa,
“Your drawings are really good,” I say, pointing toward his notebook with my chin.
He looks confused for a second but then his expression turns abashed.
He turns his gaze towards the place where the TV should be (We used to have a TV but we never used it and eventually, it disappeared.)
“Do they fight a lot? Your parents, I mean,” I say because I could pretend that I don’t know what’s bothering him, but I’m sure both of us can still hear the loud voices inside his house like they’d followed us here.
He shrugs.
“The usual, I guess. You get used to it.”
“Huh.”
I feel like crying a little bit. (Lore says I am an open book), so I look away from him.
“Do your parents fight?” he asks, watching me.
I shake my head.
“My dad doesn’t live with us. It’s just me and Lore.”
“Lore?” he repeats, in his perfect American accent.
The truth is, no one here can pronounce her name and make it sound pretty. I always pronounce it the way she pronounces it. The round o, the soft r.
“My mom,” I explain.
“She’s got a weird name.”
I laugh at that.
“Her full name is Lorena, but no one calls her that.”
“I’ve never heard that name before.”
“Yeah, that’s because everyone here has normal names, like James,” I say, teasing him for the first time since we met.
He puts a hand to his heart and gives me an anguished look.
“No need to go there,” he says, and I feel a little relieved to hear him joke again. “It’s a pretty name,” he adds, in an uncharacteristically soft voice. I smile at him, grateful. “D’you get along well with her?”
“Yeah, pretty well,” (Well, up until recently). “It’s always been just the two of us.”
“D’you miss your dad?”
“No,” I say, truthfully. “I can’t imagine what things would’ve been like if he’d been here. I mean, they used to fight all the time. Not horrible fights, but I’d much rather live without them.”
I feel my face start to heat up immediately upon saying these words. I can be a bit insensitive, sometimes, I know it. My words come out faster than I can think and I’ll say something horrible or tactless like this. I didn’t mean to imply that his parents should split up, that it’d be better for them. Or that my situation is far better than his. (Even if it is).
“I didn’t…” I start, but he talks before I can come up with an apology.
“I know. But you’re right. I’ve been hoping my parents split up for as long as I can remember. But I don’t think they will. I don’t think my mom could ever leave my dad. No matter how much of an asshole he is.”
“Why not?”
He shrugs, his eyes still fixed on some imaginary place beyond my walls.
“She seems to think it’s her job to make sure the family doesn’t fall apart. Even if it means being a terrible parent.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, hoping my words could somehow help him soothe his pain or lighten his burden. “I’m sorry you have to go through this. It must really suck.”
He laughs a little, at the choice of my words.
“You’ve no idea. But I mean, I’ve got Hannah. It’s not all bad.” He smiles now, a shine returning to his eyes slowly.
“Hannah?”
“My sister,” he explains, playing with one of my pens, absent-mindedly.
“I didn’t know you had a sister.”
“Yeah, she’s thirteen. She’s starting high school next year. But she’s already the coolest thirteen-year-old you’ll ever meet.”
His eyes are shining now, and a smile starts dancing on his lips, as he continues talking, almost involuntarily.
“She’s a huge nerd. And really fucking weird, but in a cool way, you know? She’s always doing things to her clothes to make them stand out even though she’s super shy.” He laughs, remembering something. “I really don’t know how she does it, how she manages to be so good with the kind of parents we have.”
I do, I think to myself. Somehow, James has managed to be good, too, even if he can’t see it.
“You seem to really love her.”
He nods, turning to look at me, with that same excited expression he had when he was talking about movies.
“Hannah is the only good one in my family. Not only is she super cool, but she’s also nice to everyone, and caring, too. She used to make little gifts for me whenever my parents fought and I was acting out.”
His expression shifts, heavy again.
“I wish she didn’t have our parents. I wish I could protect her from them.”
I have this weird desire to reach out and hold his hand, the way Lore always does when I’m feeling sad.
“Sometimes the fights affect her so much, she has these weird attacks. The first time it happened, I remember I was playing video games in my room, and she came in, shaking, and she didn’t say anything, it was as if she couldn’t speak. But she was breathing really fast, like she had run a marathon, and her palms were all sweaty. I don’t know what happens to her then, sometimes she cries, but most times she just stays quiet for a long time.”
“I didn’t know how to help when it happened. I wanted to do something to help her, so I started untangling her hair and it seemed to help. After that, I started watching youtube tutorials to figure out how to do more than just untangle her hair,” he laughs a little at that. “I even learned how to braid, though it’s fucking hard. I don’t know how you guys do it.” I laugh at that because it’s true, braiding and twisting and working with hair is really hard.
“But it helped her, so I started doing it more often until I became an expert. My braiding skills are unmatched,” he finishes, the playfulness returning slowly to his voice.
“She must really love you, too,” I say, trying to picture him next to his erratic sister. For some reason, the James in my imagination is a lot younger, a lot more frightened than I’ve ever seen him.
He shrugs as if to say it isn’t a big deal.
“She’s my sister. I’d go nuts if I had to bear my parents on my own.”
Then he blushes a little, looking abashed.
“Have you ever wished you had a sibling?”
“Not really,” I say, thoughtful. “Maybe when I was a kid and my parents were still together. But after Oliver left, I never felt like I needed someone else other than Lore.”
Maybe until now, I think to myself, it’d be nice to have someone to share this whole mess with right now.
“Huh,” he says simply, and I wonder what he’s thinking, as he stares at the notebooks splayed out in front of him.
“Maybe one day you could meet Hannah, you’d really like her,” he says and then he starts blushing. (Today, it seems, we’ve exchanged places. I’m the casual, cool one, and he’s the blushing mess).
I laugh, feeling relaxed somehow despite the heavy conversation we were just having a second ago.
“Because we’re both nerds?”
“Cool nerds,” he says, pointedly and I roll my eyes at him.
I feel a bit better now that he’s back to being playful and teasing.
“I’m really sorry, though” I add, just because it’s weighing heavily on me and sometimes all I can do is offer words. “That you have to take care of your sister, and that your parents aren’t taking care of you.”
He doesn’t say anything for a long while, he just looks at me, something heavy hovering behind his eyes. I try to look back, to return his gaze but it feels almost unbearable, so I start playing with the sleeve of my cardigan.
“It’s not your fault,” he says, finally, after a moment. And then: “D’you wanna go get some beer?”
“I don’t like beer,” I say because there’s an alarm going somewhere in my head and I don’t want to ruin the moment.
“You don’t like beer?!” He has that same expression on his face as the time I told him I didn’t like chocolate ice cream.
“No, and you can’t blame me. It tastes like pee.”
He laughs and then shifts a little closer to me, squinting his eyes in a gesture that says I’m about to be mocked.
“Refreshing pee. If you don’t drink beer, then what do you drink when you want to get drunk?”
I never want to get drunk, I think to myself. Instead, I say:
“Never beer. Cheap wine if there’s some.”
He raises his eyebrows in surprise.
“Are you a wine connoisseur, Betty?”
There’s that edge in his voice that tells me he’s laughing at me, somewhere deep inside of him. I roll my eyes at him.
“Maybe a connoisseur of cheap wine, if anything.”
Truthfully, I’ve tasted a variety of wines. Ela’s dad is a huge wine person and we used to steal bottles whenever we wanted to get a little tipsy. (He pretended he didn’t notice). I’ve always liked the cheaper ones better. They’re sweeter. I used to try to convince Ela to steal the boxed ones but she always insisted it was a waste of a good opportunity. Although, secretly, I think she also liked them more.
“You mean the boxed type?”
“Yeah, Franzia’s Pink Wine is my favorite.”
He laughs, openly, throwing his head back a little.
“You’re a fancy nerd,” he tells me.
“So I am.”
“See, that’s what I mean. You’d like Hannah, fancy nerd to weird nerd.”
“I might even like her more than I like you,” I say, sharply and he stops laughing, though I’m sure he’s still laughing at me in his head.
“So you admit you like me?” He’s leaning a little as he says this.
“I admit you’re not the worst study partner I’ve ever had.”
“I’m not sure I believe you.”
I start laughing then, feeling a little silly.
“Maybe bottom two.”
“Will take it.”
He looks at his phone then, before turning to me with that wicked look.
“Okay, Betty, you don’t have to get drunk with me right now. Maybe one day. Right now, I’m gonna go play video games with my friends. Wanna come?”
I raise one pointed eyebrow at him.
“I figured.”
He shoves his stuff into his backpack and joins me at the door.
Suddenly, he’s looking at me, serious and intent.
“Thanks for…” he hesitates, “today, I guess. I had fun.”
I give him what I hope is a comforting smile, even though I’m still not completely sure what he means.

Chapter Text

I swear parents aren’t the responsible adults everyone makes them out to be. At least not my parents. Otherwise, they’d have thought about the consequences of Oliver suddenly coming back into my life. The academic repercussions, I mean. All week I’ve been trying hard to concentrate in class but ever since Oliver called to arrange dinner next Saturday, (“just the two of us,” he reminded me) my brain refuses to cooperate with me. All it seems able to process is the dread I feel whenever I try to imagine dinner. I’ve been trying to predict any tears or anxiety attacks so that I can prevent them from happening but just the imagined scenario is bad enough to get me to tear up (in the middle of class, even). And even though I’m trying desperately not to think about dinner at all, I can’t help but do exactly just that. By the end of the school day on Tuesday, I’m nearly certain this small crisis will cost me my nearly perfect GPA. I feel so frustrated and so annoyed that I decide not to say goodbye to my friends and just walk home and try to clear my head. But as I’m packing up my books, standing next to my locker, I see Andrew approaching, waving at me, a weird, almost tense smile on his face.
“Going home?” he asks when he’s reached me.
I nod, closing my locker and taking my backpack.
“I’ll walk you out.”
“Don’t you have band practice?”
He just shrugs and starts walking by my side. Today, Andrew’s uncharacteristically quiet. Okay, so, he’s not the biggest talker on the planet but we’re usually quick to find conversation. I try to think of something to say but my brain is still muddled with dread and a hundred different imagined scenarios for Saturday. (In one, I end up leaving the restaurant in tears. In another, Oliver tells me he and Lore are getting back together.)
“So,” Andrew starts, as we’re climbing down the stairs, forcing my brain to come back to the present. “I was wondering. Well, you know Ela and Sydney are going together to prom.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, even though I didn’t know it for sure. I mean, I imagined they would. They’re a couple. But I hadn’t really given prom any thought.
“So I was thinking maybe you and I could go together. We could have like a themed prom or something.”
I’m frowning, a little confused.
“I thought proms were always themed.”
“For us, I mean. Like we could do matching outfits or something. All four of us. It might be fun,” he’s speaking really fast. Faster than usual. For a second, I can’t really make sense of his words. Prom is the least of my worries right now. But it doesn’t surprise me. Andrew and I are really good friends. I guess it makes sense that we’d go together if Sydney and Ela are also going together.
“Isn’t prom like a few months away?”
“Oh, yeah,” he blushes, looking away. “But I heard them talking this morning and I figured it might be a good idea to ask you before I forgot.”
“Um-” I start.
“I mean, you don’t have to say yes. It’s not a big deal.”
Andrew’s not looking at me as he says this and I wonder if he’s feeling nervous. I wonder if he’s afraid I’ll reject him, upfront.
“No, it sounds fun,” I say, trying to sound as enthusiastic as I can, (which feels a little hard given how sad I’ve been feeling lately). “Let’s do it. Let’s go together.”
The smile on Andrew’s face as he registers my words is one of pure relief and delight. It makes me feel instantly a little better. Even if dinner with Oliver on Saturday is still looming ahead of me, at least I’ve got my friends. I’ve something to look forward to that doesn’t involve neglectful parents.
“Cool,” he says, stopping near the main entrance. “I should go back, I don’t want to be late.”
I nod, to say it’s okay and he smiles again, the excitement clear on his expression.
“It’ll be fun,” he promises, before walking away.
I want to believe that it will and let some of his excitement seep into me, but my brain is back to imagining worst-case scenarios. Me, pleading in a tiny voice, asking for an apology, asking for an explanation. There’s a tiny little voice in my head (it sounds like mom), that insists this will be good. It’ll be good for me to finally get the answers I want. Maybe we could really begin to have an actual father-daughter relationship. Maybe I’ll leave dinner a whole different person, patched wings and everything.
Yeah, sure.
Most likely, I’ll just end up yelling at him, all the questions I’ve been burying coming out in loud bursts. Why did you leave? Did you not want me? Why wasn’t I good enough?
My head feels like it’s about to burst, every thought weighing more heavily on me.
“Betty!” James calls my attention, standing by the entrance to the parking lot, next to his car, waving a little. “Hey!”
He’s accompanied by his group of friends. Both Daniels, Tatiana, Lily, and Maya.
“Hey,” I say, returning his smile. I hesitate for a second, unsure of whether I should approach him. We’re not supposed to meet today and I’m not really sure how to act around him and his friends. I’m not really sure how he works in this environment. How it’ll be different from James in my living room. But the playful smile dancing on his lips feels strangely comforting. An alarm starts ringing in the back of my head. (Stupid).
I walk towards them slowly, desperately trying to think of something to say, some friendly banter. But then James is walking to meet me, saying something to his friends. His messy hair is shifting slightly with the wind. As he comes closer, I notice his lower lip is bruised red, still a little swollen. For a second, I feel an impulse to reach out and touch it, to ask what happened, feeling my heart squeeze tightly in my chest. I swallow my worry and instead just say, “hey,” again —stupidly—, when he’s close enough to hear me.
“What are you up to? Going home?” he asks.
I nod, trying not to look him in the eye and focusing on one lonely curl bouncing against his forehead.
“Want a ride?”
“Um,” I hesitate, turning to look at his friends, the slightest hint of panic starting to form in my chest. “Aren’t you hanging out with them?”
“Nah, I’m just making some time. Plus, I wanna show you something.”
I can feel my face starting to blush and I clench my fists. (God, I hate blushing). I bite my tongue a little, trying to ponder on what to do. I know I said I wanted to clear my head, but a ride home doesn’t sound like a terrible idea.
He points his chin and his left thumb toward his car, in a “Let’s go!” kind of gesture.
“Okay,” I say, after a second. (As if I could say anything else).
He grins at me and I almost regret my decision. We walk to join his friends so he can say goodbye and then we’re getting into his car. James opens the door for me, (so very James of him), and I nearly curse him for that. Today, he’s playing loud punk music I don’t recognize and I try to relax in my seat, focusing on the scene outside my window, not saying much.
“Are you okay?” James asks, after a second.
“Um, yeah.”
He frowns a little as if he didn’t buy it at all, but doesn’t push it.
“Are you okay?” I ask, pointedly, though I can no longer see his bruised lip.
He shrugs and turns to grin at me.
“Don’t ever ride a skateboard when you’re high.”
I’m not entirely sure I believe him, but I don’t see a reason for him to lie. I roll my eyes even though he can’t see me. (He’s changing the song)
After a second, and because I don’t say anything else, he turns to look at me.
“You don’t look okay,”
At first, I’m not really sure what to say to that but then, for some reason, almost as if against my will, I start talking. I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s because the words have been aching to come out. Maybe it’s because of that horrid need I have to fill in every silence. But I tell him everything. I tell him about Oliver leaving when I was seven. I tell him about how for the first few years, I used to wait for a birthday present or a birthday call, but neither came, and eventually, I gave up hope. I tell him about his sudden return and even about dinner on Saturday and the dread I’ve been feeling in the pit of my stomach. The dread I feel when I think of the questions I need answering. When I think about his explanations and his excuses.
“I’m afraid- I’m afraid I’ll believe him. I’m afraid I’ll fall for his act,” I say, finally, the tight knot I feel in my throat loosening a little.
As soon as I say it, I realize it’s true. I hadn’t given it much thought, but that’s what the dread in my stomach is. I’m afraid I’ll believe him.
I focus my eyes on the rearview mirror, feeling my heart beating fast in my chest and my face starting to warm up. Now that I’ve run out of words, I’m feeling suddenly self-conscious at having revealed this much information in a single sitting.
Whatever, I tell myself. It’s not like he’ll show up to dinner on Saturday and tell Oliver exactly how I feel.
James doesn’t say anything for a minute. He’s frowning, looking intently at the road in front of him. He’s gripping the steering wheel so tightly, his knuckles are turning white.
I’m not really sure I want him to say anything, to be honest. Mostly, I just wanted to share my grievances with someone.
“Your dad’s an asshole,” he says, finally, with an intensity I wasn’t expecting.
I start laughing then, because this is what I’ve been hoping to hear ever since this nightmare started. From Lore and Ela. From anyone. All I’ve wanted is for someone to take my side, no questions asked. James and I may not be friends, but I feel so thankful that he’s chosen my side, that for a second, I feel an impulse to reach out and touch him. In what way, I’m still not sure.
He smiles a little, abashed.
“He’s the one who made a choice when he left,” he adds, “so how come you have to just welcome him back, like nothing’s happened.”
“Right!”
“You should just not show up to dinner at all.”
He’s smiling wickedly as he says this. His eyes shining a little.
“I’m not sure where I would go,” I say, but really, what I want to say is that I’m not sure I’d be capable of doing that to my mom. Yes, sure, Lore and I aren’t exactly on the best terms right now, but I’ve never disobeyed her so openly. Her anger at my absence frightens me, her disappointment frightens me. I could never really consider it.
“You could come with me,” he says, looking at the road ahead, not at me. “I usually spend Saturdays at Daniel’s, playing video games. Unless there’s a party or something. But we can do something else if you don’t wanna go to his house.”
I smile at him, grateful. For a second, I even consider it. Me, sitting in Daniel Torres’ living room, watching them playing and smoking weed. If Ela knew he just invited me to spend the afternoon with his friends, she’d be ecstatic and she’d tell me to say yes, at once. But the truth is I’d probably get bored. And I can’t even begin to imagine the other possibility. Alone with James in a strange place with no homework to distract me. Unthinkable.
“Sounds fun,” I lie. “But, unfortunately, I think I’m too much of a coward to just not show up.”
He smiles, amused and I wonder, for a second, if he has any other kind of smile.
That’s when I notice we’ve arrived at my house, somehow. He parks a few houses before mine, in front of Mr. Parker’s driveway.
He turns to look at me, with a grin, and I start to feel a little nervous.
“So, what did you wanna show me,” I ask, trying to think of something to say, to fill in the silence.
He grins even louder somehow and moves to reach for something in the backseat. This close, I can smell him a little. (I don’t, because I’m not a creep).
When he comes back, he’s holding a book in his hands. He doesn’t say anything and I stare back, confused.
“Oh,” he realizes he’s holding it backwards and turns it around.
Then I see the title. “The Illustrated Man.”
“Oh!” I exclaim, excited. “You got it!”
“Borrowed it from the library,” he explains, with a shrug, as if this wasn’t all that strange. It might not be. At this point, I’m not sure I can predict James at all. “It’s pretty good. The tattoo thing is fucking cool.”
“Yes! I thought you might like that,” I admit. I feel way too excited about this news. I didn’t actually expect him to read it. I feel a little guilty now, for not even watching the trailer for the movie he recommended.
“I do,” he says, looking at me.
I’m not sure how to answer, so I turn to look at the clock on my phone. Lore should be home by now, and although the prospect of running into her is not the most exciting, I’m starting to feel a bit too anxious here, under his gaze.
“Welp, I should go,” I say, trying to sound casual, but my voice comes out a little shaken.
“If you do decide to ditch him, lemme know and I’ll come rescue you,” he says, as I open the door.
I feel my face starting to blush again, so I turn to give him what I hope is a casual smile.
“Thank you,” I say, and I hope he knows I don’t just mean the ride home. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
“See you around, Betty,” he says.
I wave, quickly, and practically stumble out of his car.
I keep hearing his words, over and over in my mind. “See you around, Betty.” My name, almost familiar in his mouth. “See you around, Betty.”
I like the way he pronounces it, I realize. The elongated E, the T stronger than usual. I like hearing him say my name. That’s the truth, I think to myself as I walk to my house. The whole truth.
I like hearing him say my name because I like him. I like spending time with him. Even if half of that time is spent working on homework and the rest is spent teasing me when we should be working. Even if I have to push and pull to get him to cooperate with me (though a lot less than I’d have thought). And talking to him has been so much fun these past weeks. (Four, I realize, four!). He’s so weirdly smart, and funny. And interesting, too. It’s actually annoying, really. I mean, if he tried, just the bare minimum, he’d probably be able to get into some decent college. Even a decent film college, if it’s what he wanted, (and I’ve heard those are pretty tough to get into). I almost hate him for this.The ease with which he moves. How everything seems to come so easily and casually for him. Like nothing is an effort.
I realize as I walk through the door that I’m nearly admitting the unacceptable to myself.
Okay, so, yeah, I like spending time with him. (I can’t even think of his name, I’m so ashamed!). That’s because I like him. Like him, like him. Like having-a-crush-on-him-like him.
I can finally admit to myself that yes, I get it. I mean, I could see it before, but I didn’t care. It didn’t make a difference to me. (God, how I miss those times!). And now, of course I can’t unsee it. He’s cute. He’s probably one of the cutest boys in school. (Gosh, look at me now) (Deplorable).
I’m a cliché, really. Crushing on one of the most popular kids in school. Me, a complete nerd, crushing on him, who’s not really captain of the football team or student body president or even prom king, (because that would be too much) (he could probably get elected prom king, though, that’s how much people like him), but strolls around smiling that stupid playful smile at girls, all charming and cute. I mean, even the damn lesbians think he’s cute. World-War-I kind of cute.
Whatever. I’m so annoyed, that for a second, I forget all about the fragile situation with Ela and think about calling her. I can’t imagine what I would say. “Welp, as it turns out, you were right. James is cuter than Daniel Torres?” No way.
I go straight into my room and flop onto my bed. For the first time in a while, I don’t feel like crying. All I feel is anger. Uncontained anger. Flowing through my veins, through my fingertips, making me want to scream into my pillow. (I finally understand why girls in movies scream into pillows).
I want to blame Ela for this. She’s the one who told me to befriend him and now I have all I want to do is touch him. Not even in a sexy way. Just touch him. Feel his curls on my fingers. Put a hand on his back.
I try to imagine what Ela would say, and her voice comes out, almost exasperated. “So just go for it.”
Right. I could “just go for it,” but I wouldn’t even know where to start.
This is why none of my crushes ever come to anything. Because I don’t do anything. I’m too shy to approach the boys I like and, eventually, because I don’t, the crush just goes away.
Except, this time, it won’t be that easy, because this time, I don’t have to approach him. I mean, we’re only halfway through our assignment and we’re meeting again next week. Another person might consider just working on it on their own. (I don’t suppose James would object if it meant he wouldn’t have to do any work) (Right?). But I can’t risk getting a bad mark. So I’ll still meet him next week and he’ll still be all cute and funny and James. I can’t just ignore him and expect it to go away.
I could “just go for it,” but how do you do that? How do I “go for it” when there’s a big chance that he’ll reject me? God, I like him too much to be rejected by him!
And, okay, he might not reject me. He seems to like me. Well enough to give me a ride home. Well enough to offer to hang out with me on Saturday, for Christ’s sake! You’d think that’d be indication enough!
But I’m sure James Fucking Wolfe is the kind of kid who gives rides home to everyone in need. I’m sure he offers to hang out with everyone if it means not being with his parents. James seems to be the kind of person who thrives on human interaction. Who’s to say his being nice is a sign of anything? Who’s to say I’m not making it all up in my head?
I miss Ela. Sure, she can be an asshole sometimes, but she’d have something comforting to say right now. She’d have a plan. She’d laugh and tease and probably point to him in the halls, and even that would be better than being alone in my room, screaming into my pillow.
I give myself five more minutes to wallow in bed, feeling the anger and emotion pulsating through me. I count the seconds and then I get up and I make a plan.
I decide I need a strategy to contain whatever I’m feeling toward James. To not allow it to grow with every interaction.
I create a few rules for myself. 1. Do not interact with him outside of school work. No more car rides home, book recommendations, or personal conversations. 2. Do not read too much into anything he does. James is just being James. Don’t blow it out of proportion. 3. Focus on all the things you don’t like about him: He doesn’t care about schoolwork. He’s always late for class. His car is super messy. (I could look past all of these, I know) (I have to find better reasons not to like him). And, finally, and most importantly: 4. DO NOT LOOK AT HIM LIKE A CREEP.
I take a deep breath and write them down on my phone. That way, whenever I need reminding, I’ll have them right next to me.
It’ll be fine. I tell myself. This will be fine.
I’m not sure I believe it. But then Lore’s calling out to me from the kitchen and I quickly forget all about this small crisis.

On Sunday, I’m sitting on my living room couch, my phone poised on top of my knees, watching the seconds as they tick by. Oliver said he’d pick me up at 7:00. It’s nearly 7:05 now, and he’s late. Okay, so not super late. Not James Wolfe late but still. (I hate that I can’t seem to stop myself from thinking of him from time to time). I feel a little nauseous, my stomach a little queasy. Which doesn’t bode well for what it’s supposed to be dinner, but I can’t keep my body from going full-on anxious mode. The dread I’d been feeling all week has now reached my throat and I’m afraid if I speak, if I move at all, everything will come out of me. In the form of tears maybe, or just straight-out puke.
I wish I was angrier, at least I feel in control of my anger. But I’m not.
I look at the clock on my phone and it’s already 7:07 now. I decide if he’s any later than 7:10 I’ll just go back into my room. But a few seconds later, I can hear a car parking outside the house.
Lore comes out of the kitchen, with a dish towel in her hands and an expression that mirrors some of the anxiety I’m feeling.
“Oliver’s here,” she tells me. I return her look and for a second, neither of us says anything. For a second, I feel as though we’re on the same team, but then we hear a knock on the door, and whatever apprehension my mom’s feeling right now vanishes from her face.
She goes to answer the door and I stand up, holding onto my phone as if it were a lifesaver, brushing the fabric of the skirt I’m wearing, trying to think of something to do that isn’t throwing up. I move to the car, almost as if in a daze. Behind me, I can hear my parents exchanging a few words. (What a strange concept: my parents) (As in, both of them. Not just Lore.)
I climb in the front seat, examining Oliver’s car. It looks expensive, and, unlike James’ (here we go again), it’s tied up and clean. It smells a little of something floral, like a scented candle or something. Oliver joins me and, as he starts driving, I notice there’s a car seat in the back, which I guess must mean he has other children. I’m not sure what to make of this realization or perhaps I’m too anxious to feel the full weight of the pain that’s now sitting on my chest.
“My partner, Jennifer, has a baby,” he explains, noticing where my eyes have landed. “Well, not really a baby. Rose is already 3.”
I make a non-committal noise and poise my gaze on the landscape in front of me. I’m not sure I want to know what other secrets hide in this car.
“I thought we could go to this Italian place I know,” he adds, after a while.
I nod, without saying anything. We stay silent for a few minutes, and I try to relax in my seat but my body won’t let me. My gaze keeps returning to the car seat and the dinosaur toy next to it.
I wonder if Oliver bought it for the baby, Rose. I wonder if she likes Oliver. She might even love him, think of him as her father.
I wonder if he’s a good father to her.
“Do you have any other kids?”
I ask, finally, incapable of bearing the silence in the car.
He shakes his head.
“Jennifer has two kids, Leo and Rose. But they’re not my children.”
“But you live with them,” I say, and can’t help the accusatory tone of my voice.
He nods, not looking at me.
“Jennifer and I are getting married. We thought it’d be better if they get used to me living with them.”
“Right,” I say simply.
We don’t say much after that on the ride to the restaurant, which isn’t very long. He tells me we used to come here a lot when I was little but I don’t remember any of it. For me, this restaurant is as strange as any other place.
We take a seat at the back and, because neither of us seems to know how to start a conversation, we order right away. The waiter brings us a basket of bread and Oliver smiles at me.
“When you were little,” he starts, “you used to eat all of it before the food came out and never finished your plate. It used to drive us crazy, but you were always too fast for us.”
I look at the basket of bread and I wonder how someone can have a memory of me that doesn’t exist in my head. How I can exist in someone else’s memory when I don’t even exist on my own.
“Did you open my present?” He asks when it’s clear I’m not going to say anything back.
I shake my head and he cracks his knuckles in what I imagine is a nervous gesture.
“I hope you do,” he says.
We stay silent for a few more minutes and then he talks again, seemingly undefeated.
“I’m sorry if I made it seem like I don’t believe you have the talent to be a good writer. Or if I was dismissive about your favorite authors. I didn’t mean to. Lore gave me a full speech after the last time we met and I feel like I should explain myself,” his expression is somewhere between affection and annoyance as he says this and I hate him for the complexity on his face. “I didn’t grow up reading the same things. You know I have a master's in Art History, so it’s hard for me to not see everything through that lens. And I only want you to succeed at what you do. Whatever that is.”
“Okay,” I say, because it doesn’t really feel like an apology.
“I bet you’re a really good writer.”
I stare at him, unsure of what to say. I don’t want to care that he thinks I’m a good writer and I don’t want him to think that I do.
Just then, the waiter returns with our food and our drinks and even though I still feel a little anxious, I start eating, just so I have something else to do.
“Betty,” he starts, as he watches me eat. “I wanted to have dinner with you because I know I owe you an explanation and probably more apologies than I can actually give you.”
Oh, no, I think to myself. The dreaded apology.
“I know you must be angry at me and must have a lot of questions, so I’ll just try to explain my side of the story. But I understand if it’s not a good explanation for you.”
“I really wanted to be a good father. I wanted to stick around, but things with Lore got so difficult. I mean, I care about her, don’t get me wrong. But we didn’t go into this parenting thing prepared for what was to come. We didn’t discuss how we wanted to raise you before we had you and she always had such a strong hold on you. It was really hard for me to assert my position as your dad.”
“She’s my mom,” I say, and I’m glad the anger I’ve been feeling reflects in my voice.
“Of course. I know. And I should’ve been better at navigating her wishes and compromising with my own. But I didn’t know how to and it became too hard. At some point, I realized we had fallen out of love with each other and I didn’t want you to grow up in an unloving home.”
“I didn’t.”
“I know. I’m sure Lore loves you more than anything. And I’m sure you love her too. And I wanted you to have that. And I wasn’t sure you would if I stayed. We used to fight a lot. It was really hard for everyone and I didn’t want you to grow up in a home where fighting became the main form of communication.”
I’m struck by the realization that I said something very similar to James less than two weeks ago. Something in my chest moves and I bite hard on my tongue to keep myself from falling apart.
“How come you never called, though?”
He stares at me for a long time.
“I did,” he says, finally. “I mean, at first. Especially on your birthday. But Lore wouldn’t let me speak to you.”
For a second, I feel as though someone threw a bucket of ice water directly into my chest. Like someone opened up a hole in the middle of it and now a cold gust of wind is making its way into my heart. “Lore wouldn’t let me speak to you.” I wonder if he’s lying. But he can’t be. He knows I can just go home and ask Lore straight away. But if he is telling the truth then I’ve held this anger and this resentment for so long and it was all misdirected. It means Lore allowed me to believe, all this time, that my dad didn’t want me. The hole is now sucking dry everything in me and I stare at the table, trying desperately not to let any tears fall.
“I suppose I understand why she did it,” he continues. “She was really angry at me for walking out on you. I won’t deny that. I did walk out on you but I hoped I could be a better parent from afar. I really did. And I would’ve taken you with me but it was clear to me you liked your mom better and I wouldn’t be doing you any favors. And I wanted you to have a big family, the kind I never had. You know, all those aunts and uncles and cousins down in Mexico. I couldn’t give that to you. I only have one brother and we’re not very close. I always envied your mom for the family she had. I wanted you to have it, too. And I’m sure your grandma wouldn’t have let me taken you to visit after what I did. I’m sure she always hated me.” He’s smiling a little, as if the thought of Grandma Beatriz gave him joy.
“So, you did try to reach out?” My voice comes out almost pleading.
“I did. I even sent a few presents during the first few years. I don’t know if Lore ever gave them to you.”
I do recall, now, a few birthdays after he’d left when Lore would give me two presents. She never said they were from my dad and I never questioned it.
“How come it’s you who’s telling me this and not her?”
“We agreed it was better if I told you. I think she regrets doing that, just so you know. It was a mistake.”
Right. A mistake.
“And I wanted to apologize to you. Regardless of who did what, I should’ve insisted more. I should’ve been a more present figure in your life. I want to do that now if you’ll let me,” he finishes.
I don’t say anything for a long while, mulling over his words. I’m not completely sure I want to let him, but I can feel my anger and hesitance starting to disappear, quickly.
“Okay,” I say, and it feels like the word has slipped out of my mouth without my permission.
Oliver smiles at me and this time, I nearly smile back.

Dinner feels easier after that. I still feel a little hesitant to share some things with him, but the knot in my chest starts to fade. I can’t help but look for traces of myself in him. We have the same hair color, and we both talk quietly, slowly. Like me, he cracks his knuckles when he’s thinking of something. And, like me, he doesn’t drink beer. He’s also very smart. I’m a little intimidated by how many things he knows. Not just about art and literature, but he also tells me about his favorite jazz musicians and the french films he likes to watch. “The French New Wave has given us some of the best films of all time,” he tells me, at some point. (I don’t know what the French New Wave is, but it sounds bougie).
Before he drops me off at home, we agree to meet again soon. He tells me he’d like me to meet Jennifer and even though I’m not exactly excited at the prospect, I also don’t immediately reject it. (Which is progress, I think).
I stand at the door, bracing myself to face Lore after everything that was revealed tonight. But she must be in her room because there are no lights downstairs and I can hear faint music playing somewhere on the second floor. I take the opportunity and rush to my own bedroom, locking the door behind me. I hear her calling my name and I tell her everything’s fine and I’m going to bed, my heart pounding hard against my chest. She doesn’t say anything else and I sit in my bed for a long while, unsure of what to do.
Maybe I should go out and talk to her but I’m not sure I have anything to say. At least, not anything good. I’m a little worried that everything I’m feeling right now will come out in loud screams and I’ll end up crying my lungs out. I don’t want to. I’m sick and tired of the heaviness in my chest.
I want to be as happy as I was before this whole Oliver nightmare began. But then I suppose that was a lie. I believed my dad didn’t love me and it wasn’t all true. But she let me believe it. She let me believe he’d just left us.
I squeeze my hands into fists, holding onto the fabric of my dress until it becomes painful.
She watched me cry at night before I fell asleep. She heard me say I didn’t have a father and all that time, she didn’t do or say anything.
I take off my dress and curl into bed, without brushing my teeth or washing my face. I stuff a piece of fabric into my mouth, biting it until my jaw starts to hurt.
I want the anger and the pain I feel to go away but they just won’t. Memories come flooding through me and in every one of them, I see something new. The pained expression in her eyes as we ate cake on my birthday suddenly turns into something else. Anger? Guilt? Remorse?
Is that why she was so quick to let him come back into our lives? Because she knew she was to blame for my pain? Because she felt guilty? Is that why I didn’t have a say in all this? Because she needed to fix her mistakes?
When I was eight, I used to have this recurring nightmare where I got lost in the woods, and, when people found me and asked me where my parents were, I could never remember their names or their faces, or even our home. I used to wake up crying and then I would sneak into her bed, and she’d tell me she’d never lose me. But all I could think about was how my dad had already lost me. And how I might one day forget his name and his face. And even then, as I said this to her, she never once thought to say: ”Your dad didn’t lose you. He calls and he wants to see you again, but I won’t let him.”
I feel the tears coming down fast, like a storm. I close my eyes, wondering if something has broken between us. And if it can ever be repaired. If I can ever forgive her. My mom. My favorite person in the entire universe. The person who lied to me for ten years. And I’m not entirely sure what the answer is.

Chapter Text

It’s Thursday afternoon and Inez Elsher is waving at us across the library. Before I can stop him, James starts waving back and suddenly Inez is walking toward us. Oh, no, I think to myself. It’s not that I dislike Inez, not exactly. She’s usually nice to me. But she talks a lot. Like, a lot lot. And she’s always, always gossiping. You don’t even have to ask her anything before she’ll tell you all the latest news. Honestly, I think she makes up about half of the things she says, but I haven’t been able to prove it. (Not that I’ve actually tried). She usually only talks to me when Ela or Sydney are there.
Or James, apparently.
Inez reaches our table with a smile that says “you can’t believe what I just heard.” Thank God we just finished working. Otherwise, I don’t know what I would do.
“Hey, guys! Are you working on homework?”
“It’s just the English thing,” I hear James answer, as I’m packing everything into my bag. “But we just finished.”
“Oh, cool.” Inez’ smile is calculated. Like she’s rehearsed this conversation before. “I was just talking to Liz and she said there’s a rumor going around that Maya and Daniel Torres are dating. Is that true?”
I turn to look at James, who’s smiling, friendly.
“You’d have to ask them,” he says, polite but final.
“Well, it’s not like I can believe everything Liz says,” Inez goes on, undeterred. “I mean, she also said Samantha Covington and Nico Ford are going out but I haven’t seen them together.”
Oh, shit. Until now, I’d completely forgotten about Samantha Covington, James’ ex-girlfriend. Inez is watching him, her smile still plastered in its place
“You’d have to ask them too,” he says, simply, standing up, and practically shoving his things into his backpack. “You want the table?” he adds. “We were just leaving.”
“Thanks!” Inez answers, with a friendly, oblivious smile on her face.
I follow him out of the library in silence. I wonder if he’s upset. If finding out that his ex-girlfriend is now dating the most popular kid in school is painful for him. Not that it matters. I shouldn’t care about anything relating to James. I make a mental promise not to engage in conversation with him. It doesn’t matter if he’s heartbroken and needs a friendly shoulder to cry on. (I couldn’t be that even if I wanted to). But when he turns to me, he’s smiling. That big open smile of his. All teeth.
“This is going pretty well, I think,” he says, as if the conversation with Inez hadn’t taken place. “I’m not doing too bad, right? In fact, I think I’m successfully proving you wrong.”
He’s smiling sufficiently at me and, before I can remember not to engage, I roll my eyes at him, the response so ingrained within myself, it comes out before I can help it.
“I think we might get an A. Maybe even an A+.”
His voice is reeking with playfulness, so I keep my eyes straight ahead, not willing to fall into this trap.
“Will it be your first?” (Okay, maybe I’ll fall just a little) (I blame him entirely for this).
He laughs now, and puts a hand to his heart, mocking me.
“Ouch! I’m officially wounded. I thought we were becoming friends.”
Friends, that vicious little voice in my head echoes. Just friends.
“My friends don’t call me a nerd every chance they get,” I say, and, even though I’m joking, my voice comes out serious.
He doesn’t say anything for a second and when I turn to look at him, he’s frowning a little.
“I didn’t mean to upset you,” he says. “I just think you´re a little… “ he seems to struggle with the word for a bit, “intense.”
I’m not entirely convinced this is either a compliment or the word he was meaning to use.
“And, you will be responsible for the first A+ of my academic career. You will be the first person I thank in my speech.”
“I should be the only person you thank in your speech.”
He laughs at that, in that way that makes him throw his head back.
“That’s probably fair.”
He puts a fist to his face as if it was a microphone.
“This is for you, Betty,” he says, his voice purposefully deeper than usual, that hint of playfulness still in it. “For all those times you had to text me to remind me to meet you. For all those times you didn’t call me an idiot. Even though you wanted to.”
“Hey,” I say, giving him a gentle shove with my elbow. “I never wanted to call you an idiot. I don’t think you are an idiot.”
He beams at me, maybe a little too proud.
“Thank you. It’s good to know I’m smart enough for Betty Green’s standards.”
I feel myself blushing at the mention of my name (my full name), so I roll my eyes at him, to prevent any further blushing.
“So, anyway, need a ride home?”
An alarm bell goes ringing inside my head. And another voice, at the back of my mind: Say yes say yes say yes.
“Do you just walk around school until you find someone who’s in need of a ride?” I ask him, trying to quiet down the discussion raging inside me.
“Not unless it’s a friend,” he says, raising an eyebrow, pointedly.
“Well, I’m waiting for Sydney. We’re supposed to be planning Ela’s birthday.” This is not actually true but there’s no way he knows that.
“Oh.” (Am I imagining the look of disappointment that passes through his face?) And then: “So, wait, are you coming to the party at Dan’s tomorrow night?”
My brain seems to explode right at that moment. It goes blank for a second and then chaos ensues. I try to remember desperately if Ela mentioned any parties. I’m still unsure of where we stand with each other, and I’ve been too caught up in my own drama to pay much attention to anything she says outside of class. Especially if she isn’t directing her words at me and she almost never is. Party at Dan’s tomorrow night, I think desperately, but nothing comes up.
There’s that voice again, even more insistent this time. Just say yes just say yes just say yes.
Another part of me is trying to remember the rules I made up for myself but nothing comes to mind. They all have abandoned me in this moment of need.
“Sure, I guess. If Ela’s invited, then, yeah.”
He turns to look at me with a questioning look.
“Didn’t you get invited?”
“Um,” I say, feeling like a complete loser. What a way to lose momentum, really. One minute you’re getting a ride from one of the cutest boys in school and the next you have to admit you’re not even liked well enough to get invited to most parties. “People tend to forget about me, sometimes. If Ela’s invited, then I’m invited. That’s how it works anyway. Nobody’s denied me entrance so far.” I say this last thing as if I was joking (I am joking!) but it comes out a little pathetic.
He bites his lip, as if lost in deep thought.
“Well, I’m inviting you. So you don’t need Ela to come.”
He’s not looking at me when he says this, so I look away too, my heart starting to beat so fast, it feels like it’s trying to escape me, always out of my control.
“Okay, then sure, yeah,” I say, and I’m surprised you can’t hear the beating of my heart in my voice.
He smiles at that and I really don’t wanna know how I must look right now. All wide-eyed and blushing. All excuses forgotten.
“Cool. I’ll see you there, then.”
And with that, he’s gone, leaving me a wreck behind.

You’d think that was an exaggeration but I spent most of yesterday and then today going back and forth between coming to this stupid party or just skipping it altogether. The correct choice was obvious, but I couldn’t bring myself to just stay home, so, in the end, I decided to come, just as long as Ela was coming, too. (She was). That way, if things turn out to be disastrous (i.e. James ignores me all night and I spend the evening moping in a corner), I’ll have some company. And, if things turn out even more disastrous (i.e. James doesn’t ignore me), then I’ll have my friends around to make sure I don’t make a fool of myself. That was the plan, anyway.
Only, as soon as we walked through the door, Ela and Sydney started arguing and then disappeared into the crowd. Neither Andrew nor I were very willing to follow them, knowing they’d probably just start a fight we didn’t want to participate in. So we wandered around until Andrew found Eric and started talking to him about some game they both want to watch. (I think they’re placing bets).
And now, I’m just standing nearby, feeling like a complete fool, thinking of the pile of homework waiting for me back home. (I nearly flinch when I think of all that I could be doing.) I check my phone every few seconds but I’m not sure what I’m expecting to find. A text from Lore, who told me not to come home late, or a text from someone else. (Whoever that might be). I feel so bored and so stupid (I’m wearing a dress tonight, despite how chilly it is outside), that I’m wondering if it wouldn’t be better to just leave.
After ten minutes or so, I decide this was a big mistake, and, just as I’m about to turn to Andrew to let him know I’m going home, Maya bumps into me, accidentally spilling some of her beer on my dress.
“Fuck, I’m sorry,” she says, looking for something to help me clean it, but I already have my scarf pressed against the spot. “I’m sorry,” she repeats, as I shake my head to say it’s not a big deal. “I’m so glad you came!” she adds, with a loopy grin.
I return her smile, unsure of what to say, (Maya and I have only talked to each other a few times before) when, behind me, someone bumps against my arm.
“Hey Betty,” James says, wearing a crooked smile and a Gorillaz shirt that’s so old, the picture’s almost faded. I’m guessing he must be a little tipsy too, because he’s flushing, slightly. Predictably, my heart starts to beat faster, losing control of itself.
Maya leans closer to him.
“In case you didn’t know,” she tells him, with contempt, “Tatiana’s looking for you.”
James lets out an exasperated noise and passes a hand through his hair, holding it for a second at the top of his head. The curls trapped inside his fingers.
“God, not tonight.”
“See? That’s why you should listen to me,” she gives him a heavy look and, before she turns to leave, she adds: “Talk to her and be done with it.”
James shakes his head, looking like he’s about to argue but Maya’s already left.
He turns to me and points with his beer toward a place behind us, at the back of the house.
“D’you wanna go hide in the kitchen?” he asks me, leaning forward a little as if he was telling me a secret.
I bury my nails in the palms of my hands, trying to get my body under control, my heart already escaping me.
“Okay.”
We’re about to turn around and leave when Andrew detaches himself from the group to ask where I’m going, a panicked expression on his face. I empathize with him. I do. I hate being alone at parties, it makes me feel like a loser. But Andrew has more friends than I do and he’s never alone. And, look, I like him a lot but I really don’t want him to join us right now. So I tell him I’m gonna go look for the bathroom. He gives both of us a strange look but doesn’t push it any further.
And then, we’re moving through the crowd until we come to a closed door, with a sign that says “Do not enter,” which, of course, we enter.
Dan’s kitchen is huge. It’s almost twice as big as my own. There’s a kitchen island and a small round table and two fridges, (two!). I stand at the entrance for a second, dazzled by the white walls, and James nearly trips into me.
I move aside feeling awkward and clumsy and he closes the door behind us. The noise of the party fades a little, but you can still hear it, seeping through the walls.
James moves toward one of the cupboards and I wonder how many times he’s been here before. He moves with such ease that, for a moment, all I can do is look at him.
“I got you something,” he tells me, opening the cupboard behind him and taking out a box of cheap wine. I tear my eyes away from him, blushing a little but he doesn’t seem to notice. “Didn’t want you to feel left out,” he explains, shrugging. I almost feel moved by this gesture. Almost, the pit on my stomach reminding me not to read too much into anything he does.
“Are you trying to get me drunk?” I ask as he pushes the box in front of me.
He shrugs, his smile all loosened up with the alcohol.
“This is a party,” he says, raising an eyebrow.
I roll my eyes at him, but I take a swig anyway because I’m feeling slightly on edge, alone in a kitchen with James. I try to relax, tell myself that this is okay. That being his friend is not that bad.
I don’t want to be his friend. I try to shake the thought away, watching as he grabs a beer from the fridge and climbs on top of the kitchenette, swinging his legs back and forth. I notice his Adam’s apple, moving slowly as he drinks and I feel like a predator, following his movements greedily.
“I watched Mad Max the other day,” I blurt out, more to distract myself than to make conversation. “It was pretty cool,” I admit, relaxing a little, encouraged by the look of excitement on his face. This much I can do, just talk to him about movies.
“Isn’t it? That movie is completely insane. I love it!” His voice is all enthusiasm. “The art department did an amazing job!”
“I didn’t know there were art departments in films,” I say, stupidly.
“Oh. Yes! I mean, I didn’t know it either until I started watching these documentaries on movies that were never actually made and there was a lot of information about the process of filmmaking. It’s amazing!” He’s talking fast now, the excitement blurring his words together. “I mean there are people whose work is to literally create art for films”
I return his smile, his excitement contagious.
“What type of art?”
“Oh,” his eyes are shining now. “Well, visual art. I mean, you know how science fiction movies have to look different than our reality? Well, concept artists have to come up with the costumes, the set designs, sometimes even the architecture or like the spaceships and all that!”
“You really like movies,” I say, stupidly, but he nods, taking a sip of his beer. “Is that what you wanna do? After school?”
I’ve made a mistake, I think, because his expression shifts, a slight furrow forming on his forehead, his smile wavering a little.
He shrugs, taking another drink.
“I don’t really think about what comes after school,” he admits, and this time he’s not looking at me; he’s focused on his hands and the beer he’s holding.
“You don’t?” I can’t help but push, even though it’s clear he isn’t very eager to keep going down this path. I’m so surprised by this turn of events. I figured if anyone was eager to be done with school, it’d be James. I’d figured he’d have a plan.
He shrugs again and I know I should stop, but there’s that part of me, the part with the neverending to-do list taped on the wall behind my desk, that refuses to let it go.
“Aren’t you going to college?”
“Maybe,” he’s still not looking towards me. “I might enjoy it. I just… haven’t thought about it.”
“Everyone thinks about it,” I say, convinced that I’m right. He doesn’t say anything and I hear myself speaking again. “Don’t you wanna leave home? Don’t you wanna get away from your parents?”
Now, he does look at me, and there’s an intensity in his eyes that scares me.
“I don’t… I just don’t wanna leave my sister behind,” he confesses, “alone with them.”
Of course. He doesn’t think about the future because he’s terrified of what will happen to his sister when he isn’t there to protect her. Because he has to be responsible for someone else.
I feel so terrible for bringing this up that I nearly stand up and go to him, this horrible need to hold him flooding my whole body.
“Oh, no, I’m sorry,” I say, instead, my voice tiny and sad. “I didn’t mean to… I mean, I’m sorry you have to worry about that.”
He looks at me, still frowning, and I wonder if he’s angry at me or If he’s decided maybe we shouldn’t be friends after all.
I think he’s about to say something when the door flies open and in walks Daniel Jeong, carrying two empty bottles of beer. For a second he seems surprised to find people in here, but then he sees James and smiles.
“Dude,” he says, slurring his words a little. “I’ve been looking for you all over the place. Tatiana’s going crazy trying to find you.”
He starts laughing at that, moving toward one of the fridges.
“So I’ve heard,” James passes a hand through his hair, in that same exasperated gesture. “Which is why we’re hiding.”
“Like the kitchen is a safe place,” Dan lets out an incredulous laugh, rummaging through the fridge.
“Fuck, we need to find a better hiding spot.”
My heart skips a beat as I realize by “we” he means me and him, not him and Daniel. Dan seems to notice me then, as he approaches James, holding a fresh new beer for him.
“You brought wine to a party, Betty? Fancy!”
I’m not sure what to say to that, so I just take another drink.
“Can you distract her?” James asks, giving him a slight tap on the knee with his right foot. “We’ll go hide in my car.”
Dan seems to understand what he means because he looks from James to me and back.
“Sure thing, man,” he says, patting his friend once on the back and then disappearing through the door with three new beer bottles in his hands.
James turns to me and does that same “let’s go gesture,” chin and thumb included. I follow him quietly through the back door, and then to a small garden outside, where some couples are dancing and making out. The night is chilly, and I immediately regret bringing this stupid dress. (At least I had the good sense to put on some tights). He leads me to a street outside and then a few houses away, to where his car is parked. There’s no one out here, just the lonely lights of the streetlamps, and the moths dancing around them, slowly, lazily. The music from the party wafts slowly toward us.
James leans against the hood of his car, and I join him, unsure of what to say, or whether I’ve angered him.
“I’m sorry about the whole college thing,” I say, slowly, as he fishes a pack of cigarettes and a lighter out of his jean pockets. “I know you care about your sister.”
He shrugs, lighting a cigarette.
“It’s okay, Betty,” he tells me, his eyes fixed on the streetlamp in front of us. “I know you’ve got a whole plan. Becoming a famous writer and everything.”
I turn to look at him, completely taken by surprise. I’m not sure how he knows this. I mean, yes, I’ve mentioned my plan to get into a good college (hopefully in New York) to study creative writing to my friends at least a dozen times since January. Andrew and I even have a bet going as to who will get into the college of their dreams first. (His is Berkley). It’s not exactly a secret, but I didn’t expect anyone outside of the three people I talk to on a regular basis to know this.
“How do you know that?” I ask, and James laughs a little at the accusatory tone of my voice.
“Everybody knows it. Didn’t you win like a contest or something?” He turns to look at me, the playful smile back in full force.
I flush a deep crimson red at that. (The wine definitely isn’t helping with the self-control thing). I did win a contest. In fifth grade. I was congratulated in front of the whole school in one of those horrible school assemblies that only happened once every few months. I didn’t think anyone was paying attention. Maybe just my friends. (Ela made a huge show of congratulating me too).
“Yeah,” I say, quietly, looking away. I try to remember if anyone other than my friends (back then it was just Ela and Andrew), said anything to me, but nothing comes to mind.
“So, when you’re a famous writer living in a big, old city, will you write about home?”
“Home?” I repeat, still a little bewildered.
“Yeah, this. Hartford, Connecticut.”
“I hadn’t thought about that,” I admit, wrapping the cardigan I’m wearing tightly around myself, feeling the chill of the night on my skin. “But I’m sure I will. Everyone writes about home. One way or another.”
He repeats my words under his breath, as if making sense of them.
“D’you really think so?” he asks, and there’s something in his voice, a tinge of despair, that makes me turn to look at him.
The light of the lamp casts a shadow on his face, sharpening his profile, his crooked nose stark against the night. I think back at the raised voices inside his house, his split lip the other day.
“Yeah,” I admit. “But it doesn’t have to be the place where you were born, or where you grew up. It just has to feel like home. Even if it’s one you’ve built yourself.”
He gives me a side smile.
“D’you think you can ever show me what you write?”
No way, comes the answer, from some deep-rooted place inside of me. I don’t really share what I write with anyone. I mean, yes, I’ve shown some of it to Lore (she’s my mom), and a few bits and pieces to Ela, (but she’s my best friend). The idea of sharing it with him feels too daunting, too personal.
“I can show you what I do,” he says quickly, as if he could read my thoughts plainly on my face.
“What do you do?” I ask, curious, despite myself
“I’ll show you. Not right now, but some other time.”
“Okay,” I say, feeling relieved and grabbing onto this opportunity.“Tell you what, I’ll show you what I write if you show me what you do.”
He gives me a wicked smile and I almost regret my decision at once.
“That’s a deal, Betty Green.”
He holds out his hand to me, and I look at it for a second too long before I shake it. His hand is big and warm and it burns a little when I touch it. He gives me a satisfied smile and takes another sip of his beer before asking:
“You really care about this stuff, don’t you? Literature, I mean. Poetry.”
I rub my hands together, feeling his lingering warmth, trying to do something other than stare at him, wide-eyed and blushing.
“Yeah,” I admit. “It’s one of those things that don’t really matter, but still matter, you know?”
“No,” he laughs, “That doesn’t make any sense.”
I must be even more drunk than I’d like to admit because I’m suddenly speaking, explaining my strange theories to him, who I’ve only known for a month.
“Well, there’s some aspects of life that are important, you know? You couldn’t live without them. Like food and housing, and clothing. And then there are some things that don’t matter, but they do, just because people care. Like,” I start, my words coming out fast and easy, “I used to spend my summers in Mexico, with my mom and her family. And, I remember once, they were playing a soccer match, I think it was the World Cup or something like that, and everyone was super excited. People were cheering and yelling at the screen and you could feel their excitement in the air. It was contagious. And, I mean, I don’t care about soccer. It’s one of those things that don’t matter. But my family cared and so it became important, just because they did.”
When I finish, I take another drink of my wine, which, I realize, is half empty.
“Hum,” James says, (more like grunts, really).
I turn to look at him, just as he’s reaching toward me. His hand hovers for a second, close to my face, and my heart stops altogether, forgetting its own existence, completely useless.
“You have a leaf in your hair,” he says, his voice coming out hoarse and fractured. His fingers grace my bangs. His touch is a ghost in the night.
I am breathless. I feel light, feathery, like he could blow on me and I could just vanish.
We look at each other for a few eternal seconds, but then a door bangs somewhere behind us, and he jumps, startled.
I laugh at him, feeling a little high, just as the song playing inside the party reaches us, louder. I recognize it as the same loud punk song he was playing in his car the other day. His eyes start shining with mischief, as he peels himself away from the hood of his car and jumps directly into the light of the streetlamp.
“What a fucking great song,” he laughs, shaking his head to the rhythm of the music.
He starts moving his arms as if he’s playing some invisible drums, (he’d be a lousy player). Soon, he’s flailing his legs around, jumping as the music grows too, louder, angrier. Maybe he’s an awkward dancer, or maybe this song is just hard to dance to, I’m not sure, because I wouldn’t call this strictly a dance. More like a flurry of movements. But I’m laughing along with him, watching him jump and move, his curls bouncing in his head, his faded blue levis sliding slightly down his hips. I feel intoxicated watching him. Besotted. It isn’t just that he’s handsome, I realize. That’s not the only reason girls like me (and Tatiana) are so willing to chase after him at parties. It’s that silly confidence of his. The way his eyes shine when he gets excited. The lines that form in between his eyebrows when he’s thoughtful.
Maybe it’s because I’m drunk that I allow myself to think and feel all these things, the slight warmth at the tip of my fingers now spreading to my whole body, taking roots in my chest and suffocating me. I feel a sigh leaving me, against my will, but I’m past caring.
Whatever, I tell myself. He’s too drunk to notice. And the music’s too loud and the night is too cold and I’m not entirely sure I exist right now.
The song ends and James bows toward me, smiling lazily, and I start clapping, laughing openly now, unable to conceal my emotions. And then I realize I recognize this new song. It’s a waltz, from one of my favorite albums, slow and sweet. I start singing under my breath, and James holds out a hand to me.
“Wanna dance?” he asks.
This is strictly against my rules, but at this point, I’m either too drunk or too stupid to care.
“I’m a terrible dancer,” I warn him, taking his hand.
And I’m not lying. I’ve never been very good at it. I’m a clumsy dancer, at best, and I’m fairly drunk right now. I could very well be a safety hazard in his arms. But my body aches to dance with him, and whatever doubts or fears have assaulted me before have now completely washed away with the wine.
James interlaces the fingers of his left hand with mine and places the other on my waist, his touch heavy and burning. I hold on to the fabric of his shirt with my left hand, to steady myself, to keep my body from dissolving underneath him.
This close, I can smell him better than ever before. There’s the familiar scent of smoke and soap that is always lingering in his car. But there’s something else too, something I hadn’t noticed before. Something green and bright and old.
I let my head fall onto his chest, feeling the fabric of his shirt on my bangs. That warmth inside of me seems to grow impossibly large, like it might be too much for me, like it might overflow. Another sigh escapes me. I know. I know. I should be acting cool, casual, like dancing with a boy in the middle of an empty street isn’t a big deal. But I can’t and James is drunk too. I close my eyes, feeling intoxicated and small. I feel his chin bump against the top of my head and, almost as if in a daze, I look up to find him looking at me, the green of his eyes almost completely gone in the dark. I think about saying something but then he’s kissing me and all the words escape me.
This isn’t the first time I’ve kissed someone, and, sure, okay, I might not be the world’s leading expert on kissing but at least you’d think I’d remember how it feels. Apparently, I don’t. Or, maybe, kissing James isn’t like kissing boys during silly games of spin the bottle that your best friend forced you to participate in.
He tastes of cigarettes and beer, but his kisses are slow and his lips are soft. He moves slowly and rhythmically, and all I have to do is kiss back, move against him, push and pull along with him.
The warmth inside me is too much. It feels like a fever, like burning from the inside out. My legs feel weak and wobbly, like they might give in at any moment. My breath feels stuck in my chest, growing with every second, a ticking time bomb waiting to explode. I don’t care. Let it explode. It’s fine. Let me explode.
Suddenly, a phone starts ringing and we both stumble away from each other, dizzy and disoriented.
He doesn’t look at me as he takes the phone out of his pocket.
“Shit,” he says, looking at the screen, a small frown forming on his forehead “I should go.”
I’m suddenly aware of how cold the night is and my body starts shivering without my permission. I’m not entirely sure of what to say. Words seem to have abandoned me. Punishment for not following my own rules. I feel something like an alarm starting to ring inside my head and, for a second, I don’t know what happens next. I don’t know how we move after this.
But then he turns to me, smiling lazily, genuinely, his eyelids heavy with his smile.
“Need a ride home?” he asks.
“Sydney’s driving us,” I say, not entirely sure why I’m refusing him. Maybe it’s because I’m scared of what comes after. He nods, once, and then starts to move toward me and everything seems to stop for a second.
He gives me a soft kiss on the cheek and hooks his fingers on the sleeve of my cardigan, tugging once as he moves away.
“See you around, Betty,” he says, before climbing into his car and disappearing into the night.

Chapter Text

I dream of James that night. In the dream, he’s trying to sell me a set of old, black-and-white movies. The Casablanca type. I want to buy it, but I can’t find my wallet anywhere and James is laughing, (I can’t tell if he’s making fun of me or if he finds me funny) but at some point, he gets tired of waiting and turns around to sell them to some other girl. I wake up, annoyed with myself and still with the lingering feeling of his lips on mine.
I try not to dwell on the dream or what it might mean. I try not to think of him. I try not to wait for a text and instead focus on the pile of homework waiting for me.
In any other situation, it’d be enough to keep me distracted but my mind keeps wandering back to the party. To James as he asked if I wanted to dance. To James as he leaned toward me.
Enough. Stop being so idiotic! That little voice at the back of my mind whispers furiously. Don’t you know kisses mean nothing to him?
Her words are vicious but true. At least, that’s what Maya told me after I stumbled back to the party, high on the memory of his lips. She asked me where he was and after I told her he’d left, I was stupid —or smart— enough to ask her what the deal with Tatiana was.
“Oh,” she said, rolling her eyes like she found this topic vexing. “James kissed her at Nico Ford’s party and now Tatiana insists they need to talk,” she frowned, disapproving. “I told him not to, but boys don’t listen when they’re horny.”
And that was that. I should’ve stopped thinking about him, right there and then. I should’ve taken the kiss for what it was, just a kiss. Nothing more. I mean, honestly, what was I expecting? That he’d text to ask me out?
Well, he doesn’t. Not once. Not even to ask if we’re meeting next week. And I’m not going to text him either. No way. It’s bad enough that I fell for his stupid I-have-shitty-parents-and-a-sister-to-take-care-of act. I’m not going to behave like I can’t stop thinking about that kiss. Even if I can’t stop thinking about it.
Maybe I’m being unfair. Maybe he has a good reason not to call.
It doesn’t matter. Only two things are important: one, the kiss didn’t mean anything to James. This is standard routine for him. And two, we still have to work together on the assignment.
So, in order not to make things even harder than they already are, I resolve to talk to him, first thing Monday morning. I’ll let him know I don’t kiss boys at parties. Not usually. So I can’t pretend like nothing happened between us. I’m going to need some distance. Besides, we have most of the essay figured out. We can begin working apart, now.
All day long, as I move through the school corridors, I keep repeating the speech I have prepared. I want to be ready in case I run into him. I almost know the words by heart but I’m convinced he’s avoiding me too, because I haven’t seen him in the halls, not once.
Well, he does tend to hide from girls once he kisses them, that vicious voice reminds me. (I’ve started calling her Bitchy B) (We have fun together).
Well, I’m not going to hide from him.
That’s what I think until I actually do run into him, walking towards me at the end of the school day. I turn around on the spot and practically run to the bathroom to hide.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck. I’m not ready to talk to him. I feel my heart racing, anxious. My stomach hurts so bad, I wonder if I’m going to vomit (thank God I’m in a bathroom!). But I don’t. I let out a few, deep breaths and look in the mirror.
The girl looking back at me has gone pale. Her hair looks disheveled, her eyes wide in alarm. She looks like she’s just seen a ghost.
“It’s okay,” I tell her. “You’ll be okay.”
What’s the worst that can happen, really? He tells me he’s not actually interested in me and we shouldn’t make a big deal of what happened? I already know this.
Sure, it will be painful, but it’s better to get it out of the way now, before I start to lose my mind.
“Everything will be okay.”
She blinks back, unconvinced.
I take another deep breath and walk out of the bathroom.
James is waiting for me, leaning against the lockers to my right, looking at his phone.
“Hey!” he says, as soon as he spots me, pushing away from the wall with his shoulder. “What are you up to? Going home?”
I bite down on my tongue. I know exactly where this is going.
“Are you about to offer me a ride?”
“Of course,” he says, balancing on tiptoes and giving me his most crooked smile.
I shouldn’t say yes. I should just talk to him, right here, right now, and be done with it. I clench my fists at my side, bracing myself against my next moronic move.
“Okay,” I say, before I can really think about what I’m doing.
Damn him and that stupid open grin he gives me in return.

I try to will myself into saying something as we walk to his car, but the words don’t come out. James, too, is uncharacteristically silent. Twice, I open my mouth to say something and twice, my throat goes dry and my courage abandons me.
Finally, when we’re moving through the streets, away from school, he turns to me, scratching his nose, looking flustered.
“Thank you for- hiding with me, at the party,” he says.
This is not what I was expecting and I’m not really sure what to say, so I look away.
“Were your parents angry?” I ask and, because he looks confused, I add. “On the phone, I mean.”
“Oh, um, no,” he hesitates. “No, it was my sister. She wasn’t feeling very well.”
“Oh.”
Right. His sister, Hannah. The one he’s afraid to leave behind.
Bitchy B is silent, all our angry determination gone with a single sentence.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I whisper, turning my eyes back to him. “Is she okay?”
“She’s fine. This happens, sometimes,” he gives me a one-shoulder shrug. His eyes are fixed on the street in front of us so I look away.
I want to be angry and determined. I want to tell him we can’t be friends anymore. But I can’t pretend like knowing he left a party to go take care of Hannah doesn’t have an effect on me. (Damn him, damn him, damn him!)
“So, how was the party after I left?”
I shrug, thinking back to Maya and her tipsy, piercing words.
“I went home,” I admit. “Ela and Sydney were fighting. I didn’t want to stick around for that.”
And also, I didn’t really feel like staying and making a fool of myself after I found out James makes a habit of kissing girls at parties.
“Why were they fighting?”
“I don’t know. Ela and I aren’t really on speaking terms,” I confess.
He turns to me with a frown, but I keep my eyes on the window.
“Why not?”
I just shrug again. Even if that stupid party had never taken place, and James and I were still talking to each other on friendly terms, I’m not sure I’d be willing to explain this to him. I’m not sure I’d wanna hear what he makes of it.
He doesn’t say anything for a long while and, as we approach my house, I wonder if this is how our fragile, new friendship fizzles out. One kiss and it’s gone.
He parks in the same spot he did last time, a few houses away, and, before I can think of something to say, he speaks, his voice coming out hesitant, shy.
“Are you angry at me because I kissed you at the party?”
I’m taken aback by this question but I consider it, nonetheless. I’m not exactly angry at him because he kissed me.
“Do you kiss a lot of girls at parties?” I ask, instead, because there’s no real way of answering that without addressing the blonde elephant in the room.
I turn to look at him and he’s smiling, amused, the tilted corner of his mouth quaking a little with his laughter.
“I only kissed one girl at that party, that I can recall, and it was you.”
He turns to me fully now, giving me his best James Wolfe smile. I steel myself to face him, gathering all of my willpower, hoping, against hope, that his charms won’t work on me.
“What about Tatiana? At Nico’s?”
That puts an end to his smiles. He seems taken aback by my words. A small frown appears between his eyebrows.
“How do you know about that?”
“Maya told me.”
He passes a hand through his hair, letting out a sigh of frustration.
“I didn’t-” he starts, turning away from me. “I was really drunk. I didn’t mean to kiss her.”
I don’t say anything. I stare at his profile against the pale April afternoon.
“Fuck. Does that make me sound like a jerk?” he asks, his voice almost pleading with me.
“A little,” I accept.
That makes him smile. This is a new kind of smile, though, one that feels almost defeated. He lets his head fall back against the headrest and exhales loudly.
“I- She kept insisting all night we should kiss,” he explains. “I didn’t really want to. I tried to tell her that but she seemed undeterred. Eventually, I thought that if I just did it, if I just kissed her, she’d leave me alone. I didn’t expect it to encourage her. Which is stupid, I know. I was really drunk and I wasn’t making good choices”
I mull over his words, slowly, trying to make sense of them. If I believe him, (and I’m stupid enough to believe him), then that means he really isn’t to blame. It means maybe he doesn’t go around kissing random girls at random parties whenever he’s drunk.
I still don’t know what to say, exactly. So, for a while, I just look out the window behind him
“What I mean is,” he continues, scratching his nose, that same flustered look from before coming back in full force. “I didn’t mean to kiss her. I regret that now.” At that, he turns to look at me, eyes wide and open. “But I don’t regret kissing you.”
I hadn’t noticed, until now, the hole that opened in my chest at hearing Maya’s words. But now, as he looks at me, his eyes huge and eager, the hole disappears entirely. In its place, there is a fluttering bird, crashing hard against my ribs. I don’t know if I’m blushing. I’ve lost all grip on my body. I might be weeping for all I know.
“Do you regret kissing me?” he asks now, the question plain on his face.
I don’t know why I ever thought creating stupid rules for myself would keep me safe from his smile. It doesn’t. Not now. Probably not ever. There’s only one answer to his question and it doesn’t even matter if it’s the right one.
I shake my head no, slowly.
The smile that takes hold of his entire face nearly blinds me. It’s radiant enough to challenge the sun and I can’t bring myself to look away.
“Betty,” he says, leaning a little closer to me. His car is so small, I can feel the heat coming from him and, for a second, I recall the memory of his lips on mine. I shiver a little. “I know we’re not supposed to meet tomorrow, but can I still give you a ride home?”
I decide right there and then that I’m okay with being the type of girl who worships at the altar of some boy’s smile, scraped knees and all.
“Okay,” I hear myself say, eternally doomed.

Chapter Text

It’s really odd how things can change so drastically in only a few months. If you’d told me a year ago, I’d be fighting with Ela and Lore about my dad, I’d have told you, you were insane, that would never happen.
Yet, here we are.
I still haven’t talked to Lore about all the lies she’s been telling me since I was seven. About how she pretended Oliver disappeared without even trying to reach out to me. And, honestly, I don’t know if I ever will. I don’t how to talk to her anymore. It feels like the Lore I’ve known my whole life never truly existed. It feels like I’ve been living a lie. Which, I know, sounds dramatic, but it is true.
I’ve thought about what I could say to her, what I could ask her, and twice, during dinner, I nearly started talking. But then all the words got stuck in my throat and my stomach coiled painfully, and I couldn’t do it.
But the question kept repeating in my mind, like radio static. Why did you lie? Why did you lie? Why did you lie?
“Betty?” Ela asks, calling for my attention. “Are you in?”
I blink once, forcing myself to come back to the present. I’m sitting in the cafeteria, surrounded by my friends, who’ve been talking cheerfully for the past twenty minutes or so. I scour my brain for a hint of what she might mean, but I come out empty.
“In where?”
Ela gives me an annoyed look.
“Today, after school. Going to the movies?”
“Oh,” I start, looking away from the hard line of her mouth. “I can’t today. Sorry.”
Sydney and Andrew turn their attention to me now, looking mildly curious.
“Why not?” Ela’s frowning.
I try desperately to think of a reason I can give her that doesn’t involve disclosing the fact that I’m probably going to spend the afternoon inside James’ car, not really doing any homework. (What has become of me, dear God!)
And, yeah, okay, maybe I should go with my friends. Maybe it could help breach the gap that’s been built between me and Ela ever since our stupid fight. I wonder what would happen if I were to turn to her right now and tell her all about my family drama. But, of course, that’s not an option.
“Um, I’ve got stuff to do.”
“What stuff?” Andrew’s eyebrows raise in suspicion.
“Just school stuff.”
The truth is, I wouldn’t mind telling Andrew what I’m actually doing. I know he won’t tease me mercilessly if he finds out. But there’s a part of me that wants to keep those hours spent next to James (not that there have been many, mind you) a secret. A part of me that wonders if the enchantment will be broken once I speak the words out loud.
“What school stuff?” Ela asks, looking genuinely dumbfounded.
“Um, the English essay.”
“I thought you were working on that on Monday.”
I bite down on my tongue as soon as I hear Sydney’s words. She’s giving me a curious look and I start to blush, like an idiot. I should’ve come up with something different, with a convincing lie but my brain is too rotten.
“Um,” I start, but Ela interrupts with a triumphant cry.
“Yes, you were! You said everything was going fine.”
“Well, everything is fine, we just have to do some more work,” I explain, pathetically, unable to come up with a better excuse.
I can tell Ela doesn’t buy it. She’s giving me her most dangerous smile. The predatory kind. Sydney’s, on the other hand, is cautious, like she isn’t sure what’s going on.
“Well, can’t you work on it another day?” she asks me, her eyes moving from my best friend to me.
“Um,” I start, desperately thinking of something to say, a way to keep Ela’s threatening smile at bay.
“You’re acting very cagey,” Andrew intervenes, his brow furrowing deeper.
“Just admit you’re not doing any work,” Ela shakes her head, impatient.
“Okay, so we’re not really doing schoolwork. We’re just… hanging out.”
Sydney looks at me as if she were about to start laughing.
“I thought you didn’t like James.”
“I never said that,” I interject, immediately, before realizing my mistake and blushing intensely.
Ela laughs, triumphant, victorious.
“So you do like him,” she says, raising an eyebrow, purposefully drawing out the word “like.”
“We hang out,” I say, shrugging as if to downplay this revelation.
“You mean you’re friends?” that’s Andrew, trying to be helpful.
“Yeah.”
“Yeah, right,” Ela replies, skeptically. “Then invite him. He can hang out with us. We’re also your friends.”
“Um,” I say, the panic rising like a wave in my chest. “I don’t think James likes movies much.”
For a second, I want to laugh at the lie. It feels wrong in my mouth. I wonder if he’d be offended to hear me say this.
“Oh, come on! Just admit you’d rather hang out with your “friend” than go with us to the movies.”
Ela actually draws the air quotes with her hands.
“It’s not that,” I reply, quickly, defensively. “But I made plans with him first.”
“D’you have a crush on him?” Sydney asks, suddenly, seemingly genuinely pleased with this prospect.
“Um,” I can’t even begin to think of something to say before my body betrays me, blushing a deep crimson red.
“Oh, I can’t believe you! Two months ago you didn’t wanna work together and now you’re ditching us to be with him.”
“I’m not ditching you! I made plans with him first!”
Ela rolls her eyes at me. I can’t tell if she’s actually upset that I want to hang out with James instead of going with them or if she’s just messing with me to be mean. (Ela can be mean like that sometimes).
Maybe this was her olive branch, her way of showing she regrets our fight and wants to make up for it. For a second, I consider giving in and calling James to cancel our plans. (Not that we actually have one, all he said was to meet him outside of school after class). But then she starts laughing.
“You are unbelievable!” She starts clapping, slowly, throwing her head back, in that gesture she makes when she thinks something is beyond funny. “First you’re all like, ‘You lesbians don’t know what you’re talking about’ and now, look at you! Ugh! You’re so easy!”
“Shut up!” I say, sharply, rolling my eyes.
“D’you really have a crush on him?” Andrew asks me, quietly, at the same time that Sydney gives me an encouraging smile.
“You’d make a cute couple,” she tells me.
“We hang out,” I hear myself saying, incapable of coming up with a better excuse.
Ela laughs again.

Even though I refuse to give them any more details, Ela seems intent on learning more about my newfound “friendship” with James. (I can’t begin to imagine how she would react if she knew what it actually entails). She blurts out questions from time to time during the school day as if hoping she’ll catch me off guard and I’ll reveal some more sordid details. But I don’t. I give her vague answers and mostly just blush and shrug her off. She’s undeterred. I’m worried that she’ll follow me after class to find out what “hanging out with James” means but, thankfully, I manage to lose her by taking a detour to the secret girls’ bathroom on the second floor. (It’s not actually secret but it’s always deserted).
As I make my way to his car, I keep an eye open in case Ela’s followed me, somehow, but they must have left because I don’t see any of my friends around.
James is waiting for me, perched on the hood of his car. He’s writing on a book and, as I approach him, I try to catch a glimpse of the cover but as soon as he sees me, he pushes it inside his backpack and stands up to greet me
“Hey,” he says, cheerfully, and I’m not sure I’m imagining the spark that lights his eyes as he watches me approach him. I smile at him, hoping against all hope that I’m not blushing like an idiot.
“So, where are we going?” I ask as I climb into the passenger seat. His car is a mess so I stuff my backpack between my legs and keep my eyes straight ahead. I can feel my skin crawling in discomfort whenever I catch a glimpse of the back seat and the stuff littering everywhere.
He shrugs, turning on the engine and driving away from school.
“Nowhere, really,” he says. “I thought we could just hang out.”
“Isn’t that what we do all the time?”
He gives me a one-sided grin, his eyes focused on the road in front of us.
“No,” he says, his voice serious “We do homework. And, since kissing is not allowed when we work, I figured we needed another excuse to hang out. One that doesn’t involve writing an essay together.”
I stare at him for a long second, my cheeks burning bright and my mouth half open. He turns to look at me and I look away, biting down hard on my lower lip, feeling the anxiety rising like a wave inside my chest.
I should’ve foreseen this.
I think of the look on his face as he leaned toward me a few days ago, while we were sitting on my living room floor, his knees too close to mine, one of the fingers of his left hand hooking on the sleeve of my cardigan. He was smiling, lazily.
I knew what he was about to do and my whole body froze. Apparently, without alcohol, I was far less cool and collected.
“Are you going to kiss me?” I asked him, my chest rising and falling like a tidal wave. He nodded, moving closer to me and I turned the other way, frowning.
“We’re not allowed to kiss while we work,” I said and he started laughing like he thought I was joking but, after a second, he pulled away and went back to work.
I thought I was safe. I didn’t think he would take it quite so literally.
What I meant to say, but didn’t know how, was that I’m not sure I’m prepared for whatever this is.
And it’s not that don’t want to kiss him. I do. I do. Sometimes, I can feel my fingers itching to reach out and touch him, smooth the curls at the back of his neck, follow the curve of his neckbone with my thumb.
And, beneath it all, my stomach clenching painfully, like a fist. A nauseous wave threatening to spill out.
I don’t know how to explain it to him. I don’t know how to say I like him, I want to kiss him, but what if I end up puking inside his mouth out of sheer stress?
I don’t suppose any girl has done that before.
I don’t suppose he’ll want to keep kissing me if I do.
And, it isn’t just the kissing. In fact, kissing is the least of my worries.
It’s everything that comes after. It’s the thought of his hands on my body. All the places I’ve never been touched before. All the ways in which my body is wrong.
It’s the fact that I know he’ll want more. I mean, all boys want more. And I can’t give him more.
Just the thought of kissing him makes desire and nausea mix together in my throat. (I shouldn’t say this) (He’ll think I hate him or something). I can’t even begin to imagine anything else or I might faint.
I might faint right now, feeling his eyes on me. He’s giving me one of those amused smiles that illuminate every corner of his face.
“So,” I croak, embarrassed. “We’re just hanging out.”
“We’re just hanging out,” he agrees, shoving a bag filled with colorful wrappers in front of me. “And eating candy.”
I feel my body relax and I give him what I hope is a cool smile.
“I hate American candy,” I admit, taking a box of Nerds buried deep in the bottom. “They’re too sweet.”
“They’re candy!” he says, defensive, as he parks in our usual spot, in front of Ms. Dove’s elegant garden. “They’re supposed to be sweet!”
I shrug.
“In Mexico, candy’s spicy and sour and delicious,” I inform him, remembering the piñata we had last Christmas and how everything inside of it was salty and tangy.
“In England,” he says, imitating the rigid tone in my voice, “they’re called sweets because everyone knows they’re supposed to give you a toothache.”
I roll my eyes at him.
“How would you know that?”
“I watch a lot of movies.”
“So, tell me about your movies,” I ask, because I like the way his face lights up when he gets going (and also because I want to postpone the moment when he’s giving me that heavy, lazy smile again).
“What about my movies?”
“I don’t know. Like, who’s your favorite director, for example. Or what are your favorite movies?”
“Hmm,” he says, thoughtfully, dumping a bunch of Pop Rocks into his mouth. “I don’t know who my favorite director is. Either Lynch or Cronenberg. Or Kubrick, which I know is a cheat answer but his films are amazing. Maybe Satoshi Kon too, but I haven’t seen everything he’s made.”
I stare at him with my mouth slightly open. Besides Kubrick, I’d never heard those names in my entire life.
“You know a lot about films.”
He starts laughing at the expression on my face.
“Maybe I just want to impress you,” he answers, nonchalantly.
“I am impressed,” I admit. “What about your favorite movies?”
He stops to meditate on the answer for a long while before he finally speaks.
“It’s a tie between Cronenberg’s Scanners or 2001. Maybe Solaris too. Tarkovsky’s. Not the American remake.”
He scratches his nose, looking a little flustered and I let out a soft laugh.
“Officially twice as impressed,” I tell him, looking at the candy in front of me and trying to decide whether or not I’ll be sick if I eat another one.
“Okay, your turn,” he smiles at me. “Tell me some more of your crazy theories.”
“What crazy theories?” I ask, frowning at him but trying not to laugh.
“You know, things that don’t matter that matter and all that.”
I roll my eyes at him and look away. The only reason I told him about that was that I was already drunk and stupid. I don’t tend to share my most intimate thoughts with just anyone.
“Please,” he says, bumping his elbow with mine and leaning forward, his eyes eager and curious.
“Okay,” I say, trying to ignore the heat on my arm where he touched me. “I don’t know if this is a crazy theory, but I was wondering the other day. D’you think that if people didn’t have to work to survive, and everyone could do whatever they wanted- D’you think everyone would be an artist of some kind?”
James is watching me with amusement and he shakes his head, like he doesn’t understand the question.
“I mean, if we could dedicate our lives to doing whatever we wanted and we didn’t have to worry about food and stuff, I think people would make art. Like not just movies or books, but all sorts of art. Like dancing or making music or, just, you know, everything that involves creating something. I think creating is a very human impulse.”
He isn’t looking at me anymore, he’s watching the clouds outside my window, thoughtfully.
“Huh. I think maybe that’s why I love science fiction as a genre. So much of it revolves around the question of what it means to be human. I’ve thought about it for a long time. Movies never give a clear answer but I always thought art had something to do with it.”
“Yes!” I intervene, excited, and immediately blush and look away. “I mean, I think in a way, every single work of art out there is saying something about what it feels like to be human.” I look down at my lap, flustered. “Maybe that’s a stretch.”
“You’re so smart,” he says, slowly and I let out an embarrassed laugh.
“Maybe I’m just trying to impress you,” I tell him, mirroring his words from before.
“Betty, I’m always impressed by you,” he answers, matter of factly and I turn to look at him.
He’s looking at me as he catches the sleeve of my cardigan between his fingers, pulling my arm toward him. His gaze is hypnotic. I can’t look away and I can’t do anything but stay still as he leans forward, eyes scanning my face, and kisses me.
If my heart was hooked to a machine right now, I’m sure you could hear it flatline the moment his lips find mine. I can feel the faint taste of sour lemon in his mouth and I feel greedy, even a little desperate as his tongue moves slowly to touch my lips, crashing against my teeth.
My brain goes limp and it’s like my body takes over, all the radio static vanishing with his kiss.
His hands find my waist and pull me closer. I can feel something hard leaving a dent on my thigh as I move in nearer. I don’t care. My brain seems incapable of caring. There’s the familiar itching of my fingers, the intense need of my body.
His fingers move to find the hem of my sweatshirt and my whole body stands in attention when his cold thumb grazes the skin at my waist. His touch is electrifying, turning my body into need, asking for more. I want more.
But there’s that familiar alarm at the back of my head. There’s that fear taking hold of my chest and spreading like ice through my veins.
I push him away gently and feel him sighing against my forehead. I force myself to come back to his car and not be overwhelmed by his proximity.
“I-” I start, but I can still taste his lips on mine and I can’t bring myself to focus. The heat coming from him is intoxicating.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath.
“I don’t think I can do this.”
“What?” he moves away from me, his voice coming out sharp and hurt.
I shake my head. That came out wrong.
“No, I mean, this. All the- physical things, I mean.”
I shake my head again, as if to clear my thoughts.
“You mean, you don’t think we can kiss?” He sounds just as confused as I feel and I wish I could show him my brain, like a book for him to read, so that I wouldn’t have to rely on words to explain myself.
“No. I mean, yes. I mean, I want to. I just don’t know how.”
He starts smiling like it isn’t a big deal.
“Well, I do,” he says, like it was obvious.
“No, I mean- I don’t know if I can.”
I turn away from him and look at the scene outside, the lawns on each side of us, the sun, quiet in the sky. I force myself to concentrate and find the correct words.
“I- I want to do it. To kiss you,” I can feel my cheeks coming back to life in violent red but I ignore it, clenching my hands into fists and burying my nails into the palms of each hand. “But I don’t know that I can do anything more. I mean, already kissing you makes me feel so- Whatever. What I’m trying to say is that I know you probably expect more but I can’t give you more. I mean, I’m not ready for more.”
He stays silent for a long while and, when I turn to look at him, he’s frowning that same preoccupied expression from before.
“How do you know I expect more?”
“Doesn’t everyone?”
He shrugs, his eyes moving from my face to the window behind me.
“Betty, I don’t- like you because I want more. I mean, I do,” he scratches his nose, blushing a lovely pink that reaches all the way to his ears. “But I like all the other things. I like talking to you. A lot. So, if what you’re saying is that you want to go slow, I can do that. I can be a slug.”
I laugh a little, feeling relieved and silly. A bird opens its wings inside my chest and makes its way to my throat, crashing against my ribs.
I shake my head and force myself to be smart about this.
“What if-” my voice comes out small. “What if I’m never ready for more?”
He bites his lip, thoughtful.
“I don’t know,” he admits. “I hope you will be. But if you can’t, then, that’s okay, for now. I don’t want to stop hanging out with you over something that hasn’t happened yet.”
I look at him for a long second, letting my eyes wander from his eyes to the mole sitting beneath his right earlobe, right where his jaw curves to meet his neck.
I hope I can be ready someday. I want to. If only to be able to reach out and kiss that mole, bite the corner of his jaw. One day, I promise myself, I will learn his moles by heart.
I catch the index finger of his right hand and tug it, once.
“All right,” I say and it comes out like an oath.

Chapter Text

As we’re driving to Oliver’s house, I begin to wonder what 10-year-old Betty would think of me now. 10-year-old Betty used to promise Lore she’d never fall for a boy, (Mom loves to remind me of this from time to time). She used to believe it would always be just the two of us, forever.
10 year-old-Betty would be disappointed if she knew how giddy I feel whenever I think about James. Truly giddy. As in, I’ll be reading and the memory of his hands on my waist will come back to me and I’m suddenly too distracted to do anything but smile stupidly and try to come up with a reasonable excuse to text him, or, even worse, to hang out with him.
Apparently, the time we spend working on the assignment isn’t good enough for this new version of me. This new Betty wants to spend her every second crammed in the passenger seat of his car.
Except, I can’t. Not since his dad “forced” him to help him out after school. That’s the word James used, “forced.” “He said if I’m not going to put an effort into my studies, I might as well just start working on the family business,” he laughed, bitterly, his thick eyebrows sinking into his forehead.
The only real time we have together now is those blissful twenty minutes after school when he drives me home. Possibly, the best part of my day. Which, I know, makes me sound lame.
I am lame. I mean, what kind of girl becomes obsessed after only a few kisses? Me. That’s who.
And it’s not like I don’t have any other stuff to obsess over. I am about to meet my dad’s fiancé.
I wonder if maybe this is the exact reason why I’m so fixated on James right now. Because everything else is too daunting to even consider for a second. Because the prospect of having a family is something I never had to contemplate before.
For as long as I can remember, whenever I thought of all the important parts of my life, there was always Lore right next to me. Lore, cheering on me as I walk to the podium to get my high school diploma. Lore, weeping as I graduate from college. Lore, with a big smile on her face on my wedding day. Lore, standing in line to buy my first book.
But now, my envisioned future can have more people in it. Oliver, to start with. Maybe his fiancé, too. Maybe his adopted children, my step-siblings. (I have siblings now!). I try to imagine them, smiling, proud of me, but I can’t. Maybe it’s because I haven’t met them yet. Maybe because the idea of them is too overwhelming.
Oliver told me, last time we met, that he wants me to be a part of his family. That he wants this to work.
I want it to work, too. I like him. Which I know is a weird thing to say about your dad but it’s the truth. Plus, I don’t know where else to start.
Oliver’s a college professor at the University of Boston and is working on a doctorate degree. To be completely honest, I find it a little impressing. I never thought I’d be a part of one of those scholar families you see in the movies. But it’s clear that’s what he and his wife are. Scholars, I mean. What with Jennifer working as a curator and Oliver getting his Ph.D. in Philosophy.
They met when they were children and reunited a few years back, right after Jennifer’s divorce. And now, they’re just waiting for the perfect moment to get married.
He tells me all of this on the way there, glancing my way every five minutes or so, as if he was making sure all this information isn’t too much for me.
I mostly just smile and nod from time to time. I’m not completely sure I’m taking it all in. It’s like when you hurt yourself accidentally and, for the first few seconds, all you can do is look at the wound, surprised, unable to register the pain.
Not that getting a new family is like a wound, but you get the metaphor.
“Jennifer is really looking forward to meeting you,” Oliver tells me, as he parks in the driveway of a huge house. Almost twice as big as ours, painted white with blue windows.
I follow him to the door and watch as he gives the woman standing there a kiss on the cheek, placing his hand on her waist as he moves to the side.
“Betty,” she says, “it’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”
Jennifer is taller than me. She’s almost as tall as Oliver, who moves to open the door wider for me to come through.
She looks exactly like I imagined her.
She’s the opposite of Lore. Which is to say, in a way, that she’s the opposite of me, too.
She’s thin and tall, and straight, whereas Lore is short, (she’s shorter than me) and curvy, her hips and her thighs soft and round.
Where Lore has a mane of wild, curly dark hair, Jennifer’s hangs long and loose behind her shoulders.
She looks like a mirror version of my dad, with her honey-brown hair and her sharp nose. Plus, they’re dressed similarly, wool trousers and a silk blouse.
She’s holding out a hand for me to shake and I take it for just a second, unsure of how to greet the woman who could potentially be my stepmom.
Oliver guides us toward the living room, where a teenage girl is holding a baby in her arms. Next to them, there’s a young boy playing with a set of Legos.
“This is Rose,” Oliver says, pointing to the baby, “and that’s Leo,” the boy looks up with a grin, but doesn’t move from his spot. “And that’s Nina, our babysitter.”
The girl, who must be around my age, gives me a friendly but curious smile.
“We’ll be in the dining hall,” Jennifer tells her, “call if you need anything.”
Her tone and her words are friendly enough but she isn’t looking at Nina. She pushes past and I follow, wishing, for a second, that I could stay here and talk to the girl instead of having to make conversation with the two adults who lead me to a huge dining room.
Everything in this house feels alien to me. The walls are pristine white and there’s a bunch of art decorating the walls, but it’s different from the paintings Lore’s hung on our home, which are all colorful and weird. This is the type of art that looks like it could be displayed in museums.
I take a seat at the dining table, watching Oliver and Jennifer as they seat across from me. Jennifer calls to another woman, around her age, for some wine and some food and she brings us a platter of cheese and meats and crackers and a bottle of expensive-looking wine and, when she leaves, Oliver offers me a glass.
“It’s quite light,” he assures me.
I say yes, because I still feel a little nervous and I can’t help but look at the huge dining table in front of me. At home, we’ve never needed more than two seats, maybe three when Ela or one of Lore’s friends come over, but Oliver and Jennifer could host a whole army and never run out of seats.
“So, Betty,” Jennifer starts, as soon as the wine and the cheese are served and the woman has disappeared behind the door at the far back. “Oliver tells me you want to be a writer. He tells me you read a lot.”
I nod, taking a sip of the wine, unsure of what else to say. Jennifer waits for a second but, seeing as I’m still chewing on a cracker, she continues talking.
“He tells me Sandra Cisneros is one of your favorite writers.”
She makes it sound like a question so I nod.
“I read one of her short story collections in high school and I remember thinking it was quite good but, Oliver and I agree, her prose loses in quality the more that you read her.”
I look at her trying to suppress the aghast expression on my face.
“Jennifer has a degree in English Literature,” Oliver says, as if to explain her words. I nod, because what else can I say, really. “She feels very strongly about the role it can play in our society.”
“I tend to forget most people have never heard of the greatest works of literature our language has to offer,” Jennifer tells me with a condescending smile on her face. “I specialized in Shakespeare and I’m always surprised to hear that teenagers these days don’t read what most academics would consider the father of English Literature.”
“I’ve read Shakespeare,” I say, before I can contain myself. I shouldn’t care what she thinks. Jennifer means nothing to me, even if she’s on her way to becoming my stepmom.
“Oh,” her eyes go wide in clear surprise. “Good. What have you read?”
“Romeo and Juliet,” I admit, feeling suddenly stupid.
“Oh, yes. I know schools still include Romeo and Juliet in their literature syllabus. Not my favorite play. However, I do believe it can be a good introductory work,” she smiles, almost like she’s mocking me. “Have you actually read it? I hear there are translations into modern English out there.”
“Oh, right,” Oliver agrees, with a snort, as if he found this equally as offensive. “I’ve heard there’s a website out there, to help students analyze books, as if they couldn’t do it on their own.”
“Sparknotes,” Jennifer says, shaking her head in disapproval. “As if reading Early Modern English was any difficult. Try reading Beowulf how it was written originally. Now that’s quite a challenge.”
Oliver laughs, like she’s made a joke and I only look from one to the other, unsure of what to say.
“I intend to have my children read from an early age, so they can engage with older works of literature by the time they’re teenagers.”
“I-I did read the original play,” I say, which is only half-true. My edition of Romeo and Juliet has lots of annotations.
“Good,” Jennifer smiles. “It is important to cultivate the arts from a young age. That’s why Leo is taking piano lessons. I believe he’s a very talented musician.”
I nod, and turn to Oliver, hoping we can be done with this particular conversation. That’s when I notice their hands, next to his cup of wine, clasped together. For a moment, all I can do is stare at them.
I was only seven when Oliver left home, but I do remember a few instances of shared tenderness between my parents. I remember coming down one Christmas morning to find Lore perched on the loveseat next to Oliver, she had her feet resting on his knees and he was playing with her hair, distractedly, as they talked to each other.
And then another time, during dinner, when Lore kept laughing at his jokes, putting a hand on his arm and throwing her head back. I don’t know exactly how old I was when this all happened. I couldn’t have been too young, because the memories are clear like water. But maybe I’m just making them up.
Just then, Leo comes running into the kitchen. He goes to Jennifer, pushing his blonde hair out of his eyes in an annoyed gesture.
“Mommy, Nina said to ask you if I could have some IPad time?” he says, in a high, baby voice.
Jennifer turns to look at Oliver, who nods, once, before turning to her son.
“D’accord, but only for thirty minutes, okay?”
Leo’s already running away from the kitchen, to Nina, who’s waiting for him in the hall.
“Mommy said I could have thirteen minutes,” he says, clearly confused and Nina laughs.
I can’t hear what she answers because then Jennifer is speaking again.
“I don’t let my children use electronics often,” she tells me, with a severe look on her face. “These devices are rotting children’s brains. All they want to do is watch videos on the internet and play silly games. I want them to develop a taste for the fine arts.”
I nod, unsure of what to say.
“And I want them to learn several languages while their brains are still developing. Which is why I’m teaching them French. Children are more susceptible to becoming cultured individuals at this age. I play them Chopin’s nocturnes before they sleep and I read to them every night. Do you speak any languages other than English?” she asks me now, her superior gaze on me.
I feel suddenly so ashamed, all I can do is look at her.
“Spanish.”
“Of course,” she nods. “Oliver told me your mother is Mexican. I’m not sure speaking Spanish is of much help. Perhaps you should consider learning another language while there’s still time.”
I stare at her, unable to think of something to say.
I think of Lore, then. Lore, who’s never talked to me as though I’m an ignorant child. Lore, who, when Ela spent most weekends at our home during her parents’ divorce, used to play old episodes of America’s Next Top Model. Lore, who’s stuffed our house with bizarre paintings. Who can talk about Mexican painters for days on end. Lore, who loves to watch romance telenovelas.
“I don’t think you need to know everything about art to enjoy it,” I hear myself say, boldly. “My mom used to watch telenovelas with me and I don’t think that made me stupid or uncultured.”
“Of course not,” Oliver says, before Jennifer can speak. “That’s not what we meant.”
I shake my head, frustrated.
“It’s just common for those of us who’ve specialized in the arts to want everyone else to enjoy it as much as we do,” Jennifer explains. “You know, your father and I work with art, directly or indirectly. Our schedules are so packed, sometimes we forget to make time for other diversions. Especially your father,” Jennifer turns to look at him with so much tenderness on her face, it’s nearly blinding. “He has almost no free time. And no one wants to be wasting theirs watching blockbusters, am I right?”
“I like blockbusters,” I say, thinking of James and his obsession with science fiction. “Just because something’s popular, doesn’t mean it’s necessarily bad.”
“Of course not,” Jennifer agrees, with a tense smile on her face. We both turn to look at Oliver, then, like we were expecting him to deliver his verdict.
“It’s late. I should take you home,” he tells me, after a minute, looking at the watch on his wrist.
He stands up and Jennifer follows, and just like that, I’m dismissed. I walk to the living room to say goodbye to the children and the nanny and as Jennifer closes the door behind me, I can hear little Leo asking if he can play Pokemon later.
I laugh quietly as I follow Oliver to the car. I don’t suppose anyone has told Leo he has to enjoy the “fine arts.”
We don’t talk much on our way home. I think about Lore. I want to get home and hug her. I want to tell her about everything Jennifer said tonight and then laugh together sitting on the living room couch while we eat chocolate doughnuts.
I hadn’t noticed just how much I miss her.
And I know we still haven’t figured things out, but I think I can understand why she did what she did if she explains it to me. I can try and see her side of things. Because I’ve never wanted any other family but her.
I can try and forgive her.
Oliver turns right into our street and I see Lore then, standing next to a red truck parked near our driveway. She’s talking to a man, much taller than her, and bigger. I can’t see his face but his back looks young enough. Lore is laughing the way I remember her laughing in my memories, her hand reaching to touch his chest as she lets her head fall forward.
I feel a cold shudder run through me as understanding hits me. Oliver clears his throat awkwardly, parking behind the truck and then Lore notices us. She says something to the man, who climbs inside his car and drives away.
And, as she begins walking toward us and Oliver opens his door to say hello, I feel a sort of maddening jealousy. I don’t want to leave the car. I don’t want to talk to her. I want to crawl beneath my bed and fall asleep and not have to think about what any of this means.
But I can’t, so I push the door open and walk inside the house, with the cold certainty that there won’t be any shared laughs tonight.

Chapter Text

When I pull the chemistry book out of my locker, a piece of paper comes flying out. I pick it up, slightly confused, until I find that it’s an old receipt for a locket I bought for Lore on her 40th birthday. A locket Ela bought as a favor to me, actually. When Sydney saw it, she told me to keep the receipt in case my mom didn’t like it because it was such a hideous piece of jewelry. I kept it. Lore loved it. At least that’s what she said.
I stare at the small piece of paper for a long time, unable to decide whether to throw it away or not. I know that I should. But, for some reason, it feels like a sentimental token. Of a time when things were easier.
The more I think about my conversation with Oliver and his wife-to-be the less I want to be a part of that family. It’s not that they were rude, necessarily. But I’ve never felt more stupid or more uneducated in my life. I’ve never disliked anyone as intensely as I’ve disliked Jennifer.
And I do dislike her. I can accept that now. I suppose there might be people who could argue I was never going to accept her, given that she’s my dad’s partner, that he has a whole family with her. But I really was trying. I really wanted to like her. I really wanted to belong with them.
I wonder what Ela would make of her if I were to recount last week’s events to my friend. She would laugh, I think. She might even be angered. If there’s one thing Ela dislikes is pretentious assholes who act like Star Wars isn’t the best piece of science fiction ever made. (According to Ela, anyway) (James might disagree)
I have an urgent desire to go straight to my friend and start telling her everything but I still don’t know how to bridge the gap between us. Plus, I’d have to get her up to speed with the rest of the events that have taken place this past month and I’m too tired and too cranky to even consider it. And, what would she make of the strange man on my driveway anyway? I can’t even make sense of it. And I don’t really want to.
“What are you doing for lunch?” comes a voice behind me.
I jump in my place, startled, and James, behind me, laughs under his breath. I want to roll my eyes but I’m a little surprised to see him. We don’t actually talk to each other during school much, which has worked great so far, (at least for me).
I shove the receipt inside the pockets of my jeans and close the door to my locker with my shoulder.
“Meeting my friends, I guess,” I tell him, watching Inez and Liz, standing behind James. They’re entranced in their conversation but, occasionally, Inez gives us a few curious looks. I turn around and walk away. Whatever is going on between me and James is complicated enough without adding her speculations into the equation.
“Wanna have lunch with us?” he asks, following me.
“Us as in you and your friends?” he nods. “I- I don’t really know your friends.”
He shrugs and gives me a lopsided grin.
“They’re cool,” he says, simply, as if that was all the explanation needed.
The truth is, I don’t really know what to make of James’ friend group. I’ve never paid much attention to any of them until now (other than Daniel Torres). And my interaction with Maya during Daniel Jeong’s party still rings bitterly inside my head. Plus, they’re such an insular group. Like their own small island. No foreigners allowed.
“C’mon,” James says, tilting his chin a little in his signature “let’s go” gesture, left thumb included.
I swallow once and nod, taking a deep breath. It’ll be fine. I don’t have an actual reason to be afraid. Sure, I might not be the best at interacting with people I barely know but perhaps I won’t even need to talk. Maybe I can get by with friendly smiles and energetic nods.
They can’t be that bad, I tell myself, until we join Maya and Tatiana, sitting on the bleachers, watching the football practice, and I’m suddenly reminded of the reason why I’ve never been very fond of his friends.
“How’s he doing?” James asks, as way of greeting, taking a seat behind them.
“Great, as always,” Maya answers, without turning around, as I join him on the bleachers.
Next to her, Tatiana, who’s sipping something green from a cup that has written “Live Out Loud” all over it in cursive, elegant letters, smiles at us, welcoming, if a little surprised to see me.
Maya lets out a loud whoop of encouragement as I return her friend’s smile, hesitantly.
James, next to me, takes out a cigarette and moves to light it but, before he can even put it in his mouth, Maya turns a furious glance at him, her long, thick hair moving in tandem.
“Put that out!” she snaps at him, her eyes fierce and her voice commanding. “Enjoy the fresh air!”
James laughs under his breath, holding out both hands in front of him in a soothing gesture and shoving the cigarette back in his jeans.
“And you should eat actual food for lunch!” she says, giving him one last nasty look before turning around.
James shakes his head, defeated but not upset, and makes a big show of taking an apple out of his backpack and giving it a big bite. Tatiana’s laughing too, watching the interaction with amusement.
“Don’t be scared,” James tells me, when he notices the expression on my face. “She’s only like that with me.”
Maya turns around and opens her mouth to say something but then she sees Lily and Daniel Jeong, making their way toward us and her expression softens.
“It wouldn’t be fake, precisely. And it doesn’t matter who it is, all that matters is that it’s believable,” Daniel Jeon is saying, taking a seat next to us.
“What has to be believable?” Tatiana asks, handing him something wrapped in foil.
“I’m trying to convince Lily to help me get a fake girlfriend.”
Maya turns with curiosity.
“Why are you trying to get a fake girlfriend?” she asks, her eyes open wide with shock.
“To get my parents off my back,” he answers, annoyed. “They’ve been insisting they want to know who my prom date is. Of course, by that, they mean it must be someone with breasts.”
That makes everyone laugh. Lily takes his hand in sympathy.
“It’s not that I don’t want to help you,” she tells him. “It’s just that I think you should tell whoever it is the whole truth.”
Dan groans, burying his face in his hands in frustration.
“I could fake date you,” Tatiana chimes in, eagerly, and he looks up at her, incredulous.
“You would?”
She nods, giving him a cheerful shrug.
“A relationship stunt might be all that’s needed to boost my chances of becoming prom queen,” she says, casually.
Maya and Lily start laughing at that and Dan whines again, moving to lie down on his back, shielding his eyes from the sun with his right hand.
“I’m being serious,” he says, to no one in particular.
“So am I!” Tatiana protests, but she looks like she’s trying hard not to laugh. “People love to gossip. It’d be a huge boost to my popularity. That’s what PR relationships are there for.”
She’s looking at Dan like she expects him to consider her proposal seriously, and I’m not entirely sure she’s just joking.
“Regular people don’t date other people as publicity stunts,” he argues, moving his hand so he’s looking at his friend from behind it.
“Only actors,” Lily agrees, taking a spoonful of her yogurt.
“And musicians,” Maya adds, her eyes on the team practicing across the field. “But maybe that’s what Sam’s doing, dating Nico. I mean, who would want to go out with such an asshole?”
“Sam isn’t like that,” James intervenes, speaking for the first time and surprising us all
Nobody says anything for a whole minute. In front of us, Lily and Maya exchange a heavy look, full of meaning.
Witnessing their complicity, I suddenly feel a painful stab of jealousy so strong, that I lose track of the conversation happening around me.
This is something Ela and I used to do all the time. We could turn toward each other, even from across a room full of people, and immediately know what the other one was thinking. I even remember once, before Sydney and Ela started dating, we were watching a movie at Andrew’s and he mentioned the new girl —Sydney— had told him she’d always thought Sirius Black and Remus Lupin had a thing for each other in the books and Ela and I exchanged a look, her eyes gone wide and my lips quivering with laughter.
“D’you think…?” she started.
“Yes!” I said, encouraging. By then, Ela had been eyeing Sydney curiously in the halls. We both knew, at that moment, that she might have a chance, after all.
The nostalgia hits me like a wave and I’m sure that if I don’t control myself quickly, I’ll start tearing up, so I force myself to pay attention to what Daniel Jeong is saying.
“It wouldn’t work,” he shakes his head. “Nobody would actually believe that we’re dating and then you’d just look lame fake dating someone, like you couldn’t get a proper prom date on your own.”
His words are harsh and he’s not making an effort to hide it, but Tatiana seems unfaced.
“Why wouldn’t they?”
“Because I’m gay,” he says, rolling his eyes as if it was the most obvious thing in the world and James lets out a silent chuckle.
“But not everyone knows that,” Tatiana adds, dismissive.
“It’s not hard to guess,” that’s Lily, who turns to give Dan an apologetic grin.
Tatiana rolls her eyes at no one in particular and then turns her impossibly-green eyes toward me.
“Betty,” she starts. “Did you know Dan is gay?”
Everyone turns to look at me and, at once, I start to blush a little, feeling self-conscious.
“Um no, not really,” I say, sincerely. “But it makes sense.”
“What does that mean?” Dan asks, pushing himself up onto his elbows so he’s looking at me.
“Oh, I didn’t-” I start, but James is giving him one of his most dangerous lopsided smiles.
“You know exactly what that means.”
“Precisely my point,” Dan turns to Tatiana, pointing a hand toward us.
“So?” she says, pushing her hair out of her face. “If Betty didn’t know then maybe not everyone knows.”
“Yeah, but Betty’s clueless,” James adds, grinning at me. I squint my eyes at him. “Everyone else would know you’re his beard.”
Tatiana lets out an exasperated noise and Lily turns to her with sympathy.
“You know you could ask anyone to be your date and they’d all say yes,” she tells her, squeezing Tatiana’s right knee in a comforting gesture. “Why do you want to go with him? He’s an annoying dick.”
She turns her eyes to Dan but her voice is so filled with tenderness that nobody could actually believe she means what she’s saying.
“I know!” Tatiana sounds surprised with herself. “But all the other boys here are idiots.”
“Amen, sister!” Maya adds in a low voice at the same time that Dan replies: “And the other half are gay.”
“Really? Like who?”
Both Maya and Tatiana turn their eager attention toward him, seemingly completely forgetting about prom.
“I’m not gonna tell you,” he answers, closing his eyes. “I wouldn’t want to accidentally out anyone and most are just guesses anyway.”
“You’re no fun,” Tatiana says, looking away.
At that exact moment, Maya stands up and runs to meet Daniel Torres, who’s jogging toward us.
“You did great!” she tells him, wrapping her arms around his neck and giving him a sweet kiss on the cheek. He answers with a big proud smile, pulling her closer to him with a hand on her waist.
A year ago, I might have looked away, out of sheer jealousy. But today, all I can think about is just how easily they move together. Like hugging and kissing and smiling flirtily at each other doesn’t cost them a thing
I turn to look at James, wondering what would happen if I were to reach out and take one of his hands on mine.
“You know, the whole point of coming to practice is that you’re supposed to cheer me on!” Daniel Torres says, detaching himself from Maya and giving his two best friends a chiding look.
The boys exchange a look of amusement and then, almost as if they’d planned it, they both stand up and start clapping at the same time.
“Woo-hoo!” James shouts, putting his hands around his mouth.
“Let’s go, Daniel!” Dan follows, with a fist in the air.
“Fuck off,” Daniel says, moving to sit next to Maya.
“So, what are we doing this weekend?” Dan asks, prodding Daniel with his left foot.
“Maya and I are going to my cousin’s quinceañera. I don’t know about the rest of you.”
Dan turns to James with a mischievous grin.
“Maybe we could crash your cousin’s quinceañera.”
James shakes his head, leaning back on his elbows.
“You know how much I hate crowds. I’m not crashing anything.”
“So let’s go steal alcohol and then get wasted at my house,” Dan rolls his eyes and lets his head fall back in annoyance.
James smiles back, but he doesn’t look excited.
“Can’t. My dad has me working with him this weekend,” he passes a hand through his hair in annoyance.
“Since when do you do what your dad tells you to?”
Dan lets out an annoyed sigh and the strands of hair from his bangs flutter away from his face. I wonder if he knows what James’ dad is like, or how prone he is to anger. James shakes his head but doesn’t answer that.
“Maybe you should get a job instead of trying to get your friends in trouble,” Maya intervenes, keeping her steely eyes on Dan, who, to his credit, doesn’t quiver under her gaze.
“What trouble?”
“You nearly got Daniel expelled! He’s risking his scholarship!”
Dan opens his mouth to protest but before he can and, to my own dismay, I speak up, in surprise.
“You got the scholarship to Wesleyan?”
I can feel their eyes moving together at once to look at me, surprised. I close my mouth and regret my outburst immediately.
“It’s-It’s not a sure thing yet,” Daniel answers. He looks just as shocked as the rest of his friends but he keeps a kind smile on his face.
“Wait, how do you know about that?” James turns to me with a curious frown on his face, his eyebrows moving comically together. He looks so cute that for a second, I forget my panic and feel a maddening need to laugh.
“I-” This is the moment when all those hours spent making up stories in my head should come in handy. I should be a good liar, under pressure. I should be able to come up with a plausible explanation that doesn’t involve disclosing the amount of time I spent last year following Daniel everywhere he went, asking Sydney for any information she could gather during their classes together. “Um-” Ela would know what to say; she’s amazing at small white lies that don’t incite further questions. I miss her. She would be laughing at me right now, watching me suffer to come up with an excuse. (There isn’t one). “I-I used to have a crush on him.”
“What?” James’ eyes grow wide with surprise and I can feel my face turning violently red as everyone around me process this information. Idiot, Bitchy B murmurs. I wish I could disappear right here, right now, instead of having to face them, but then, thankfully, Maya speaks.
“Why?” she asks, playfully. “He’s not even that cute.”
Daniel furrows his nose at her at the same time that Lily agrees, “James is way cuter.”
And then the memory of Ela and Sydney saying those exact words a few months back slams against me like a wall. I wish they were here, with me. They wouldn’t be helpful right now but at least they’d be here.
And it’s not that I dislike James’ friends. So far, they’ve all been nice to me in their own way. Even Tatiana. But Ela and Sydney’s absence feels like a pain in my chest.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” James asks, that amused smile lingering in the corners of his mouth.
“Oh, no,” Tatiana speaks before I can say anything. “Is this the end of their friendship?”
“I used to have a crush on Dan, if it helps,” Maya says, nonchalantly, pushing her thick hair out of her face.
Now, all of their gazes turn toward her.
“What?” Daniel says, at the same time that Dan leans forward, eyebrows raised in amusement.
“Tell me more,” he says, mockingly arrogant.
“You’re pretty cute,” Maya shrugs as if it’s no big deal. “That’s, of course, before I realized you’re very much gay.”
Both Daniels laugh at that.
“That might be the end of their friendship,” Lily tells Tatiana.
“Nothing will be the end of our friendship,” James intervenes, indignantly, and Dan moves behind me to clap him on the shoulder in agreement.
“If I have to kill you both for getting Daniel expelled, there might not be a friendship to end,” Maya intervenes, frowning at the two boys.
Dan turns to her to argue but I can’t hear what he says because James leans closer to me, whispering so only I can hear him.
“But I am officially jealous,” he says, teasing and I roll my eyes at him, thankful that his friends aren’t paying attention and can’t see the pleasure I feel at his words clear on my face.

Chapter Text

For a second, I can’t believe what I’m seeing. James Wolfe is sitting in my bed, his dark curls all wild, like a crown around his head, his dirty blue Converse dangling from the edge of the bed, so close to my perfectly clean duvet that, at any other moment, I’d be freaking out.
A year ago, I probably wouldn’t have believed it. A boy, sneaking into my bedroom, on a school night. This boy.
But tonight, here he is, looking down at his phone, choosing a song to play into the little speaker on my desk. He’s acting a little shy, all things considered. All James considered.
I wonder if he’s feeling as anxious as I do, sitting across the room, on my desk chair, legs tucked underneath me, cardigan wrapped tightly around myself.
I try to calm down by looking at my room and picturing it through his eyes. This is the first time he’s been up here, (because we always work in my living room despite his endless teasing) and I wonder what he makes of the impeccable white walls, of the deep-blue waves Lore painted on the wall behind my bed one summer when she was feeling creative. I wonder what he makes of the pictures I have taped on the wall near my desk (of my family and my friends), or the small blackboard, and the calendar with my never-ending to-do list. I look at my purple duvet and the stuffed animals sitting neatly against my pillows. The fluorescent stars Ela helped me glue to my ceiling. Mine is a girl’s room, I realize. It’s girlie. Even the drapes in my windows are pink. I wonder if he finds that funny. I wonder how many other girlie bedrooms he’s seen.
A slow, sad song starts playing and James turns to look at me.
“You can come closer, you know,” he says, raising a playful eyebrow. “I won’t seduce you.”
I start laughing at his words, still in my place. It’s not that I distrust him. He said he could be a snail. Whenever we have work to do, he always makes a big show of sitting a good, three feet away from me. Plus, he hasn’t tried more than kissing me a few times, mostly when we’re saying goodbye to each other.
But I wasn’t prepared for this and I’m not sure I look cute right now. I’ve already washed my face so I’m not wearing any makeup and the pajamas I have on tonight aren’t doing me any favors, (not that I have an extended repertoire of sexy pajamas to choose from, mind you). What’s even worse, since I left my contact lenses in the bathroom and I literally cannot see without them, I’m wearing my old, red, wireframe glasses. I push them up my nose in a nervous gesture when he leans forward, hooking one foot on my chair and pulling me closer to the bed. I let him, playing with the hem of my sweatpants, my gaze fixed on my fingers as they move.
“Betty,” he says, quietly. “I’m a slug. Remember?”
I shake my head because duh, of course I remember. I take a deep breath and try to relax.
“Aren’t your parents gonna be worried?”
He shrugs, taking off his hoodie and shaking out his hair.
“I don’t think they’ll notice I’m gone. And Hannah knows, anyway.”
“Are you sure you should get your 13-year-old sister to cover for you? You’re setting a bad example for her.”
He laughs, leaning back on his elbows.
“Maybe. But she’s covered for me plenty of times before and she still hasn’t followed me down the wrong path, so I think we’re safe.”
I feel a tiny stab of pain in my chest and look away from him. This shouldn’t be a surprise and it shouldn’t upset me this much. He’s had girlfriends before. I know this. I’ve known this the whole time.
“Lots of sneaking into girls’ bedrooms?” I ask, forcing my voice to come out cool and collected and failing miserably.
He laughs, throwing his head back, and then sits up, closer to me, his eyes gone all serious.
“I’m pretty sure I’ve spent most of those nights out smoking weed with my friends in Dan’s backyard.”
I blush, embarrassed at my jealous outburst and, because I can’t think of anything witty to say, I frown.
“You’re a very bad influence on me.”
He laughs again, tapping my chair with his right foot.
“I like your glasses.”
I look away from him, at a stain on his right knee, feeling flustered and stupid.
“Ela says they make me look like a middle-aged librarian,” I admit, suppressing a delirious impulse to start laughing.
“No,” he says, frowning a little and I wonder if he can’t tell it’s a joke. “You look pretty,” and then, before my body even knows how to react, he continues talking, like calling girls pretty was the easiest thing in the world. “Are you guys still fighting?” I nod. “Will you tell me about it?”
“Um, it’s complicated.”
I don’t really want to talk about this right now, but he’s giving me an encouraging smile.
“I can do complicated.”
“When my dad called to say he wanted to meet me, Ela was the first person I told. I thought she’d understand why I was so angry and hurt but she acted like I was being unreasonable. Like I was a spoiled child making a big deal out of nothing. And I know she’s allowed to have her opinions but I thought best friends were supposed to take your side, no questions asked. Even if you’re screwing up,” I let out an embarrassed laugh. “Maybe I am acting like a spoiled brat.”
He shakes his head, his lips pressed together in a thoughtful pout.
“I don’t think you’re being unreasonable. Friends are supposed to stick by your side, even if you’re wrong.” I hum. That’s almost exactly what I thought all those weeks ago. “And how are things going with your dad?”
I shrug, moving to grab the shoelaces on his right Converse. I pull and it comes undone.
“Fine,” I admit. “He’s not that bad. Mostly just irresponsible. And I met his fiancé the other day. She’s kinda weird. But not bad, overall.”
I don’t want to tell him just how weird Jennifer is. And I don’t want to admit to the absolute disaster my relationship with Lore is at the moment. I’m afraid that if I do, I’ll start crying my eyes out and I’m sure he didn’t come here for that. I don’t know what he came here for but best keep the tears at bay.
“How are things with your parents?” I ask, instead.
“The same as always,” he answers, watching my fingers coiling around his shoelace. “They fight. They act like I’m a disappointment. They threatened to kick me out of the house if I didn’t help Dad on the weekends. Only now we fight more often. He loves to remind me Hannah’s his favorite child. Like I care.”
I look at him in shock. I thought parents weren’t supposed to have favorites. That’s Parenting 101.
“I don’t like your parents,” I tell him and I’m surprised by the intensity in my own words.
He lets out a quiet laugh and lets his head fall forward and, suddenly, my room feels too small. We’re as close as we’ve ever been. Too close. I feel the familiar itch at the tip of my fingers and my heart starts beating fast, recklessly fast.
“And I like you a lot,” he tells me, still with his head hung forward, looking at me through the curls of his bangs.
If my heart was going fast before, it’s gone completely berserk now. I can feel it making its way to my throat. It’s not like I didn’t know he liked me. But I don’t think he’d said it quite so candidly before now.
“I like you too, a lot,” I say, forcing the words to push past the lump in my throat.
The corners of his mouth twitch slightly and he hooks his pinky finger around mine. He moves slowly, his fingers brushing gently against my own, his thumb drawing faint circles on the palm of my hand. Every single stroke of his fingers leaves a trail of fire behind.
He’s watching our hands and I watch him, trying to calm myself down. This close, I can see a few drops of rain still clinging to the curls at the top of his head. I can make out the freckles on his cheekbones, so faint I hadn’t noticed them before.
The itching is back in full force. I want to reach out and touch the bone at the bridge of his nose. I want to follow the individual hairs that trail away from his eyebrows and into his hair.
This close, I have become shameless and I speak before I can really think about what I’m doing
“James,” His eyes snap up to meet mine. “If I asked you to stay still, would you?”
He dips his chin in an almost imperceptible nod.
I bite down on my tongue and force myself to move before my courage abandons me. I climb out of the chair and into the bed, sitting next to him.
He moves, placing his hands on the mattress behind his back and letting his weight fall onto them.
“Close your eyes.”
He does.
I move closer and watch him for a long while until he starts smiling, amused and I force myself to act.
Slowly, I trace the curve of his nose with one finger. I touch the freckles under his eyes, watching his long eyelashes flutter.
“What are you doing?” He’s taking deep, slow breaths as he speaks and I wonder if this is as thrilling for him as it is for me.
I shrug and then remember he can’t see me.
“Just, stay still.”
I let my fingers find his eyebrows and follow them into his hair. I lean closer, burying my nose in it, inhaling the familiar scent of boy and soap and wood. I wrap a damp curl around my index finger and, for a moment, I have an impulse to bite his hair, (which I know is gross and weird) (sue me, I’m gross and weird), but I don’t. Instead, I give him a kiss on the forehead, which makes him giggle (at least, it sounds like a giggle).
I wish I could move closer. I want full access to his face and his ears and his neck, and I won’t get it in this position. But there’s really only one way to do it and I can’t even begin to consider the possibility of simply climbing into his lap. Anything related to his lap is out of the question. I can’t even look beneath his waist for Christ’s sake.
I must do with what I have so I lean forward, touching the collarbone peeking through his shirt. With my other hand, I follow the curve of his jaw, until I’m touching the mole beneath his right earlobe, the one I promised myself I would kiss one day.
I take a deep breath and place one, quick, soft kiss there. He shivers again.
I move until his chin bumps against my glasses and then, completely emboldened by his response, I bite the bone at the bridge of his nose. He laughs and I can feel it in my fingers.
I want to bite his whole face off. I don’t. I stroke against the faint stubble at the edge of his cheeks. I bite his jaw, gently, and he takes a deep breath. I kiss his closed eyes. I bite his nose again.
I move to touch every single mole on his face, counting them as I go. Twelve.
I try to memorize him, his sunken cheeks, the corners of his mouth, the way his chin dips a little in the middle, but not enough to form a dimple. I think I could spend the rest of my life looking at him and it still wouldn’t be enough.
After a while, he opens his eyes and watches me too.
“You should come to prom with me,” he says, all of a sudden and I laugh, surprised.
“I didn’t know you liked dances. I thought you said you don’t like crowds.”
He shrugs, his eyes alight.
“Are you gonna rent a limo and get me a corsage?” I ask, teasing him.
“If you want me to,” he answers, serious.
I squint my eyes at him. For some reason, I find this request amusing.
“Are you hoping you’ll get crowned junior prom king and I’ll be there to cheer you on?”
He laughs, closing his eyes for a second and shaking his head.
“I think you might have a mildly skewed perception of my popularity.”
“No way,” I roll my eyes at him. “People love you!”
“Maybe you’re just biased,” he says, smiling that playful smile of his that makes me want to disappear. His eyes wander to my lips and I’m suddenly keenly aware of just how close we are. So close that I can see his chest rising every time he takes a breath. The room feels too small and I feel lightheaded, stupid.
I flop onto the bed next to him, curling my body into a question mark and closing my eyes.
I take deep, calming breaths, trying not to guess what he makes of my blushed cheeks. I feel him moving to lie on the bed by my side and, when I open my eyes, I find his gaze fixed on me.
This was a bad idea. My bed isn’t big enough for the two of us and our arms are nearly touching each other, which feels a lot more intimate than kissing his neck now that his eyes rest on me.
He moves to grab a loose strand of my hair and wrap it around two of the fingers of his left hand and, because I feel so exposed next to him, I let my eyes move to the stars on the ceiling on top of us.
He lets go of my hair and then runs a finger through the length of my arm, leaving a blaze of heat behind it. I’m afraid he’ll go any further. I’m afraid he’ll stop.
“Betty.”
It comes out almost like an exhale, like every breath out of his mouth carried my name with it.
I turn to look at him. His eyes are almost completely dark, all pupil, no iris. He locks his gaze on mine and I feel trapped and I can’t look away.
“Come to prom with me.”
“Why?” I ask, more out of genuine curiosity than anything else.
“Because I like you,” he answers, slowly, deliberately.
I want to tell him how much I like him back. I want to tell him how sometimes, when I’m working on homework, the memory of his lips will come to me, so suddenly, it takes my breath away. How sometimes, when he leaves, I feel lost, like I don’t remember how to function properly without him.
I want to tell him, lately, all I can write about is his eyes and his hands. The glint on his gaze when he gets excited. The way his curls stick out when they’re drying out.
I want to tell him about the number of nights I’ve fallen asleep thinking about him. I want to tell him that when he leaves, I’m going to bury my nose in the pillows and inhale his scent until it’s gone.
I don’t.
Instead, I move to my side so I’m facing him completely.
“Okay,” I say, touching the mole on his neck.
He catches my finger and holds my hand close to him for a few, long seconds, his eyes still fixed on me.
“You have twelve moles on your face,” I blurt out, idiotically.
The smile he gives me takes hold of his whole face.
He moves to touch a spot underneath my left eye where I imagine a mole must be. He counts mine under his breath, moving slowly and deliberately. Finally, he touches a spot hiding in the curve of my neck, unfolding the rest of his fingers around it and sliding his hand down my collarbone.
I’m so caught up in his touch that, for a second, I forget to breathe.
“You have nine,” he whispers, pulling his hand away slowly.
I make an incoherent sound that makes him laugh or maybe just grunt, I can’t tell the difference sometimes.
“I feel like I’m corrupting you,” he tells me.
“I cannot be corrupted,” I shake my head, sternly and he gives me that stupid teasing smile that will be the end of me.
I close my eyes because I could be corrupted, I know it. (I almost want him to corrupt me).
“Betty, if I promise not to ravish you, will you let me kiss you?”
I look into his eyes.
I nod. And nod. And nod, and nod, and nod.

It’s nearly three a.m. when James climbs out of my bedroom window. I’m so tired that all I can do is watch him from the place on my bed where I’ve been lying on my side for God knows how long. He turns the lights off and, as the window latches back into place silently, I can hear him whispering, “Good night.”
I want to say goodnight, too, but I’m too tired to open my mouth. Or maybe it’s that I can still feel the taste of his lips on mine and I don’t want it to go away.
I wrap my arms around the pillow he was using and close my eyes. As I’m drifting into sleep, a memory comes pulling at the corners of my mind. Andrew’s face flashes in front of my eyes for a second and I try to focus but the memory is fleeting and I’m too tired. I fall asleep, thinking of James.

Chapter Text

When the door to the classroom flies open, I’m almost falling asleep. I’ve tried everything I could to keep myself awake but nothing’s worked so far. I drank a whole cup of coffee this morning but it seems to have no effect on me, (plus it was really sour). So my strategy has been to write down everything the teacher is saying, even if I can’t quite make sense of the words and my mind keeps wandering back toward memories of last night.
Nobody turns to see who’s late, not even Ms. Anderson, who’s telling us about the midterm exam. She keeps going like there was no interruption, even as James drags his backpack behind him, looking for an empty seat, which he finds, a few rows in front of me, to my left.
I watch him as he takes out a notebook and a pencil. He rubs his eyes, distracted and I can’t help but notice the shadows there, mirroring my own exhaustion.
I turn to look at the words written on the board in front of me, but I can’t make sense of them. My brain refuses to cooperate and my eyes drift back to James, as if they had a mind of their own. He has his notebook open and is drawing something, carefully. His movements are deliberate and methodical and I follow them, greedily.
I don’t know why I can’t keep myself from staring at him. It’s not like I suddenly forgot his face. I mean, we spent every second of last night looking at each other. I made it my mission to learn every line on his features, every crease, every dip. If I focus long enough, I can remember every single mole. You’d think I’d be sick of him by now, but the hunger feels even more intense, if possible.
I wonder if this is what people talk about when they talk about love. Not that I love him. I mean, I can’t love him. I’ve known him for less than three months for God’s sake! That’s not enough time to fall for someone.
But I do feel a little obsessed. Okay, more than a little. It’s like my mind tries to find reasons to think about him. I see a boy with a skateboard on the street and I’m reminded of him. I see the poster for a random movie and I wonder if he’s seen it. (A movie, for Christ’s sake!). My mouth finds the most random excuses to bring up his name in conversation. (So much for pretending not to like him in front of my friends). It’s insane. I’m insane.
This isn’t the person I thought I’d become the first time a boy called me “pretty.” But here I am. A girl possessed. If it were up to me, I’d still be laying in bed, next to him. If it were up to me, I would never leave his car. I would never do anything but look at him, touch him, kiss him.
You’re ridiculous.
I can almost picture Bitchy B giving me her best judgmental stare, arms crossed over her chest, mouth twitching in disgust. I miss her. I miss being her.
Not this ludicrous version of myself that suddenly feels like crying.
I blink rapidly, trying to keep the tears at bay, as James leans forward, mouth slightly open, and starts erasing something energetically.
He’s so entranced with what he’s doing that I let my gaze focus on him entirely.
I feel the tears sliding down my cheeks and I wipe them away quickly. I can’t start crying in the middle of class. What if Ela turns around and sees me crying? She’ll start freaking out and what will I say anyway? I’m crying because I miss him? He’s right there, sitting only a few feet away.
I can’t make sense of myself or the knot of emotions in my chest.
I want to stand up and go to him, touch him, bite his nose. I want to go back to my bed, to his hands on my hair and his scent on my pillows. To the way he was looking at me when he said he liked me. To his needy lips on mine.
But there’s other things too. There’s this sudden, overwhelming envy. I envy him. I envy him so much, I nearly hate him a little too. Because I can’t have him. I mean, he doesn’t belong to me. When he’s gone, his curls and his fingers and the corners of his mouth will go with him.
Suddenly, I wish I was him. Just so I could have him entirely for myself. Which is crazy, I know. Possessive. Proof positive that I’ve lost my mind.
I want his fingers. I want his eyes. I want to love everything he loves. I want to see the world the way he does. I want to obsess over strange films and I want to draw trees everywhere I go. I want to wonder what makes people human.
I want to know every version of him. I want to know every dark corner and secret passage. Every embarrassing dream, every fluttering hope, every dreadful desire, I want to know his thoughts, his reasons, his motivations.
He moves, taking out his phone and I look away, wiping the tears with my sleeve, suddenly aware that Raegan, sitting next to me, keeps casting curious looks my way.
She must think I’m insane. I am insane.
And then, out of nowhere, I remember this one time, last semester, when I ran into Samantha Covington in the secret girl’s bathroom on the second floor. She was crying, too. Sobbing loudly. Her pretty face stained with her tears, her makeup running down in dark lines. I wasn’t sure what to say to her, how to comfort her. I’ve always been bad at crying people and she looked particularly miserable.
I tried to ask her what was wrong but she just shook her head at me, covering her face, embarrassed.
I’d heard, through the grapevine, that she and her boyfriend had broken up, so I offered her a piece of toilet paper to wipe her nose and what I hoped was a sympathetic smile. (Not that I had much sympathy for her).
“Boys suck,” I told her, because I didn’t really know what else to say and it seemed true enough.
At the time, I wasn’t really aware she was crying over James. I mean, I knew who he was. We’ve shared homeroom for as long as I can remember. And I knew they were dating, but I didn’t really have an opinion of him. And, regardless, no boy could ever be worth this many tears, especially not coming from a girl like Samantha.
She gave me a hiccuping laugh and accepted the piece of paper.
“I don’t know what I did wrong,” she confessed, closing her eyes and letting the tears fall down without shame.
“You did nothing wrong,” I said, giving her an awkward pat on the shoulder. Even if I didn’t know anything about her, I knew that to be true. She’d done nothing wrong.
I wonder what she’d think of me now if she saw me like this. Trying to contain a sob. Unsympathetic Betty who couldn’t wait to get out of there, who was done with girls crying over stupid boys.
I remember James’ eyes as they moved through my face, counting every mole. I remember his hoarse whispers as he asked me to prom and the way my heart seem to expand with every touch of his fingers. I remember thinking the world could end right there and then and I’d have no regrets.
I understand her tears, now. I mean, look at me. I’m tearing up and he hasn’t left yet. But he will. One day.
Bitchy B is right, of course. He will, one day. Boys like James can never stay put in a single place. And even if he could, we’re only in high school. I’m going to go to college in New York and he’s going to go who-knows-where to smile at other pretty girls.
He’ll be gone. This will be over, one day. A month from now or a week from now. Who knows. And then, will I be the girl crying in the bathroom, makeup smudged, and face puffed? Will I ask myself what I did wrong?
I don’t know.
In many ways, I don’t care.
I want to hate myself for this, but it’s true. I can’t see past today. I can’t see past the way he says my name.
Even if caring for him might one day result in my inconsolable tears, I’m not willing to stop whatever this is. I like him too much. Too fucking much.
I like the way he makes me feel. I like the obsessive staring and the sleepless nights. I like the way his cold hands felt on my waist and the way he blurs his words when he touches me.
I want him, recklessly. Stupidly.
Raegan slides a piece of paper on my desk, neatly folded. She’s looking at me with an exasperated expression on her face and I wonder if she finds my tears annoying. I look at it for a long second, getting ready to apologize if I have to.
But when I open it, I recognize James’ handwriting immediately, all sharp lines and idle curves.
stop staring, the note says, and, underneath it, check your phone.
I blush so intensely that I’m sure Ms. Anderson would think I’m having a convulsion if she were to turn around and see me right now.
I take out my phone (which is strictly against my class policy but at this point, who cares?) and look at his texts, three of them, lighting up my screen. The first one says, stop staring, and then another, i like it when you stare tho, and then, finally: wanna skip last period with me?
The answer, of course, is clear. No. I shouldn’t. I mean, I’ll barely be able to remember anything that happened today, I cannot afford to skip classes on top of that.
But, maybe, if you won’t be able to remember anything, you might as well go with him.
I want to roll my eyes at myself. Make up your mind, idiot.
I feel his eyes on me, as I try to decide what to do and the heat on my face intensifies. I look up, to find that stupid smile of his dancing on his lips. He doesn’t look away, even as I return his gaze. He keeps his eyes steady, shining with mischief. I want to curse him. I want to snap the smile off his face. I want to stand up and kiss him.
Stop staring, I type back, and then: Cannot be corrupted, remember?
I hear him laugh when he reads my response. Ela, in front of me, turns to give him a curious look, but he doesn’t notice because he’s writing something back.
thats what i thought
cant blame me for trying tho
i like hanging out with you
I bite my inner cheek, trying hard not to smile because I know he’s watching me.
I like hanging out with you, too, I write back, to my own dismay. But I’ll kill you if you lower my GPA.
one day ill get you to skip a whole day of school with me betty green
You can dream. I can’t believe myself and what I’m doing right now. Flirting with a boy over text during my favorite class. My favorite class! Tenth-grade Betty would disapprove so much.
and i do, his last text says.
of you

By the end of the school day, I wonder if it might have been better to just skip class with James. I haven’t been able to think of anything that isn’t his last text. and i do. of you.
Damn him! His words left me catatonic. I couldn’t do anything but blush and hide my face in my hands and hope to God that no one was watching me. Hope to God the smile on my face didn’t start eating me alive.
I couldn’t even think of a good response to give him. (And I’m the writer!). All I did was send him a stupid smiley face and then proceeded to feel like an idiotic, lame asshole for the rest of the school day.
Thankfully, Ela’s waiting for me after class to ask if I wanna come with them to study for the Physics midterm. I say yes because I could use the help and because then I don’t have to feel so stupid for not skipping class. Plus, I’m in no position to reject any of Ela’s olive branches.
We’re heading to Ela’s house along with Andrew, (Sydney said she’d join us later because she needs to talk to Mr. Corona about taking his AP History class), when I see James, leaning against the hood of his car, playing with his skateboard, haphazardly.
And even though we were flirting with each other only a few hours ago, my heart does a funny little skip as soon as I spot him. (Roll-of-the-eye ridiculous).
Ela notices him too, as soon as he starts waving.
“Hey,” he says, standing up and walking toward us.
“Hey,” I answer, watching Ela from the corner of my eye.
She’s giving him a grin that’s almost challenging. Andrew, next to me, makes a noncommittal noise as a form of salute.
“What’s up?” Ela asks, friendly enough but with an edge to her voice that makes me want to turn around and leave before she gets murderous.
“Just heading home. Wanted to see if you needed a ride,” at that, James turns to look at me, making it clear that his offer only extends so far.
“Oh,” I stumble, “we were going to go study, actually.”
“You could join us, if you want,” Ela chimes in, still with that dangerous edge to her voice.
“Um, can’t. Gotta meet my dad.”
He shrugs, as if it wasn’t a big deal and gives her a grateful smile but there’s a tension in his jaw that makes me want to ditch my friends and climb into the passenger seat of his car.
“Good luck, though.”
He gives my friends a lopsided smile and then turns to me. He leans in, looking at me with those heavy eyes I’ve come to know so well. My heart starts beating fast, out of my control, almost like a separate entity. I wonder if he’s going to kiss me, right here, in front of my friends, in front of the whole school (as in literally the whole building), where anyone can see.
But he only gives me a soft kiss on the cheek, tugging at my sleeve, once.
“Bye, Betty,” he says, quietly, as he draws away from me, still holding onto it.
“Bye,” I say, almost in a whisper.
He tugs on my sleeve once more, before letting go and turning to my friends.
“Bye, guys,” he says, casually, as if nothing had happened.
“Bye, James,” Ela answers, shifting her deadly gaze to me. If Andrew says something, I don’t hear him, because I’m trying hard to ignore the question on my best friend’s face.
James turns around and leaves me there, to face them on my own. I feel my whole body go numb and then, almost at once, flush from head to toes.
“You’re such a liar,” Ela nearly yells, as soon as he drives away. “‘We just hang out’ Yeah, right! I’m supposed to be your best friend, you know? You’re supposed to tell me everything!”
Her eyes are shining and her smile is wicked. I want to point out that we haven’t had a serious conversation in nearly two months, but I’m sure it wouldn’t go well.
“I- I wasn’t lying,” I say, instead,
“What was that, then? And don’t tell me you guys are friends because friends don’t do that.”
“Are you dating?” Andrew chimes in, speaking for the first time.
“Um, no, not… officially.”
Not in any way, really. Up until this moment, I hadn’t really questioned what we are. Which is the exact reason I didn’t want anyone to find out.
“What does that mean?” Ela asks, with a frown.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “We haven’t really- talked about it.”
“Then what do you do?”
“We- hang out.” Ela raises an eyebrow at me, in disbelief. “We- kiss,” I say, finally, because there’s really no use in denying it anymore.
Ela claps, triumphant as she throws her head back, laughing.
“I knew it. You’re such a fucking liar.”
“I only said we weren’t dating. Which is true.”
“Technicality,” she says, rolling her eyes, which is my thing. “So what, you’re spending all that time together and you haven’t discussed whether or not you’re dating.”
“We don’t- really talk while we’re kissing.”
Ela laughs at that and Andrew gives me a frown of disapproval. My best friend takes out her phone and starts typing, almost frantically.
“What are you doing?” I demand, taking a step closer to her, as if I wanted to peer into her phone but she’s too far away.
“Telling Syd the news.”
“You’re such a gossip!”
I want to sound indignant but I can’t help smiling a little, too. The truth is this is the most fun I’ve had with Ela since that stupid fight. I want to hold onto our banter. I want it to keep going for as long as it can.
She pushes me away with her right elbow, still texting.
“C’mon! There’s never any gossip with you and this is just too good not to tell. It deserves a toast!” She gives us a wicked smile, raising both her eyebrows. “Ice cream toast. Sydney’s in. She can’t wait to know all the details.”
“Oh, no” I feel my whole face starting to blush. This is going to be dreadful. “I don’t have any details to give.”
“Yes, you do,” she says, almost as if she was chiding me. “When did it happen? Have you had sex yet?”
“Let’s not talk about that,” Andrew intervenes, almost annoyed.
“Let’s not talk about that,” I agree, trying hard to control the heat that must be visible on my face.
Ela rolls her eyes at both of us and then giggles when she reads something on her phone.
“Syd wants to know if he’s a good kisser. I mean, there has to be a reason he’s so famous for being a fuckboy.”
“I’m not answering any questions like that,” I say, with finality.
“Ugh, why not? We need details.”
“No, we don’t,” Andrew says. At the very least, he’s on my side.
“Maybe you don’t.”
Ela looks at him with intent and his scowl deepens. I can tell there’s something being said between them, something I’m not privy to. He shakes his head and Ela opens her mouth to answer but then Sydney reaches us, practically skipping in her place.
“I want to know everything!” She tells me, wrapping an arm around my shoulders and dragging me along as she walks to the ice cream parlor. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell us!” She shakes her head in disapproval but I know that she isn’t trying to rile me up. Instead, she looks genuinely eager to know more.
Behind me, I can hear Ela and Andrew whispering furiously to each other but I can only make out a few words. Ela saying “It’s not my fault” and Andrew insisting he doesn’t “want to talk about it.”
When we take a seat, my best friend is quick to ask for our usual order, and then she’s back, her wicked smile plastered on her face.
“I can’t believe you’re dating James Wolfe,” she says and Sydney nods along, in agreement.
“It’s weird when you say his full name.”
“James Wolfe,” Ela repeats, clearly just to annoy me. “Fuckboy of the eleventh grade. Widely liked. Famously cute.”
“Stop it! You’re embarrassing yourself!” I say, burying my head in my hands, trying hard not to laugh at her ridiculous pronouncements.
“So, when did it start?” That’s Sydney, who’s licking the spoon of his ice cream with so much glee it’s contagious.
“At Daniel Jeong’s party,” I confess.
“I thought you said he abandoned you,” Andrew intervenes, with a frown.
“I don’t think I used the word ‘abandon’,” I explain, weakly, hoping he isn’t angry at me. I know I lied to him, but I didn’t mean to, I just couldn’t make sense of the situation myself. “I mean, he did leave, at some point. But, um, we kissed, before that.”
“Slut!” Ela nearly yells, clapping her hands together.
“It was just a kiss!”
“The only kiss?” Sydney raises both her eyebrows at me, in a knowing gesture.
“Not the only kiss.”
“I knew it! How long you have been lying to us?”
“Not strictly lying. Just not telling the truth, maybe.”
Ela rolls her eyes at me again, and I have the impulse to reach out and cover her eyes, the way she used to do to me whenever I rolled my eyes at her too much.
“Oh, this is so funny!” She grins her big-toothed grin. “Our Betty dating James Wolfe.”
“Please stop using his full name,” I say, mortified. “Just, please stop. I don’t need everyone to find out.”
“Who’s gonna find out?” Ela asks, looking genuinely dumbfounded.
“Inez,” Sydney nods like she understands my concern. “She has eyes everywhere.”
“Well, that’s inevitable. And, who cares anyway? It’s not like he has a secret girlfriend that he’s cheating on,” Ela adds, dismissive. “Right?”
“Not that I know of.” I close my eyes for a second. “Look, I just don’t want people asking me these exact questions because I don’t have answers for them. And I don’t need them. I like him. I like hanging out with him. I just don’t want it to be complicated. And I don’t want people messing things up.”
“You can’t prevent people from finding out,” Sydney reaches out to touch my hand, gently. “Just don’t let it get to you. it’s nobody’s business but yours. And James, I suppose.”
“And ours,” Ela intervenes, indignantly. “We’re your friends!”
“Well, yes,” Sydney concedes, giving my best friend a gentle shove with her shoulder. “And we mean you no harm.”
“I’m not entirely convinced that’s true,” I tell her, squinting my eyes at Ela, who starts to laugh maniacally.

Chapter Text

“Why is Elena so annoying all the time?” Ela asks, looking at the screen and pushing a fistful of popcorn into her mouth.
We’re laying on her bed watching an episode of The Vampire Diaries. This is the first time I’ve been in her house since the fight. It was Ela’s idea to have a girl’s night in and I was in no position to refuse, (plus I didn’t really want to).
I felt a little awkward at first, but then we ran into her dad in the kitchen, working on one of his culinary experiments and, when he saw me, he smiled, relieved and happy to see me.
“Betty,” he said, pulling on Cheese’s collar. (Cheese is Ela’s crazy golden retriever). “Are you having dinner with us?”
My friend, standing behind him, shook her head frantically, which meant whatever he was cooking was either too weird or too inedible.
“Um,” I said, torn between safeguarding my stomach and wanting to please Phil, who’s always been very kind to me. “I already ate at home.”
He laughed, clearly skeptical, but didn’t push it.
Which is how we ended up eating popcorn instead of actual dinner.
“She’s not that annoying,” I say, shaking my head at the screen. “It’s just hard to compete with Katherine.”
“You’re absolutely right,” Ela laughs, spreading her legs in front of her. “Which is why I’ll never understand why they’re always trying to kill her. The show went to hell the moment she died.”
On the screen, Stefan and Katherine are dancing. My best friend bends her legs underneath her, taking another mouthful of popcorn. Ela has always been like this. Unable to stay still for more than a few seconds.
“The show went to hell the moment the love triangle was resolved.”
“No, it didn’t,” she laughs. “You just like the angst.”
“Yes,” I agree, watching as Damon shoots Katherine with a stake. Immediately, Elena falls to the ground too, hurt.
“So,” my best friend says, mischievous, giving me a nudge with her knee, “tell me all about your angst.”
“What angst?” I ask, with my eyes still fixed on the screen even though she’s turned around to look at me.
“James angst.”
“There’s no James angst.”
“Ugh,” she says, flopping onto the bed. “You know what I mean. Tell me all about straight paradise.”
I can’t help but laugh at her stupid joke. I missed having her by my side, even if just to annoy and rile me up.
“What do you want to know?”
“Have you had sex yet?”
“Ew, no,” I say, blushing.
“Why are you such a prude?” Ela asks, teasing. “Elena had sex with Stefan on their like third date.”
“Elena and Stefan both look like they’re in their twenties at the very least.”
She rolls her eyes and flops onto her belly, resting her face on her hands and looking at the screen, where Jeremy is telling the Salvatore brothers to stop attacking Katherine because the doppelgangers are linked together and they’re hurting Elena, too. Which, of course, forces both boys to stop at once.
I think my friend is done with her questions and let out a breath of relief, before squeezing some lime onto the popcorn, which always annoys Ela, but she’s not looking at me.
“Do you not want to?”
I bite my lip and stare at the screen. I suppose if I’m going to talk about this with anyone, it might as well be my best friend. The girl who explained to me in detail (unprovoked) how two gay men could have sex facing each other.
“Um, I think I do,” I admit.
Ela sits up at once, turning to face me, forgetting all about the vampire drama on the screen.
“So, why don’t you?”
“Because I’m afraid.”
And there it is. Put into words. The reason why even though sometimes all I can do is stare at James’ back while he writes and imagine biting his shoulder blade, I can’t really bring myself to think of sex with him.
“Afraid of what? That it’ll hurt?”
I shake my head no, blushing. I hadn’t even thought about the logistics behind it.
“Not exactly. It’s just that whenever I think about it, I can’t imagine my body in the equation, you know? Like, what do I do with it? And, like, I’d have to get naked and I can’t,” I shake my head again. “It’s just too much.”
“So, you’re afraid of being naked in front of him?”
“I’ve never been naked in front of anybody!” I nearly shout.
She puts both her hands in front of her, opening her eyes wide as if she was telling me to chill out.
“It’s just like being naked in the shower, only someone can see you.”
I raise a pointed eyebrow at her.
“Precisely.”
“So, you want to have sex with him but you don’t want to be naked?”
“I-” I push my knees in front of me and wrap my arms around them, suddenly feeling small and stupid. “I don’t know if I want to have sex. But I do want to do things to him.”
“Like what?” she asks, raising both her eyebrows and flopping onto her belly next to me, her legs swinging in the air happily. “You want to give him…?”
“Stop!” I say, covering my face with my hands, mortified. I don’t know how Ela manages to act so nonchalantly around the topic of sex when I’m nearly certain she’s had about as much of it as I’ve had. Which is to say nothing at all.
“Do you?”
“No,” I answer, firmly. “I just- I want to kiss him all over.”
Which is a less humiliating way of saying I’ve been fantasizing about taking off his shirt for weeks now. Wondering what the muscles of his stomach would feel against my fingers. Wondering if he has any hair on his chest. Imagining kissing the individual bones of his column, wrapping my arms around his waist, and biting his shoulders and his neck.
“That doesn’t sound like sex,” she sounds almost indignant.
“It does to me. I feel like such a pervert,” I admit and she laughs.
“Wanting to kiss him isn’t perverted at all.”
“Sometimes, when he’s drawing, I want to put his fingers in my mouth.”
“Oh my God!” she says, perking up. “Don’t tell him that or he’ll want to be alone with you in his room.”
I shake my head. I’ve conveniently forgotten to mention the number of times he’s been up in my room.
“You do sound perverted,” she muses, taking a mouthful of popcorn and then making a face when she tastes the lime in them. “So you want to do perverted things to him but you don’t want to have sex with him?”
“I just- I can’t think of anything related to this area,” I say, moving my hands in circles around my lap.
Ela rolls her eyes at me.
“You’re not 12 anymore, Betty, you can say it. You don’t want to think of his penis.”
I close my eyes and shake my head, trying hard not to act like a child.
“It’s easy for you to talk about, you’ll never have to deal with one in your life.”
“But I’ve seen them,” Ela says like it was obvious. “They’re kind of like fingers, only bigger and wrinkly. Like a grandma’s.”
“They’re nothing like fingers,” I say, frowning in distress.
“Maybe you should think of them like fingers, then maybe you’ll want to put it in your mouth.”
“Enough!” I say, shuddering dramatically and she laughs maniacally. “Why don’t we talk about your sex life?” I counterattack. “Aren’t you afraid of vaginas?”
“No, I have one,” she reminds me.
I roll my eyes at her.
“Then, have you had sex with Sydney?”
The last thing I’d heard was that they still hadn’t done it, which was causing some conflict, but neither of them explained why, exactly.
She shakes her head no.
“Do you not want to?”
Ela frowns, passing a hand through her short, spiky hair.
“Not really,” she answers, after a second, sounding completely sincere.
I stare at her with surprise. Ela is the most sex-forward person I know. She used to ask girls how they managed to breathe when they were going down on their boyfriends, which always made everyone but her very uncomfortable.
“Are you afraid to?”
“No,” she shakes her head slowly. “I just don’t want to.”
“Why not? Don’t you find Sydney attractive?”
She stares at the bowl of popcorn between us.
“I don’t know,” she admits. “I think she’s really beautiful-”
“Sydney’s gorgeous,” I interject, surprising myself.
“Okay, pervert,” she says and I blush. “I know she’s gorgeous. I just- don’t think of her that way.”
“You mean the sex way?” she nods. “So, what, you don’t think about seeing her naked?”
“I have seen her naked.”
I’m a little shocked at this revelation. I’d figured they’d done stuff but if they’ve been together naked, then what’s stopping them from going all the way there?
I raise a questioning eyebrow.
“She’s beautiful. I just- I don’t know. Nothing happened. It didn’t make me want to have sex with her.”
“Weird.”
“It’s not weird!” she interjects and I can tell she’s actually upset by this. “You’re the one who doesn’t wanna sleep with her boyfriend!”
“Don’t change the subject.” She wraps her arms around her legs, resting her chin on top of them and staring at the crumbles on her sheets. “So, don’t you ever fantasize about her?”
“No,” her voice comes out quiet and subdued, which is really weird for Ela. “I mean, I fantasize about going to college together and getting an apartment where we can have two dogs. I fantasize about her coming out to her parents so they can come over and meet Phil and we can all have dinner together because I really like them and I want them to treat me like her girlfriend. But that’s all. Nothing related to sex.”
“Do you- fantasize about other people?”
“No,” she says again, in that same subdued voice.
“Do you- fantasize about yourself?”
“You mean, do I masturbate?” she squints her eyes at me, looking amused for a second before frowning again. “No. I’ve tried. It didn’t work. I got distracted.”
“So, maybe, you just don’t like anything related to sex,” I muse. “Maybe it has nothing to do with Sydney.”
“That’s what I tried to explain to her!” she raises her voice a little, frustrated. “It isn’t about her! I mean, I like kissing her. I like holding her. I even liked holding her when she was naked. But it just never happened. Like I tried. I really did. But it’s like my body doesn’t react or something. It’s like there’s something wrong with me.”
She pushes her legs closer to her body and I move to sit next to her.
“But I like everything else,” she keeps going. “I love spending time with her. I love hearing her talk for hours about BTS and all her favorite K-pop bands. I love it when she comes over and we help Phil with dinner. I love how much Cheese likes her. I think I love her. But it’s like my body doesn’t know it.”
I realize she’s not smiling or moving anymore. Ela never cries. She usually never shows how upset she really is but through the years I’ve learned a few things about her. When she goes quiet and still like this, it means she’s hurting.
“Maybe some people just aren’t very horny all the time.”
“But I don’t get horny at all. Ever. It’s like there’s something wrong with me,” she insists, again.
“Maybe some people don’t ever get horny at all. But nobody talks about it.”
“You said I was weird,” she reminds me.
“Well, that’s because you’re always going on about sex like it’s no big deal. I thought that meant you’d tried a few things, at least.”
“It’s because it isn’t a big deal to me. Like, it doesn’t scare me because I never want to do it. With anyone. I don’t know if I’ll ever want to.”
“Hum,” I rest my chin on top of my knees, mirroring her. “That doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with you. I mean, some people are very very horny all the time, and others, like me, only get horny when they like someone. So, maybe there are people who don’t get horny at all. I mean, it makes sense.”
She nods, slowly.
“I think Syd sometimes thinks maybe I don’t like her as much as she likes me. But I wish she could see into my brain so that she’d know just how much I like her. So she knew that if I was a normal person I’d be having sex with her everywhere.”
I laugh and she lets out a little giggle too.
“Trouble in lesbian paradise.”
She stretches her legs in front of her, relaxing a little.
“It’s fine. I mean, I think it will be. We’re working on it.”
“It will be,” I assure her.
She lies on the bed, on her side, and looks up at me.
“So, what are you afraid of? I mean, if you want to have sex with him, what’s stopping you?”
“I thought we were done with this,” I say, annoyed.
“I just don’t get it. You want to. He wants to. Why not do it?”
I frown. The answer is way too complicated.
“What if I have sex with him and he loses all interest in me?”
Which isn’t the actual reason why I’m afraid to do it, but it is one of the smaller fears at the back of my mind.
“Don’t be stupid,” Ela says, rolling on her back and looking at the ceiling. “If he just wanted to have sex with you and then be done with you he wouldn’t be following us around asking what your favorite song is.”
“He does that?” I ask, completely dumbfounded. The bird in my chest is perking his tiny little head in excitement.
“It’s a little irritating, actually. I told him to ask you.”
She closes her eyes and, because she’s not looking at me, I speak into the air, my voice shaking a little as it comes out.
“I do want to. I mean, I want to do things to him. But then he’ll want to do things to me and I don’t know what happens then. I’ve never- I don’t know how to do it. Whenever I think about him touching me I feel so anxious. I feel so scared. Wanting him makes me feel so out of control and I’m not used to that,” I can feel Ela’s eyes on me but she doesn’t say anything so I keep going. “I think about being naked with him and I feel so vulnerable. Like I could fracture under the enormity of it. I feel like if I do it, if I have sex with him, I won’t be able to recover when he- leaves.”
I don’t say anything else and, after a second, Ela speaks up again.
“You don’t have to have sex with him. I mean, I hope you know that. Not until you’re ready or whatever. And, you could start by doing things to him. I mean, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. You could try other stuff slowly. It doesn’t have to be this huge thing that will break you. And I guess I understand why you’re so afraid of showing yourself to him when there’s always the possibility that things could end. Or that he could leave. But maybe there’s always the possibility that people could leave. If you stopped yourself from liking them or caring for them because they might be gone someday, then you’ll never be able to care for others. And I know that you can. Plus, we both know he really likes you. He wouldn’t be so annoying otherwise. Nobody can fake that well,” she blows out a breath. “I guess what I’m trying to say is that you don’t have to do anything until you’re ready. But don’t let fear stop you from doing whatever it is you wanna do to him. Put his fingers on your mouth or whatever. Because it’s not a real fear. It’s just your abandonment issues speaking up.”
I blow out a breath too and shake out my hands before joining her in bed. On the screen behind us, another episode begins.
We lay still next to each other, both looking at the red ceiling on top of us.
After a second, Ela speaks again, though she sounds hesitant.
“So, what happened with your dad?”
I clench and unclench my fists, thinking about my answer for a long moment. I don’t want to reignite our fight but I miss confiding in her. And, even if her answer isn’t what I expect, I can find a way to deal with it.
I decide to tell her the truth.
I take a deep breath and then let it all out. I tell her about Oliver and the few times we’ve had dinner together. I tell her he’s not that bad after all, and he’s getting married next fall. I recount meeting Jennifer and how weird the whole thing was. I choose not to tell her about the man Lore was talking to after I arrived home from Oliver’s or the fact that I’ve heard her laughing on the phone a few times, deep into the night. But I do disclose the fact that she lied to me about Oliver’s complete absence for nearly ten years.
Ela looks shocked to hear about this and she turns to look at me, her mouth open in an almost perfect circle.
“Why would she lie?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I haven’t talked to her.”
“Why not?”
I shrug.
“It’s just- we’ve never had a fight before. I don’t know how to confront her.”
Ela nods, contemplative.
“I really can’t believe she would lie. I mean, I always thought she was cool.”
I nod, biting my inner lip.
“I always thought she was the kind of parent who trusted you, you know? Like she wouldn’t hide things from you.”
Ela sounds disappointed with Lore, maybe even a little hurt.
“Remember that time we got drunk in your room watching the Twilight movies and when she came up we thought she’d be super angry at us but she just asked if we wanted pizza and told us it was better to stay in the house until we sobered up?”
I nod. I remember. Ela fell asleep in the middle of Eclipse and I was so dizzy I thought I was going to puke.
“Maybe she just didn’t know how to explain it to you. I mean, you were like seven years old. Like no kid can understand divorce, not really. So maybe she thought it was for the best.”
I nod again.
“Yeah, maybe. I just don’t understand why she wouldn’t explain it to me now. Or, like, before Oliver showed up, you know?”
She nods, slowly.
“Maybe she was afraid of how you would react. Or afraid of what she did.”
“Maybe.”
“It’s fucked up,” Ela says, quietly. I turn to look at her but she’s looking at the ceiling. “I mean, it’s fucked up that she lied for so long. I always thought she was a good mom. Like I wanted her to marry Phil and be my mom.”
“Yeah, I remember,” I snort. “But that’s just ‘cause you have mommy issues.”
“And you have daddy issues. We would’ve made the perfect family.”
I laugh.
“Remember how we used to watch marathons of America’s Next Top Model when my parents were getting divorced?”
“Of course.”
We turn to look at each other and then Ela starts smiling like she knows exactly what I’m thinking.
“I have never in my life yelled at a girl like this!” she says, tapping her chest with a finger the way Tyra does it on the show.
“When my mother yells at me it’s because she loves me,” I continue and then she joins me, so we’re both speaking at the same time. “I was rooting for you! We were all rooting for you, how dare you? Learn something from this!”
Ela starts laughing then, shaking her head and flailing her legs.
“Lore used to say that was such bullshit. Yelling doesn’t equal love.”
“She is kinda right about the whole not being a victim and growing from the pain, though,” Ela muses. “Taking responsibility for yourself and all that.”
I nod in agreement and we stay silent again for a few minutes. I think about our old marathons and how Lore always ended each episode with a different lesson. She insisted no one should be allowed to treat us like crap or to take advantage of our weaknesses, no even if they were your boss, your parents, or Tyra Banks.
“Was Jennifer really that pretentious?” Ela asks, raising both arms and making her palms flat, as if she was touching the ceiling.
“Worse.”
She raises her legs too.
“Poor kids. Imagine having parents like that. You wouldn’t be able to just be a silly child, ‘cause you’d be so occupied with your ballet lessons and French lessons and reading Shakespeare and all that stuff.”
“I know. Imagine your parents grounding you in French.”
“Nein. Nicht. Sounds horrible.”
“That’s German, stupid,” I giggle, so she knows I’m joking.
But Ela isn't paying attention to me. She sits up quickly, looking at the screen.
“Oh, Elijah’s here,” she says, tapping my knee with her hand. “God, look at that awful haircut. They did him dirty.”
“They really did,” I say, joining her and pushing the popcorn bowl between us. “Plus, he had to deal with all that idiotic teenage drama. He deserved better.”
“They’re like a hundred years old. They’re not teenagers. But I get your idiotic point,” she says, swinging her legs giddily in front of her. “I love Elijah. He’s so cool,” she adds and, on the screen in front of us, Elijah chops off a random vampire’s head.

Chapter Text

“Ta-da!” James says, spreading his hands in front of us, toward a street filled with brownstones.
I smile up at him, unsure of what to say. “We’re here!” he announces, happily.
By here, he means New York City. More specifically, the corner of Broadway and West 122 Street.
When he told me, less than three days ago, that he had a surprise for me, I wasn’t sure what to expect. And he refused to give me any further details. All he said was to clear up my schedule for an entire day. And to let Lore know I wouldn’t come home early.
Armed with very little information, I decided to lie. I told her I was going to hang out at Ela’s all day long, and she didn’t question it.
My best friend might not have had any qualms cooperating with the lie, but I was dreading the moment when I’d have to say goodbye to Lore. When I came into the kitchen this morning, I found her dancing next to the stove, the delicious smell of onions, garlic and chile wafting toward me. I was instantly reminded of Grandma Beatriz’s house, in Cuernavaca, and the way she would always have at least three different stews brewing on the stove. Lore turned around to give me a kiss, holding a blender full of red chiles and I felt a knot of emotions tighten in my throat. Of course, there was the familiar anger and the resentment like a vicious snake thrashing against my ribs. But there was also such a strong stab of tenderness that I took a step forward and wrapped both arms around her, surprising us both. And then I realized, as she held me close, that I’ve grown taller than her. Not much taller yet, just enough to be able to give her a kiss on the forehead.
“Be careful, corazón,” she said, letting out a breath of relief and, for a moment, I wondered if she might suspect the truth. I thought about confessing right there and then, but then she turned around and I walked away, to find James, standing next to his car, practically bouncing in his place, waiting for me, and everything else washed away.
“Where exactly is here?” I ask, now, watching people as they walk by.
“You’ll see,” he says, a big, enthusiastic smile plastered on his face. “I’m giving you a tour.”
“A tour?”
He nods vigorously and starts walking south, toward Broadway.
“A tour of what your life will be like when you start college next year, and I come visit during the weekends,” he’s smiling that playful smile of his and I’m not completely sure what to say to that.
He might be joking. I mean, I think he is. He can’t be naive enough to make these kinds of promises so far in advance.
But maybe it’s not a promise as much as a quivering hope. And, okay, I might not be the most optimistic person in the world, but for him, I can play along with a little, silly, dream, even if it’s just for today.
“So, my life in New York begins here?” I ask, as we cross the street, trying to match his playful tone.
“Columbia University’s campus,” he nods. “But you already knew that.”
I start laughing as we reach the first few buildings I recognize from my last visit.
“We took a tour last summer,” I admit, giving him an apologetic smile. The truth is, I knew exactly where we were as soon as we spotted that little red banner for the Manhattan School of Music.
He shakes his head like it’s not a big deal.
“Lucky for you,” he tells me, leaning in and bumping his shoulder with mine, “there are other stops in this tour. Places you haven’t been to before. Hopefully.”
I raise my eyebrows in a question but he just shakes his head.
“You’ll see,” he repeats, stopping in front of a statue of a woman sitting on some sort of throne that reads Alma Mater, in all caps. “Unfortunately for you,” he adds, “we can’t get into any of the buildings without a student ID or an official tour guide, neither of which we have. Because I forgot to check until last night and by then it was too late,” he scratches his nose, flustered, and looks away from me. “But we can just walk around,” he says this last thing as if it was a question and I give him what I hope is an easy smile. (Bitchy B would be rolling her eyes at him right now but she’s not allowed to come out).
“Sounds like a perfect plan.”
He looks instantly relieved and I can’t help but give him the biggest smile I can afford; I feel so overwhelmingly grateful to him for doing this. Across from where we’re standing, sitting on the steps to the library there’s a couple making out and, because nobody here knows who we are, I do my own version of that: I reach out and grab his hand. He looks surprised for a second, but then he intertwines our fingers together and gives them a squeeze.
We walk like that, hand in hand, all through campus. James points out each building and tells me a bit of its history. I’m not sure he isn’t making up about half of the things he tells me. I don’t question it. Instead, I give him plenty of energetic nods and oohs and aahs whenever necessary, which makes him laugh a lot.
About half an hour later, he asks if I’m hungry and we share a falafel that he buys from a street vendor outside of John Hay Hall. As we eat, he tells me we need to get going soon, because we really can’t be late for our next stop, which nearly makes me choke. (Imagine! James Wolfe worrying about being late! Hell’s freezing over!)
“Where are we going?” I ask, a little suspiciously. (I get the distinct feeling we’re headed for a movie theater.)
James just shrugs and leads me to the car.
We drive through the streets of New York for another thirty minutes. As we cross the Manhattan Bridge, James starts talking about Japanese anime and its contribution to the science fiction genre, which doesn’t help erase the arising suspicion that he’s taking me to watch a movie. I try to keep up with everything he’s saying but a few words slip away from time to time, mostly names and dates. Outside, the city passes by in a blur of colors and people.

My instincts turn out to be right because, once we find a parking spot (it feels nearly impossible in this city), he leads me to a cool-looking building with the letters BAM stamped in red on the front, which, he informs me, is the Brooklyn Academy of Music’s Cinematek.
“My favorite place in the entire world,” he says, beaming at me.
He’s so ridiculous. I want to roll my eyes at him and I want to wrap an arm around his neck and kiss the corner of his mouth.
He takes my hand and leads me inside, to a massive, very elegant movie theater.
Even though the room is filled with endless rows of seats, it’s almost completely full by the time we find our places, very close to the front, where the screen looks incredibly huge.
“When I heard they were showing old Japanese films, I knew I had to come. They played Akira on Thursday, though, so we’re gonna have to settle for Ghost in the Shell. Well, not really settle. This movie’s so fucking good.” James whispers, leaning close to me so I can hear him, which I find very funny because the lights are still on and the people behind us are talking loudly about meeting friends for a drink after.
“Is that why you were going on about anime earlier?”
He nods, enthusiastically.
“You’re gonna love it,” he assures me, as the lights start to dim and the loud voices all around us turn into excited whispers.
And I do. I understand at once why James likes it so much. Everything about it screams “What does it mean to be human?”
When the movie’s over, he turns to me with an expecting smile and I start to nod energetically.
“I get it,” I tell him and he laughs.
“Right?” he doesn’t stand up, even as the people around us start filing out of the movie theater. “The first time I watched it I was too stunned to even think about what it all means. But, just- the art design is so fucking good. I fucking love that crazy spider-robot thing at the end. I wish I’d come up with that,” he shakes his head in amazement, looking at the screen in front of us, where the credits are rolling in blocky white letters.
“Crazy, spider-robot,” I repeat to myself, amused.
“Okay,” he says, when the room is nearly empty and the screen has gone black. “Time for our next stop.”
Our next stop, whatever it is, must be close by, because when we step outside, James turns left, away from our parking spot, and plunges onto the busy street.
He keeps talking cheerfully as we walk, telling me about Ghost in the Shell's influence on the science fiction genre.
“They’re making an American version, but it’s going to be bad, I can already tell,” he informs me, shaking his head, disapproving.
I tell him the movie reminded me of Blade Runner and he goes on a rant for about 20 minutes. I watch him with endearment as we move through the city; he’s making wild gestures with his hand that make me laugh.
“I’m sorry I’m talking so much,” he says when he’s finally done. “I just get excited, sometimes. And, I really wanted to watch this with you,” I raise an eyebrow in surprise and he laughs. “Well, not just this particular film. I have a list of things I’m going to show you when you live here. The Cinematek is always playing old stuff.”
And there it is again. This idea that we’re still gonna be together in a year’s time. That he’ll drive the three hours it takes to get here from Hartford just to be with me. Wishful thinking, Bitchy B whispers in my ear and I shake my head, trying to ignore her.
“I’ll only agree to that plan if you promise we can go watch a chick flick from time to time.”
James laughs, coming to a stop in front of a small building.
“That’s a deal, Betty Green,” he says, squeezing my hand and turning to the door.
“Are we at a bar?” I ask, dumbfounded. A few people are coming out of the establishment and I can hear music playing somewhere inside. James nods. “But we’re underage.”
“Which is exactly why I chose this place. It’s not just a bar. They also sell food. And, lots of college students come here. We’ll blend in easily.”
“Maybe you can blend in easily. I look like Little Bo Beep looking for her cattle.”
He laughs, pushing me inside.
“Nobody’s gonna say anything. Plus, faking your way into a bar is like the quintessential college experience. And, we need to eat something. I don’t want you fainting in the middle of the street.”
“I’m not gonna faint,” I interject, indignant.
“And we’re not gonna drink,” he assures me. “The worse that can happen is they kick us out.”
Even though it’s barely 5 p.m. the place is crowded with people. But James was right. Not everyone is drinking. In fact, no one even looks drunk. Most people are gathered around the band playing on a small stage at the back. We find one of the few unoccupied tables on the other side and James leaves to go order food and drinks for the both of us.
I watch the crowd with attention while he’s gone. Most people do look like college students. And most are couples, holding hands and kissing and swaying to the melancholic voice of the girl on stage. For a moment, I imagine one of those couples is us, in a year’s time, and I can almost picture it. James’ arms wrapped around my waist, his chin on my shoulder as we watch the band playing. I want to believe that I can be comfortable touching him in such a public place, that I won’t always feel like fainting whenever he kisses me.
When he returns, he’s carrying two burgers and two sodas with him. We eat in silence, watching the crowd, both of us equally hungry.
“I still can’t believe your parents let you disappear for an entire day,” I say, when I’m done with my burger and James starts eating my fries. “I thought they were adamant you had to help your dad with the family business on your weekends.”
“Yeah, but I agreed to go stay with my grandma this summer if it meant not having to work with my dad anymore,” he admits, reluctantly, frowning, his eyes trained on the food. “And they were okay with that. I mean, I'm supposed to be helping her, and, at least she agreed to pay me.”
“Oh.” I feel dismayed. And, okay, yeah, I know I’m not the one making plans for next year, but I’ve been dreaming about everything we could do together this summer, when we wouldn’t have to worry about school and work anymore. I thought of places we could drive to and entire days spent reading at Bushnell Park.
He must see something in my face because he talks again, explaining himself.
“They were gonna make me do it either way. I thought if I’d agreed without a fight then they’d leave me alone and we could spend more time together. Plus, Montauk isn’t very far away. I could drive back on the weekends. Or you could come with. The beach there is nice.”
I don’t know what to say to that. My first thought is that there’s no way Lore would let me drive away with a boy to some beach I’ve never even heard of. And, now that Oliver’s back as a parental figure, I wonder if he has a say in these types of situations.
“Yeah, that could work,” I murmur, gloomy.
“Or we could call each other on the phone,” he continues, relentlessly. “I mean, it’s just for the summer, anyway. It’ll go by in a flash.”
I nod and force myself to smile.
“Of course. It’ll be fine. I was considering taking a summer job, so we wouldn’t have had that much free time together anyway.”
“Right,” he doesn’t look convinced by my feeble attempts at a solution, so I shake my head and my fists, trying to let go of that dreadful feeling in my chest. “It’ll be fine,” I repeat, touching the hand he’s resting on the table. “We’ll find a way.”
He nods, the smile coming back to his face slowly and I give him a gentle kick on the sheens.
“So, what’s the next stop in our tour?”
“You’ll see,” he says, like he doesn’t want to ruin the surprise.
Someone in the crowd requests a song from the band playing and James stands up to pay. While he’s gone, I ponder if I should tell him I already agreed to go with Andrew to prom. Which, stupidly, I’d forgotten all about until Ela started to make plans for the dance and my friend smiled at me from across the cafeteria table. But when James comes back, he asks if I wanna dance, giving me that smile that seems to require his whole face, and I decide I don’t want to ruin this day.
“I’m a terrible dancer,” I remind him, standing up to take the hand he’s offering me.
“I know. But I like dancing with you.”
We don’t strictly dance, though. We mostly hold onto each other and sway next to our table, occasionally bumping onto the people sitting next to us, who don’t seem to find this endearing at all.
“I’m going to get you a very convincing ID before you move,” James tells me, ignoring the frown on the girl behind him. “Then we can hit a different bar every weekend. I promise.”
I look at him through squinted eyes and shake my head.
“Bad influence,” I murmur and he laughs.
But what I’m really thinking is that I don’t need him to make promises. Even if he wants to. Because this is enough. This day is all I need. His hands on my waist and his laugh ringing in my ears is all I’ll ever need. He’s watching me with droopy eyes and, before he can beat me to it, I stand up on my tiptoes and give him a kiss.

An hour later we finally reach our final destination. The High Line. Lore and I came here during our college tour but it was pretty early in the morning and the sun was high in the sky and the heat was nearly unbearable, so Lore decided to just skip it altogether and go visit the Museum of Modern Art instead.
And right now, as James and I walk hand in hand through the park, I thank the whole universe that I get to enjoy this view, for the first time, next to him.
In front of us, the sunset is at its most beautiful, when the sky is all pinks and oranges and violets and the city underneath it is a shifting shadow.
We walk slowly, until we find an area that’s nearly deserted and James stops.
“Here it is,” he says. “The whole city. Waiting for you.”
“Hum,” I murmur.
I used to dream and dream about what my life would be like in college. About everything I would do when I moved to this city. But, right now, next to him, I don’t want to think about anything else. I don’t want to think about a future away from Hartford and away from him. The thought of not seeing his amused smile every day makes my heart wrench with pain. Even as he holds my hand and pulls me closer to him.
“Waiting for us,” he corrects himself and I turn to look at him. “I’ve been thinking,” he adds, hesitantly, “I could apply to NYU. I heard its Film program is very, very good. I mean, I know it’s a long shot, but I could try either way. I might be able to get in.”
I stare at him with surprise. He has a plan. An actual plan that he intends to pursue. He isn’t just teasing me.
Don’t read too much into it, Bitchy B reminds me and I’m immediately annoyed with myself. I’m being stupid. I’ve been stupid before but this is different.
Because this is James, here, with me, in New York. James, who must have planned this trip carefully, because he had movie tickets, timetables, direct routes to take, and had even come up with a lie to tell Lore in case I couldn’t think of one.
James, who spends what little time he has during the weekends laying on my living room floor, doing homework.
James, who could come here, with me.
And okay, all right, I know it’s naive of me to believe that we’ll still like each other this much in a year’s time. That we’ll still be as eager to spend our every waking moment together.
But maybe, it’s okay to believe in fantasies. Even if just for today.
“Of course you’d get in!” I say, firmly, before giving him what I hope is a close approximation of his most playful smile. “And then you wouldn’t have to sneak into my bedroom at night. We could just visit each other whenever we want.”
He laughs, giving me a gentle shove with his shoulder.
“I am a bad influence on you, Betty.”
I roll my eyes, turning to look at the city in front of us.
“Please, like you could influence me.”
I hear him laughing under his breath as he leans closer to plant a kiss on the side of my ear. A shiver runs through me, almost involuntarily and he must be able to feel it because he’s laughing, as he places a hand on my waist slowly and turns me to the side so I’m facing him.
“Incorruptible Betty,” he says, pushing me closer to him and planting faint kisses all over my face.
My breath comes out erratic. I let my hands fall onto his chest and, underneath his sweatshirt, I can feel the beating of his heart on my fingertips.
I close my eyes and let myself be swallowed by him. The smell of his sweatshirt, the way his curls tickle my forehead, his cold lips on my eyes. With a sigh, I finally allow myself to wrap my arms around his neck, burying my face in the side of his face, breathing him in.
“‘Cause, honey, with you-ooh-ooh-ooh,” he starts singing quietly in my ear, his hands slowly moving up my back, holding me close to him. “Is the only honest way to go. And honey with you-ooh-ooh-ooh and a little battered radio,” he lets out a sigh that brushes against my neck and makes every muscle in my body stand in attention. “We could run ooh-ooh.”
Not for the first time, I wish I could disappear onto him. I wish I could will my body into oblivion, that I could turn into a ghost and find shelter inside his ribs, inside his lungs, next to his beating heart.
And I know that love is a thing that poets have been obsessing about for thousands of years. I know I’ve read about it in a hundred different books. I’ve heard it described in a hundred different ways.
But right here, wrapped in his arms, I wonder if any of it ever comes close to the real thing. I wonder if anyone, ever, has felt what I’m feeling right now, his heartbeat drumming against my fingertips.
I can believe, as we stand together in the middle of the city, that love is a thing we invented. The two of us. James and I. We willed it into existence and no one else can ever know the bliss of it. Love was made for us and us alone.
The poets and the artists be damned.
“I like you so much,” I tell him, against his neck, because I’m still too afraid to say the truth out loud.
He pushes me away so we can look at each other.
“I-” he hesitates, finding my eyes. “I like you so much it’s insane.”
I want to laugh but then he’s kissing me and the laughter explodes inside of me like a thousand electrifying lights as his lips meet mine and his tongue pushes its way into my mouth.
The kiss is intense and frantic and I want to disappear in it. I bury my hands in his hair and push him closer except we can’t get any closer. But his fingers mirror my own desire, digging into the skin of my waist. The need inside of me feels too intense. Like we are racing against some imaginary clock, like we only have today, this very moment, to want each other as intensely as we do.
I take a step forward, hoping, against all reason, to find a way to be closer to him. But it causes him to lose balance and then we both stumble drunkenly into the bushes. James grabs the railing behind him with his left hand and with his right, he holds onto my elbow, keeping us both from falling.
“Don’t step on the grass,” warns a voice to our left. It’s a guard, walking toward us.
James grabs my hand and starts walking away, giving him a funny little salute with his left hand, which makes me start giggling like a complete idiot.
But I guess that’s what I’m now. An idiot girl who giggles at cute boys when they’re being stupid. An idiot girl who will lie and cheat her way to spending an entire day with her boyfriend visiting a big, dangerous city.
I couldn’t care less.
James leads me through the streets and I think to myself, I am an idiot girl, an idiot girl who would follow him everywhere. To New York, to Montauk, to wherever he went. I would follow him away from Hartford and away from the entire world. I would follow him forever.

Chapter Text

On Wednesday after our trip to New York, I decide I should come out with the truth. I feel a little anxious to upset the absolute happiness I felt all weekend, but I need to get it over with. Sure, James might be disappointed but he’ll understand (I think).
I have a whole speech prepared when I find him leaning next to my locker by the end of the school day, kicking his skateboard rhythmically as I approach him.
“Ready?” he asks me, pushing himself away from the wall with his left shoulder.
I nod, putting away my books and turning to him with a smile, about to say the words out loud, but then Zack Stewart steps in between us to open his own locker and I know it will be better to have this conversation in a less crowded place.
I follow James through the halls, telling him instead about Ela and I going down a rabbit hole last night, learning about the long-standing tradition to adapt Shakespeare’s plays into modern teen romances.
“Ela says she read somewhere Mean Girls is an adaptation of Julius Caesar, but we haven’t been able to corroborate,” I’m speaking really fast, trying to shake off the nervous energy that curses through my body, when James leans in and intertwines the fingers of his left hand with mine. He does it casually, like we’ve been walking through the school halls hand in hand for months now. Like it isn’t a big deal.
Maybe it isn’t a big deal. Lots of couples at school act cute around each other. I mean, Maya and Daniel are practically sown together.
“What’s Julius Caesar about?” he asks, as we take a right turn, headed for the front door.
“Um,” I know the answer. We looked up the summary last night. But it won’t come to me. My brain cannot process anything other than the heat of his palm against mine. I wonder if the people watching us are as surprised by this turn of events as I am, but no one’s really looking our way. (Maybe James was right and I have a wildly misguided perception of his popularity). “The, uh, a few generals convince Brutus, who’s Julius Caesar's best friend, to help them in their plot to murder him, because they believe he’s gaining too much power and could be crowned Emperor. So, Brutus betrays him. That’s where the famous line ‘Et tu, Brute?’ comes from.”
“So, is it anything like Mean Girls?” he asks, as we reach his car and I nod, crawling onto the passenger seat.
“Kind of. Not really,” I shake my head, opening my backpack and fishing for the thing I’ve been waiting to show him all day. “Here,” I tell him, opening the package. “Now you’ll know what actual good candy tastes like.”
He eyes the red, worm-like strips suspiciously.
“It’s not going to be spicy, is it?”
“Not super spicy. Just enough to be delicious.”
He shakes his head, but takes one worm on his fingers and slowly, (too slowly) (he’s being too dramatic) puts it in his mouth.
“Okay, that’s not that bad,” he admits, taking another one.
“See?” I say, rolling my eyes at him. He puts two more in his mouth before turning on the engine and driving away from school.
“Oh, by the way,” I say, taking a deep breath, trying to settle my nerves. “I- I sort of forgot about this because it was so long ago but, um, Andrew asked me to prom like two months ago,” I crush the now empty package and push it inside my backpack (I hate littering his car), not looking at him. “And I sort of said yes.”
James turns to look at me with an expression on his face that’s halfway between surprise and amusement.
“What? When?”
“Um, do you remember that day you told me you were reading The Illustrated Man?” He nods. “Well, right before that.”
“Oh,” he seems relieved to hear this, “way before Dan’s party.”
“Way before Dan’s party,” I agree.
“All right,” he says, like it’s no big deal and I feel my whole body relax. “So, d’you think he will mind that you’re coming with me now?”
“Oh,” My cheeks begin to heat as I try to come up with an answer. This isn’t how I thought this conversation would go. I figured he’d be disappointed, sure, but not this. “Well, he asked me first. I think I should go with him.”
James’ expression turns from understanding to something like incredulity, maybe even shock.
“But,” he starts. “I mean,” he stops again, as if he was struggling to find the right words. “Couldn’t you just explain that I asked you to come with me? He’d understand, right? I mean, he wouldn’t be upset.”
“I don’t-” I’m speechless and a little stunned. This is the first time, ever, that I can’t find the right words to talk to him, that I feel like we’re not talking to each other, but rather, at each other. “I’m sure he’d understand. That’s not the point.”
“What’s the point?” His voice, for once, isn’t amused, or playful. In fact, his whole face is twisted with a frown.
“The point is that I don’t want to break the promise I made to my friend. I’m not that kind of person.”
He passes a hand through his hair, in that gesture that means he’s feeling exasperated.
“I’m not asking you to break a promise. I’m sure that if you explained the situation, he’d understand.”
“You already said that.”
“Because it’s an easy solution,” he says, matter of factly, not looking at me.
“But, we don’t need one. I’ll go with Andrew and you and I can still hang out at the dance. What’s the big deal?”
“Don’t you think you’d be giving him the wrong idea?” I cringe at the sharp edge of his voice, one I’d never heard before.
“What does that mean?”
“It means that when someone likes you, and you choose to go with them to prom, instead of going with your boyfriend, they might believe you feel the same way too.”
“I-” I open my mouth to argue but there are a hundred different answers tripping against each other in my tongue. On the one hand, there’s a squeaky little voice at the back of my head that’s wondering when we became boyfriend and girlfriend, officially. I have been thinking of him as such but I don’t think either of us had pronounced the words out loud. And then, of course, there’s the other voice, repeating his words with incredulity. “Andrew doesn’t like me,” is what I manage to say, in the end, my words reeking with disbelief.
“Oh, c’mon, Betty, don’t be so naive,” he says, vexed. This is the first time I’ve heard him talk to me this way. I want to turn away and leave this conversation at once. Somewhere inside of me, something breaks.
“I’m not,” I say quietly, defensive. “You don’t know Andrew.”
“I don’t need to know him,” he says, curtly, as if I was being difficult on purpose. “He’s always following you around and acting like he couldn’t possibly understand why you’re going out with me. I mean, he asked you to prom for fuck’s sake!”
“That’s because we’re friends!” I protest, raising my voice to meet his. He lets out a little sound, full of mocking skepticism and I feel a flash of annoyance on my chest.
“Then you shouldn’t lead him on.”
Anger surges like a fire in my veins at his words.
“I’m not leading him on! But my friends are important!”
“Shouldn’t I be important too?”
“Not more important than them!” I nearly yell and his face contorts with a grimace, an expression full of pain. I instantly regret my words. I meant what I said but it came out all wrong.
“Understood,” he says simply and, even though I can tell he’s hurt, I can’t help but push, stubborn as always.
“Why is it such a big deal, anyway? We can meet there, we can hang out. It’s not like I’m not allowed to see you.”
“Because I wanted you to come with me!” He says this like I was being obtuse on purpose.
“Why?” I ask, genuinely dumbfounded.
“Why? How would you like it if I went on a date with someone else?”
I roll my eyes at him, annoyed, actually annoyed, not pretending-to-be-annoyed-when-I-actually-think-he’s-super-cute-annoyed.
“I’m not going on a date with Andrew. We’re going to prom. It’s not a big deal.”
“Right, not a big deal,” he repeats, just as he stops the car at our usual spot. He doesn’t turn the engine off and he doesn’t turn to look at me, his eyes fixed on something in front of us.
“I don’t understand what the problem is,” I say, frustrated. I feel on edge. I’m trying to comprehend why he’s so upset. I really am. But, even if he is right and Andrew does have feelings for me (which he doesn’t), James should know how I feel.
“The problem is that you’d rather go with him than go with me,” his voice comes out whiny and small.
“I- That’s not fair,” I say, slowly, dumbfounded. “He’s my friend. Nothing more.”
“Does he know that?”
I let out a sigh of exasperation and look away. This is a pointless conversation. If he wants to believe Andrew likes me then nothing I say will change his mind.
“What does it matter? I don’t have feelings for him. Isn’t that enough?”
“I- That’s not the point,” he shakes his head,
“Then what is the point?” I ask, mirroring his words from before.
“The point is you’re my girlfriend, Betty. You’re supposed to come with me.”
Something hardens inside of me upon hearing his words. “You’re supposed to come with me.” No, I think to myself, I’m not supposed to do anything. For some reason, Jennifer pops into my head. The way she turned to look at Oliver, asking silently if she should let her kid have some IPad time. And then I think about Lore. alone in my kitchen, cooking dinner for the two of us, singing quietly to herself. The way she’s never had to ask anyone for anything. I think about her cheeks lighting up when Oliver told her he’d brought a coffee cake for her. Her stupid smile as she led him outside.
My erratic mom, undone with a single gesture.
“No,” I say, and my voice comes out hard, unyielding. “You can’t tell me what to do.”
“That’s not what I meant,” James sighs, frustrated. “You know that.”
“I should go.”
“Betty,” he starts, and this time, my name comes out clipped, short.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say, even though I’m not entirely sure I’ll want to see him tomorrow. He keeps his hard gaze on me, and nods, once. Before he can say anything else, I fling myself out of his car, practically stumbling before I regain my composure and walk away.
I can feel the tears pressing to come out but I force myself to stay quiet until I reach my room. I don’t want Lore to hear me sobbing and come asking questions I can’t answer because she doesn’t know about James and I’m not sure I want her to. Especially not now.
This is so stupid. I feel so stupid. Frustrated. Angry. Hurt.
I don’t understand how my decision to honor my commitment to Andrew can hurt him so much.
Just because I care about my friends and I don’t want to disappoint them, doesn’t mean that I care any less about James. Maybe he thinks he should occupy some privileged place in my life because he’s my “boyfriend,” but if he doesn’t comprehend just how much I like him, then that’s his fault.
I mean, these days, I spend nearly every waking moment with him. He’s the first person I think about when I open my eyes in the morning and the last name on my lips when I go to sleep.
Doesn’t he know that?
And, okay, I understand that he believes Andrew likes me, but one, he’s wrong, and two, does it matter? I don’t reciprocate those feelings. I never have and I can’t imagine I ever will.
There’s only one person I’ve ever wanted, in my whole life. Only one person who’s prominent in my dreams and he should know who that is!
I think back at that line from “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” that he loves so much. “That is not what I meant at all. That is not it, at all.”
I’ve never felt like I couldn’t make him understand me before. Even when we first started working together and we didn’t really know how to communicate with each other, I always knew he got me, on some level. I always knew I didn’t have to explain myself to him.
But this feels like we suddenly forgot how to talk to each other. Or like maybe we don’t want to.
But I do want to. I always want to talk to him. Even now, as I think about our poem, I get this sudden need to text him and tell him I understand his obsession with that particular line. I know what it feels like not to be able to say exactly what you mean.
But I don’t.
I feel so angry and so hurt, I want to scream and I want to sob, all at the same time. I bury my face in my pillows, letting the tears of frustration soak into the fabric. I remember doing this exact same thing when I first realized I had a crush on James. But this isn’t that same anger I felt back then. Because, underneath it, I also felt excited, happy, even a little elated.
This anger is something different. This anger feels white and hot in my eyes. It feels like hate. Like I hate him for the way I want to take back all my words whenever I think of the pained expression on his face when I told him he wasn’t more important than my friends.
I take out my phone and look at the screen for a long while, going back and forth between texting him to apologize or deleting his number altogether.
I don’t do either and he doesn’t text.

Chapter Text

A week later, I’m walking home after hanging out at Ela’s for most of the afternoon. She offered to have her Dad drive me, but the walk isn’t very long and I needed a moment to clear my head.
Especially after everything Ela said.
She suggested we work on homework and talk about my “trouble in straight paradise,” because, apparently, everyone’s noticed how awkward James and I act toward each other these days.
And, I mean, how could I refuse? Ela might be a little rough around the edges, but she is my best friend. Whatever might have happened before, I knew she’d have solid advice to offer.
Except she didn’t.
Not really.
She listened to me patiently, attempting to teach Cheese how to roll on his back while she did, and then frowned for a long while, looking like she was trying hard to take my problems seriously.
In the end, she just laughed.
“Okay, don’t be mad,” she said, possibly alerted by the expression on my face. “I kinda already knew about Andrew asking you to prom. It was kinda my idea.”
“What?”
“Well, here’s the thing. I know you’re angry at James and you are kinda right that he’s being ridiculous. But he is right about one thing. Andrew does have feelings for you.”
I opened my mouth in absolute shock and began to shake my head.
“You- How do you know? Has he told you?”
“Not with those exact words,” she said, pushing Cheese —who was trying to steal the treats she was holding— away with her elbow. “But he’s always going on about how cool and smart you are. After a while, Sydney and I decided to intervene. Which is why we told him to ask you to prom and like do something. That’s ‘cause we didn’t know you were making out with James on the side, obviously.”
“So, this is all your fault?”
“Well, you could’ve said no.”
“I thought he was asking me as a friend!” I practically yelled.
“Well, if he wasn’t smart enough to make it obvious he was hoping you’d end the night making out, no one can really blame you.”
“You think that’s what he’s expecting?”
“Not anymore,” she laughed like she thought that was hilarious.
“Well, even if that’s true,” Ela raised her eyebrows like she was saying, of course it’s true, “that still doesn’t mean I’m the one who’s wrong, right? I mean, Andrew’s my friend, and he asked first. I don’t want to be the kind of person who puts her boyfriend before everyone else.” I looked at Cheese and he blinked at me. “Right?”
“If you’re asking me to tell you what to do, I don’t have the answer to that. I think you’re both kinda right and kinda wrong.” I opened my mouth to protest but she pushed forward, ignoring me. “Which only means I can empathize with James. I’d want my girlfriend to come with me to prom, too. But, I also think he’s being unreasonable. And, if you were to cancel plans with me to go with him, I’d be pissed.” She patted Cheese on the head then and turned to give me her most gentle of smiles. “I don’t think it’s a big deal. You just need to talk to each other and figure it out.”
I know she was trying to be helpful, but “talk and figure it out” is not a solution. Because these days, James and I only exchange a few words.
He still drives me home after school every day but we don’t really talk. And, after he drops me off, he always leaves to go help his dad or pick up his sister from her violin lessons, which means we spend almost no time together
I, on the other hand, am not much help either.
I know I’m not wrong to want to honor a commitment I made to a friend. And I know, even if Andrew has feelings for me, I would never, in a thousand years, do anything to hurt James. He should know that, too. He should trust me.
I want him to know all of this. I want him to know just how inconsequential Andrew’s feelings are to me. But every time I think I’m about to apologize, the memory of his words comes back, “You’re my girlfriend. You’re supposed to come with me,” and the apology dries in my mouth.
And, still, the yearning for him feels like a physical pain on my whole body, even when I’m sitting next to him inside his car, and I could just reach out, touch his hand and be done with it.
And, even though Ela’s back in my life now, and her constant cheerful enthusiasm about prom should be enough to keep me content and make me excited, it doesn’t. I feel like I’m missing a piece. A piece I didn’t actually have until a few months ago. A piece that will be gone for the whole summer.
I want to hate myself for this. I want everything else in my life to be enough. But it doesn’t feel like enough.
Even that stupid fight with Lore feels small compared to just how miserable I feel at James’s absence, even if he’s always there, at school, glancing at me in class, kissing my cheek after he drops me off.
But he feels so far away. Like there’s a wall between us and neither is willing to tear it down.
Like maybe we don’t like each other enough to try.
I open the front door, biting down on my tongue to keep the tears at bay because I feel so tired of crying. It feels like all I’ve done this semester is cry.
Cry over Oliver and Lore and even Ela.
Just never about James.
“Betty,” my mom says, startling me. She’s sitting on the living room couch, with her laptop on her legs and music playing quietly in the background. “How did it go?” I blink a few times, unsure of what she means. “At Ela’s.”
I shrug, pushing my backpack off my shoulders and turning away from her, about to walk up to my room.
“Are you guys going to prom?” she asks before I even take a step. “It’s next week, right?”
“I guess,” I answer, looking at her with a frown on my face.
“I thought we could go shopping for a dress this weekend. We could bring Ela and Sydney,” she’s smiling at me, cautiously and I feel a surge of irritation in my chest.
“Why?”
“Well, you don’t have lots of prom dresses to choose from,” she explains, like it’s obvious.
“No, why are you acting like you care?”
Lore blinks, surprised.
“Because I care. It’s your junior year. Next year, you’ll be a senior. And in two years, there won’t be any proms to attend.”
“I know that. I’m the one who’s going to prom. You don’t have to pretend to care about any of it.” I can’t decide if I sound whiny or upset.
“But I do care. You’re my daughter.”
I let out an incredulous laugh and turn to leave.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“If you really cared about me, you would’ve told me Oliver never wanted to leave,” I nearly spit the words out. “You would’ve told me I still had a dad. And not act like you were all the family I had.”
She shakes her head slowly, pushing the laptop away from her and standing up. She opens her mouth to say something but I don’t let her.
“You don’t actually care about me. You just can’t live with yourself knowing what you did.”
“That’s not fair,” she says, firmly, reaching out for me. I take a step back, burying my fingers in the straps of my backpack, to keep myself steady.
“Oh, no? So you didn’t lie to me for ten years?”
“It’s more complicated than that,” Lore looks tired, like she hasn’t slept in weeks and this conversation is taking away whatever energy she still had left.
“No, it’s not! It’s not complicated at all. You just can’t face your stupid mistakes!”
“Betty, I know that you’re upset,” she says, calmly, which only works to make me even angrier. “But please let me explain.”
“No! I don’t care what you have to say! I don’t wanna hear it!”
That’s when I realize, I’m crying. Yet again. She’s looking at me with a pitiful grimace.
Inside my chest, there’s a venomous snake thrashing around, thirsty for blood. I want to wipe off the expression on her face. I want to hurt her. The way I’m hurting right now.
“Please, corazón-”
“Stop!” I nearly yell. “You don’t have to pretend! I’m not a child anymore. I know that the only reason you let Oliver come back was so that you could get rid of me and go be with your new boyfriend.”
By the expression on her face, I know that I’ve managed it. I know that she’s hurt. A voice at the back of my mind, a more gentle and more patient voice than I’m used to, lets me know I’m being unkind.
“I- I wanted to talk to you about it.”
“Well, consider it done.”
I turn around and climb up the stairs. I can hear her calling to me from behind but all I am aware of is the anger, like red, hot poison in my tongue.
I reach the second floor and turn around, letting the words come out, as cruel and unnecessary as they are.
“If you want to get rid of me so bad, just say it. I’m sure Oliver would let me move in with him and his family.”
I don’t wait for an answer. I turn around and slam the door to my room, locking it in case she intends to follow me. She does, knocking and calling my name, gently, but I don’t answer. I try to hold the sobs that are fighting to come out because I don’t want her to know just how much pain I feel. After ten minutes or so, she gives up.

Later that night, after I ignore her pleas to come down to dinner, I’m laying down in bed, trying to read, but I can’t make sense of the words.
This almost never happens. One of the reasons I love books so much is that I can make all the radio static disappear when I’m reading.
But today, my brain is nothing if not radio static.
Lore’s words keep repeating again and again, along with Ela’s and even James’s. A cacophony of voices that makes me feel like I’m underwater, trying hard to breathe and stay conscious.
I stare at the page and force myself to focus on each word but after a few more attempts to get through a single sentence and not understanding anything, I let my head fall onto the page. Frustration bubbles in my throat and I’m afraid I’m going to start crying again.
Not that I have actually stopped. The tears have come and gone in short intervals and now they’re threatening to come out again.
I take a deep breath, inhaling the familiar smell of ink and paper that usually makes me feel so comforted when I hear a gentle tap on the window. I look up, startled, not completely sure I didn’t imagine it.
But, after a few seconds, there’s another tap and I practically tumble out of bed and crawl to the window.
I push the curtain aside with shaking hands to find James’ familiar face, stark against the cloudy night sky.
He’s frowning, his curls damp against his forehead, and, when he sees me, he raises one hand in an awkward salute.
I open the window to let him in and he lands on the floor with a silent thud.
“Hey,” he says, closing the window with his right elbow.
“Hey.”
We stand there, in silence, for a few long seconds. All along, I’m trying to blink the static away, to no results.
“What are you reading?” James asks, eyeing the book on my bed.
“Um,” I sit, leaving enough space for him to join me and flip the book so he can see the elegant title, written in silver letters.
“Is it any good?” he asks, sitting next to me
I nod, looking at his long, bony hands, nearly white in the dim light of my room as they hold onto the book.
“Is it about crows?”
I realize, with a pang of frustration, that not even his presence in my room is enough to quiet down the chaos inside my head. Which is uncommon. I’m always so captivated by him, by his stunning beauty. He’s always enough to calm me down.
“Betty?”
“What?”
“Is the book about crows?”
“Uh-huh.” I blink. “I mean, no.” I shake my head. “Figurative crows.”
“Are you okay?”
He frowns. I nod, but he isn’t convinced, because he leans closer, watching me as if he hoped to read some secret in my eyes.
“Is it- Should I not have come?”
“No!” This, at least, I know. “I mean, don’t go. I mean, I’m glad you’re here.”
That seems to help because his frown relaxes.
“Then, what is it?”
“I- uh, I had a fight with Lore.”
“D’you want to tell me about it?” he asks, reaching out to hook his pinky finger with mine.
I watch the movements of our joined hands for a long while before I speak, telling him everything I hadn’t told him before. My mom lying. Jennifer’s strange little comments that made me feel like maybe she doesn’t consider me family after all. I tell him about Lore and the man outside our house, laughing together. I tell him about the fight. And, as I speak, my body begins to tremble, making my teeth shatter with every word spoken out loud.
“I told her,” I finish, feeling the guilt and the pain of the knowledge of what I’ve done swallowing me whole, “if she really wants to get rid of me, I could move in with Oliver, that he would take me in,” I hiccup, feeling embarrassed and stupid and still unable to keep the words at bay. “But I don’t even know if that’s true. He hasn’t called me in two weeks. And now I just ruined everything.”
Everything.
Lore will never look at me the same way after what I said. Our relationship will never recover. And I know it’s such a cliché (a lame cliché) to think of your parent as your friend, but Lore was always that for me. Not just my mom but also my confidant.
“Hey,” James says, closing his fingers around my wrist. “It’s fine.”
But it isn’t.
There’s something wrong with me.
I’ve ruined everything. I said cruel, unfair things. I acted like a child. And the worst part is, I didn’t mean what I said. I don’t want to move in with Oliver and Jennifer and her two perfect children. I don’t even care that Lore has a new boyfriend. A part of me wonders if it isn’t my fault that she hadn’t had someone in her life before. That it took her so long to find someone to care for.
I just wished she wasn’t so content with letting me become Oliver’s burden.
Because I’m not even sure I like Oliver. I’m not even sure he likes me either.
He hasn’t called. It’s been two weeks since he said he would and still he hasn’t. And what if Jennifer decided I don’t fit in her version of a perfect family? What if Oliver never calls again? Does that mean I’ve lost both my mom and my dad? All because I was being selfish, and childish, and stupid?
Does that mean I have no more family left?
There’s something wrong with me.
I’m all alone, I think to myself. Or maybe I say it out loud because James says something in return, only the words don’t quite reach me.
There is something wrong with me.
My heart is racing inside my chest. Trying to escape. My legs burn with electrifying energy. My whole body is screaming at me. Asking me to get out as fast as I can. Open the door and start running until everything else vanishes.
I can’t move. I feel dizzy. I blink and try to breathe but there’s no air left around me and I’m gasping, desperately, trying to keep myself alive.
Somewhere deep inside my brain, there must be a rational version of me that isn’t losing it, because I know that James is talking, even though I can’t hear what he’s saying. I know he’s touching my hair.
I clench my fists and force myself to focus.
One. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly.
Two. I do it again, remembering my therapist's words.
Three. Slow and steady. Focus on the sounds.
Four. Like a wave. Crashing against the shore.
I count to ten and then do it again, until, eventually, the world comes back to me in slow flashes.
My nails are digging painfully into my forearms and I feel exhausted. I'm sure that if I close my eyes my body will shut down at once. But James’ hands are in my hair, moving rhythmically as he speaks and I don't want to fall asleep.
“It’s okay, baby,” he’s cooing. “You’re okay.”
“Are you-” I croak. “Are you braiding my hair?”
“Sort of,” he answers, serious, watching me carefully. “I didn’t know what else to do.”
“And your braiding skills are unmatched,” I remind him.
It takes a second but, finally, a smile breaks through. And then he’s frowning again.
“Are you cold?”
I shake my head and then nod because I’m not really sure. My body feels feeble. James moves to take off his hoodie and I laugh.
“You don’t have to do that,” I remind him, pointing at my closet and the number of cardigans hanging there.
He lets out a low laugh and closes his eyes for a second. I don’t move. I’m not really cold and I don’t want to step away from him, not right now.
Instead, I rest my head on his shoulder. He wraps an arm around my body and holds me there, next to him.
“You’re not alone. You know that, right?” he whispers, against my hair, after what feels like an eternity.
I consider his words, breathing in the scent of his hoodie.
“I hate not talking to you,” I tell him, because it’s the truth. Even if nothing else is clear.
“I hate not talking to you,” he agrees, planting a kiss on top of my head.
I look up at him.
“I could talk to you for days and never get bored.” He’s not looking at me so I reach up to give him a soft kiss on the cheek. “I could talk to you about math and never get bored.”
He laughs, amused, and shakes his head.
“I don’t know anything about math.”
“I could talk to you about geography and never get bored.”
“Did you know Sydney’s not the capital of Australia?” he asks, returning my gaze.
“See? Not bored.”
He lets out a low chuckle and then leans forward, to plant a kiss on my left shoulder.
“I could talk to you for days and days on end,” he whispers as he pulls away, making me shiver.
“About geography?” I tease and he shakes his head.
“About anything. Tell me more crazy theories.”
“I don’t have crazy theories.”
“Show me what you write, then,” he asks, pushing a strand of hair out of my face.
I stare at him with surprise. Surely, he doesn’t expect to hold me to a promise I made while I was half-drunk and infatuated?
“I- You haven’t shown me what you do,” I say, biding my time.
“What?” he laughs. “You’ve seen my drawings.”
“Oh. That doesn’t count,” I argue, desperate. “You haven’t shown me.”
He looks at me through narrowed eyes, like he’s deciding what to do and I’m hoping, through gritted teeth, that he’ll forget all about this.
But he doesn’t. He stands and goes to my desk, to find a pen. When he comes back, he sits behind me.
“All right,” he pulls at the fabric of my shirt, exposing my shoulder.
I take a deep breath as the tip of his pen finds the skin of my collarbone, watching as he draws a long, elegant curve. His hands move with precision as he adds stroke after stroke.
At first, I can’t quite make sense of what he’s drawing until he moves a hand aside and I realize he’s mirroring the waves behind my bed. Only his look like they’re moving, crashing and curling against each other with every new stroke.
“It’d look better with some color on it,” he says, his hands brushing against my neck as he draws.
My breath is coming out shallow and fractured and I have to keep myself in check, but every so often, a sigh will abandon me against my will.
“And I can’t really erase any mistakes,” he murmurs, letting his fingers trace the foam at the edge of the waves and then fall down my back.
He watches his creation for a moment, and then, before I can think of something to say, leans forward and kisses my neck.
“Your turn.”
I wonder if he’ll forget about this if I turn around, climb on top of his lap and kiss his entire face. But, seeing the curious expression on his face, I’m convinced he won’t let this go.
Eventually, because I don’t think I can go back on my promise now, I find my favorite notebook, as always, placed on my bedside table. The truth is, I write most things on my computer, but they all have ridiculous titles that only make sense to me. I can’t imagine how embarrassing it would be to scroll through documents called “I love your Gorillaz shirt” in front of him.
I sift through the pages, trying to find something adequate to read, but it’s not an easy task. Finally, I find a poem that feels safe enough. I take a deep breath, looking at him through narrow eyes, a little angry that he’s making me do this, even if I was the one who made that stupid promise in the first place.
He’s watching me, expectantly, so I start to read.
“But when I think of the wonder of us
drunk on cheap wine
and your silly anecdotes
I’m sure I could erupt.

Which is another way of saying
sometimes,
at night,
I can hear you laughing
as you steal scoops of my ice cream
and tell me I’m being ridiculous,
there’s nothing to be afraid of.

I want to tell you
I’ve made a little sanctuary of
my pillows.
A place to
fall down on my knees
and pray.

And if you knew the anguish
the weight of his eyes
the edge of his smile,
would we ever be enough?
Hands intertwined.
Popcorn in bed.
Notebooks ablaze.”

When I’m done, I look at the page on my notebook for a long moment, before I can finally speak.
“So, that’s- Yeah. That’s what I write.”
“You’re so… talented,” he says, mesmerized.
I laugh.
“You’re so full of it.”
“No way,” he’s still watching me with something warm and heavy in his eyes. “No way.”
“Well, what about you? I could drown in your waves.”
“No way,” he repeats again, moving closer to me. He takes my notebook and I want to stop him from reading any of my other embarrassing thoughts but he only puts it back on the bedside table.
“You’re so talented,” he says again, taking off my glasses and putting them next to my notebook. His eyes find my lips and he places a hand on my knee. “I like your face.”
“I like your face too,” I echo and tremble, thinking of his fingers on my neck as he drew.
He lets out a noise that’s halfway between a laugh and a grunt.
I close my eyes then, because the way he’s looking at me is almost unbearable. Because his hands, as they trace the waves on my collarbone, might be too much.
“I like your room,” he whispers, so quietly that I’m not all too sure I heard him.
My legs feel like they might give out and I’m not even standing. My heart starts pounding in my chest, wildly.
He’s not even kissing me and I already feel like I could faint.
“And I love you in pajamas.”
I bite my lips because I’m sure the tremor I feel going through me is shaking my whole body and I’m too embarrassed to say anything.
I hate that I’m not the kind of girl who can hear a thing like this and say something flirty and funny in return. I hate that I’m so predictable. That I can’t be cool and composed like he is.
He wraps a hand around my ankle and I open my eyes.
“You’re-” I struggle to find the right word. Because nothing even comes close to describing just how good he is. “You’re unfathomable.”
He makes that same sound again. A laugh and a grunt all at once.
And then he kisses me.
And even though I know what it feels like to kiss him, and even though I’ve been wanting to all night, I’m unprepared. It hits me like a wave. It washes away all the pain, all the guilt, all the radio static. I’m breathless. I want more.
With one hand, I grab onto his hoodie and he pulls me closer, holding onto my waist.
I want to kiss him raw. I want the taste of him on my lips all night long. I want him so much it feels like a need.
I never want to lose him. Ever.
I pull away ready to tell him just how much I care for him, but his lips find my neck and I’m incoherent.
I want to touch him all over. I want to take off both his hoodie and his shirt and feel the skin of his stomach in my fingers. I want to bite his shoulders. I want to kiss his chest.
I do the next best thing.
I push him back, slowly, until his back meets the headboard and then I climb on top of him, He watches me with surprise and anticipation.
I bury my hand in his hair and hold the curls at the top of his head inside my fist. I force him to look up, so I can bite his nose, which makes him laugh. I bite his jaw and then his neck and when he puts his hands on my waist, I let him.
I take his earlobe in my teeth and pull and a tremor passes through his body, a sigh leaving his lips.
I suddenly feel so real. Like here, in his hands, I am a whole person.
“Please, don’t freak out,” he murmurs, burying his face on the side of my neck. His nose caresses my skin as he kisses my shoulder, right where his waves are still crashing against each other.
“Okay,” I say, almost like an exhale.
He kisses the spot where my jaw ends and it meets my neck. Then, he pulls my earlobe in between his teeth.
“Okay,” I say again because I forgot any other words, and really, what I want to say is “Don’t stop.”
Suddenly, he slides a finger beneath my shirt, finding the skin of my waist. His hand is cold and it nearly makes me jump on the spot. He pushes me closer to him (I don’t know how; we’re already as close as we’ll ever be), and then slides both hands further up my back, touching me lightly, kissing my neck slowly. I close my eyes and let myself melt in his arms.
There should be more alarms ringing in my head but my mind seems to have gone completely empty, giving itself entirely to the pleasure I feel all over my body.
He bites my collarbone, lightly, and a moan escapes my lips before I can help it.
I feel him laugh against my skin and I go red all over. I’m so ashamed of my slip. So ashamed to be so transparent.
He pushes away so we can look at each other.
“Are you sure you can’t be seduced?” he asks, a devilish smile dancing on his lips.
“Absolutely,” I assure him, firmly, but my voice still comes out fractured and soft.
He raises an eyebrow, challenging and I laugh, climbing off his lap. I want to be seduced. I can feel it in my bones. I can it feel in the thrill of my legs.
But I’m still too afraid.
I lay down on the bed and he joins me, pushing a pillow beneath his head and turning to look at me. (I make a mental promise to myself to never wash my pillowcases again). We look at each other for what feels like an eternity, until I can’t look at him anymore, because I’m sure he will see the intensity of my feelings plain on my face. Instead, I watch his chest rising and falling with every breath.
“Betty, tell me more crazy theories,” he asks, at last, and I laugh.
We talk and talk after that. I tell him about the book I’m reading and how I refuse to believe popular books are inherently worse than the so-called classics. He tells me about all the films he’s watched lately and his obsession with a new album he heard a few days ago.
Then, I tell him about that one time I forgot my own name when the tour guide at Columbia asked me a question and he tells me about the time he forgot to take off his fluffy slippers before getting into the shower and then we’re both laughing so hard, I worry Lore might hear us.
Eventually, he asks the question we’ve both been avoiding.
“What happens at prom, then?”
“We dance,” I tell him, because I still haven’t changed my mind and I know that he hasn’t either.
He closes his eyes for a second and then nods, before kissing my forehead.
“Okay,” he agrees. “We dance.”

Chapter Text

When James Wolfe opened the door to the gym, he knew he’d made a mistake.
He was late. Very fucking late. Which wasn’t unusual, not really. But he had been getting better lately. He made it to homeroom most days, at least, which was good as he could hope for.
Only, tonight, everyone was already here. There was a big cluster of people on the dance floor and the music was coming out loud and fast around them.
Behind him, Dan was muttering under his breath, trying to put on a new tie and failing miserably.
“This is all your fucking fault,” he said, pushing past James, who was busy scanning through the crowd. “Did you have to bleed all over my fucking shirt?”
“Did you have to break my nose?” James answered back, touching the bruise on the bridge of his nose, absent-mindedly.
“I thought that’s what you wanted,” Dan laughed, walking away to find the rest of his friends. “Take the anger out. Feel the pain or whatever. And I didn’t actually break your nose.”
“My mom’s gonna freak.”
James followed Dan through the tables, eyes still fixed on the crowd around him, looking for Betty.
“She always freaks. I’m more worried about Maya. She’s gonna lose it.”
James laughed.
“I told you not to go for the face,” he reminded the other boy, just as they took a right turn and the rest of his friends came into view.
They’d found a table close to the bleachers. Tatiana and Lily were talking to each other and laughing, eyes trained on Maya, who was trying to get Daniel’s hair to stay flat, unsuccessfully.
“Yeah, well, you fucking moved. I told you it was a bad idea to start drinking before we even got here.” Dan curved his neck to the side so the bruise that was starting to form on his jaw was visible. James knew he was right, of course. He wasn’t doing himself any favors by showing up at the dance already wasted. “You weren’t careful either, dickhead.”
That made both boys laugh, even though they were still in pain. Daniel saw them, then, and frowned.
“What took you so long?”
Dan shrugged and pulled out the bottle of tequila he’d been hiding under his jacket.
“We’re here now,” he said, annoyed.
Lately, Dan took whatever opportunity he could find to act like Daniel was a pain in his ass, even if their friend meant well.
“Don’t put it on the table where everyone can see,” Maya chided, using that tone of voice she always used around them, like they were her two annoying little brothers. She took the bottle and placed it beneath her chair, hidden from view.
She seemed to notice James’s wound. She took a step closer to him and grabbed his chin forcefully.
“What the fuck happened to you?”
“Lay off!” Dan intervened, indignantly, even though she wasn’t talking to him.
“Hey!” that was Daniel, who was returning Dan’s livid gaze with a dangerous look of his own. “Are you guys fighting again?”
“None of your fucking business,” Dan said, looking away and going to sit next to Lily who was shaking her head in disapproval.
“What’s the deal with you two?” Tatiana spoke for the first time, pushing her long, blonde hair out of her face. “Can’t you find a less macho way to figure out your shit?”
“We don’t actually hurt each other,” Dan said, like that was all the explanation needed.
And it was true. They never did it with the intention of harming the other. James wasn’t even sure why they did it. Sometimes, it felt like the only way he could let all of his frustration out. And Dan was surprisingly strong even though he was shorter than James. It was never an easy win. Not that they fought to win. But it felt good to exhaust his body into oblivion and then carry the pain around, like a reminder of what he was capable of.
“That’s even more pathetic.”
“Don’t encourage them to actually fight,” Lily warned Tatiana, turning to look at Dan with a frown. The two were closer to each other than to anyone else in their group. And they’d grown closer now that Daniel and Maya spend all of their time together and Dan was complaining all the time about being left behind. Lily looked worried now, as she turned to her friend. “What shit do you have to figure out anyway? Even if your parents are assholes who pretend they don’t know you’re gay, you’ll always have us.”
Dan shrugged, not looking at her.
“I did it for him,” he lied, looking at James like he was daring him to contradict his words. “He’s the one acting all moody because his girlfriend didn’t want to come with him to prom.”
And even though the words stung and the boy had an answer prepared —an answer that was sure to expose the truth— he didn’t reply. He didn’t want to anger Dan. Not when he was the only one willing to throw out a few punches from time to time. Not when he never held back.
“Oh,” Lily said, embarrassed. She turned to look at James with an apologetic look, unsure of what to say. Lily and James didn’t really talk much outside of school. Not that they disliked each other, they’d just never made an effort to hang out. They were friends with the same people and that was that.
“Well, can’t you just talk to her instead of getting your nose broken?” Maya asked, impatiently.
Out of all the people in their friend group, Maya was the only one who seemed to actively dislike him. James knew she had her reasons. He didn’t exactly blame her. Right at that moment, he wasn’t sure he liked himself, either.
Maya was still looking at him like she was expecting an answer, but James didn’t have one.
“Are we drinking, or what?” he asked, instead, which turned everyone’s attention away from him.
The truth was he didn’t know how to talk to Betty about this specific issue. Which made him feel lonely and wretched.
Because, up until now, he’d always felt like he could talk to her about anything and everything.
His pain and his dreams and his obsession with feeling human.
She seemed to understand it all.
That was the reason he’d fallen for her, even if he couldn’t say the words out loud yet. (Well, one of the many reasons.)
But lately, she seemed unwilling to listen to him, to understand what he was saying. She acted like he was being unreasonably jealous. But he wasn’t. Not really.
He walked away from his friends, who were discussing the best way to pour alcohol for each one without the teachers noticing, to look for her again.
He knew she was already here because Betty was never late and Ela hadn’t stopped blabbering about prom for the past two weeks —which James found a little funny given what a huge geek she was.
He pushed past Inez Elsher and Liz Avery, ignoring them. He didn’t much like either girl and he wasn’t up for any of their antics tonight.
He spotted Sam on the dance floor, swaying slowly in Nico’s arms. He looked away. As much as he disliked Nico, he supposed her dating choices weren’t his concern anymore, even if her boyfriend was known for being such a huge dick. He was sure Sam wouldn’t appreciate him intervening anyway.
He kept walking, feeling more and more frustrated with every passing second.
He could still remember his excitement when Betty had agreed to come with him to prom. He’d begun daydreaming about this stupid day. He’d imagined buying her a bouquet of her favorite flowers —dahlias—, which hadn’t really been his idea but had worked wonderfully when Daniel showed up at Maya’s birthday party with one. He’d even thought about what he would say to Lore, because he knew just how important she was to his girlfriend and he knew he wasn’t exactly good with first impressions. Maya claimed this was because he reeked of cigarettes and always looked like he thought everything around him was funny. So he figured all he needed to do was act serious and douse himself in perfume (or just not smoke at all for a few days.)
He would tell Lore not to worry, he’d take care of Betty and he’d make sure to bring her home before curfew. Not that Betty had a curfew. Apparently, her mom didn’t bother with such things.
Which was precisely why he’d been looking forward to meeting her.
Lore seemed really peculiar. And if she liked him, he’d have no competition, he knew.
He’d imagined her taking their picture, standing next to their old fireplace, smiling awkwardly at the camera, James' arm around Betty’s waist, who’d be holding the flowers tight in her hands.
Of course, that would never happen now.
He passed a hand through his hair, trying to contain his frustration, when he saw her, standing next to Sydney, laughing at something her friend had said.
She looked beautiful.
She always did. Even when she was acting shy, hiding behind her red, wireframe glasses, which she claimed made her look like a middle-aged librarian, (that wasn’t true) (the glasses made her look wiser, somehow.)
But tonight, she looked especially beautiful. She was wearing a long, pink dress that showed off her shoulders. And her hair was cascading gracefully down her back, all knots untangled.
She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear and turned to look at Ela, nodding slowly. And then, she saw him, and smiled, holding her hand up in an awkward salute.
James nodded in return, smiling back with amusement. He thought about crossing the room and kissing her, taking her in his arms and leading her away from all the incessant noise. But he knew she wouldn’t like that. He knew she wouldn’t change her mind now.
Betty was still looking at him, so he took a step forward. Because even if Andrew was hovering around here somewhere, James was still her boyfriend. He could still kiss her in front of the whole school.
“Dude,” Daniel appeared at his side, eyeing the cluster of teachers at every side of the dancefloor with caution. “You have to take the alcohol away.”
“What?” James asked, confused.
“Lily says Ms. Martin is on the lookout and you know how much she hates me ever since I spiked the punch last year. She’s trying to bust me again,” he looked back, frantic, and made a wild gesture to Tatiana, who appeared by his side. “She won’t suspect you two. So just take it away before Dan starts throwing a tantrum and ruins the night.”
He was being unfair to the other boy. Sure, their friend was an immature moron sometimes but he would never actually want to risk Daniel’s scholarship. Everyone knew how important it was for him.
James looked back toward Betty, to let her know he’d be back but she was surrounded by her friends and he could see Andrew now, talking lively next to Ela. He frowned.
“Where am I supposed to hide it?”
“In your car. We won’t be here long.”
He shrugged and turned to look at Tatiana, who was wearing an oversized jacket (probably Dan’s), doing a poor job of hiding the bottle of tequila.
He tipped his head to the left, raising his chin and pointing with his thumb toward the exit.
She followed him through the door and all the way to his car without talking once. James didn’t know what to say, either. They hadn’t been alone since that night at Nico’s party, when he’d kissed her sloppily in the upstairs bathroom. He knew she’d been trying to talk to him about it ever since, but he was too embarrassed and didn’t know what she wanted him to say, anyway. That he was sorry? That he hadn’t meant to? That it didn’t mean anything?
When they reached his car, Tatiana handed him the bottle, without saying anything, and he hid it underneath the passenger seat.
“Betty broke up with you?” she asked, suddenly, as they turned around.
“What? Why would you think that?”
“Dan said something of the sort.” James shook his head, annoyed. “Then why did she come with Andrew and not you?”
“You’d have to ask her that,” he said, trying not to sound irritated. He still didn’t know what Tatiana wanted from him. Not that it mattered, anyway.
“I always thought she and Andrew were dating,” she mused, purposefully ignoring James’s deep frown. “They look cute together.”
“Thanks,” the boy’s answer came out clipped and angry, even to his own ears.
“I didn’t mean it like that. Just, you know, they make sense.”
James didn’t answer that.
He knew Tatiana was right. Even if she was just saying it to upset him.
Andrew and Betty made sense together. Everybody knew it. Ela and Sydney knew it. His friends knew it. The teachers probably knew it, too.
It was only a matter of time before Betty also knew it.
And then, would any of the hours they’d spent together kissing and talking make any difference?
James had never been a jealous person. Sure, when he was a kid he used to get jealous whenever his dad took Hannah to the movies, or when he signed her up for violin lessons without objecting, once. But eventually, he’d realized he preferred to stay home and sneak out to meet his friends. Plus, Hannah was better than him in every aspect, so it didn’t matter if she got the better treatment. She deserved it.
But he’d never really been jealous of another boy before. (Which used to drive Sam crazy). (She used to say this meant he didn’t really like her as much.)
But now, everything was different. It’s not that he thought Andrew was any better than him. The boy was a huge nerd, everyone knew that. He’d dressed up like a Game of Thrones character at the last Halloween party. Maya and Tatiana had made fun of him all night, though not to his face.
James hadn’t paid him any particular attention. Which was a testament to how unimportant Andrew was. And things would have probably stayed the same if it wasn’t for Betty. If his feelings for her weren’t so perfectly clear.
James didn’t feel threatened by Andrew. Not exactly. Sure, the other boy was annoying and pretentious. When James started asking Betty’s friends about her favorite song, Andrew acted like he knew everything about the girl, and like James should know it too. He mentioned, more than just a few times, how little James and Betty had in common. Like that mattered. And it wasn’t even true. Clearly, if Andrew believed that, it was because he didn’t really see who she truly was. Not the way James did.
He knew she was better than Andrew.
And, somewhere deep inside of him, he knew she was too good for him, too.
That was the truth.
And he was terrified that being around the other boy, she would realize it.
Not because he was what she deserved. But because Andrew was her equal in ways James would never be.
Andrew was driven. He always had top marks in every class. He’d joined every conceivable club. He volunteered at some children’s place. He was determined to get into Berkley. Andrew had a whole plan ahead of him.
And so did Betty.
James felt like such a loser next to her. Like he was looking up at this enormous, marvelous thing. He knew she would be accepted to Columbia and once she left for the life that awaited her in New York, would she ever look back and think about him?
“Why don’t you just talk to her?” Tatiana asked then, her voice coming out more gentle than he deserved. “If you’re not broken up yet, you can still fix whatever it is you did.”
James knew why Tatiana would assume he’d be the one to fuck up. Maybe he had. He followed his friend through the crowd, determined to find Betty and ask her to dance with him.
He’d been going back and forth between coming here tonight or skipping it altogether. But then his friends were coming and Betty was coming and Maya had managed to convince the DJ to play what he’d asked for, so, he figured he might as well be there when Betty’s favorite song started playing, to take her into his arms and tell her, once and for all, just what he felt for her.
That was the plan, anyway.
But when they turned around the corner, James saw her and Andrew dancing together and stopped in his place. The boy had his hands on her waist and she had hers around his neck. They were talking. Andrew shook his head and Betty laughed.
And all the anger and pain James had been keeping at bay erupted in his chest like a volcano.
He wouldn’t see much of Betty this summer because his parents were forcing him to help his grandma with her shop, and she lived five hours away. And, even if he sneaked out every weekend and came back to be with her, they would only have a few days together. She knew that. And she still had chosen to come with Andrew to prom.
That was all the proof he needed, really.
And, as he watched them swaying to the soft melody of the song, he knew it was over. Betty was about to realize she had more things in common with Andrew. She’d realize she deserved someone who could be as passionate and driven as she was. And then, she would break up with him before the summer even started.
He wasn’t going to stick around for that. He didn’t even know why he’d shown up in the first place. He hated parties and big crowds. Plus they couldn’t even really drink here.
He turned on the spot and went to their table. Maya and Daniel were nowhere to be found. Tatiana was talking to some senior and Lily had gone dancing with her other friends.
Dan was still sitting at the table, looking gloomy.
Perfect, James thought.
“Wanna go get wasted somewhere else? The tequila’s in my car.”
“Fuck yes,” Dan said, standing up at once and grabbing his coat. “Should we tell the rest?”
James just shook his head.
And, as they pushed their way to the exit, he saw Betty one last time. She wasn’t dancing anymore. She was standing next to her table, looking for something in the crowd. But James knew she wasn’t thinking of him. Not really. He pulled his keys out of his pocket and didn’t turn around again

Chapter Text

“I think I’ve done enough dancing for tonight,” Andrew says, shaking his head, his cheeks blushing slightly in the dim light of the gym.
I laugh and look away, unsure of what to say.
All around us, there are couples swaying and kissing and holding each other, and even though his hands are on my waist and my arms rest around his neck, we’re not really touching each other. We’ve been rocking back and forth awkwardly for a few minutes and now that the song is over, he lets go of my waist and gives me a sheepish smile.
“I think I’m a better dancer when I drink,” I confess, following him to our table, where Ela and Sydney are waiting for us.
“You shouldn’t, though. Your mom will kill me.”
I frown. Lore’s never one to blame other people for my mistakes. If I come home drunk tonight, she might kill me, but she’ll never accuse him of any wrongdoing.
In fact, I don’t think she even knows I came here with him. I wasn’t in the mood for any prom rituals, and Lore didn’t insist. All she said was to be careful, right before I slammed the door behind me and went to meet Andrew, who was opening the passenger door to his mom’s SUV.
“You look pretty,” he told me, and all along, all I could think about was James.
Which is unfair, I know. This was my choice. It could’ve been him standing on my front porch, if only I’d let him. And, okay, it’s not that I regret my decision.
I knew that if I bailed on Andrew, I would hurt him and I couldn’t do that to him. He’s my friend and even if his feelings for me aren’t reciprocated, I still care for him.
But when I saw James across the room, wearing an ill-fitting navy blue suit with Converse instead of dress shoes, his hair a mess of curls, and a band-aid on his nose, I knew I’d made a mistake. He looked so handsome, it almost hurt. I mean, he’s always handsome. But tonight, as he waved back, with that silly playful smile of his, I knew what he meant when he said “I wanted you to come with me.”
Because even though he’s here and I can just walk across the room and go to him, there will be no pictures of us standing in front of my old fireplace, that stupid smile illuminating every corner of my living room.
“Ugh! Stop!” I say, trying hard not to laugh, when we reach our table and find Ela and Sydney glued by their lips, making cute faces at each other. “This is a public dance!”
“That borders on homophobic,” Ela turns to me, holding onto Sydney’s right hand.
“You know that’s not what I meant at all.”
She raises both eyebrows and pushes the chair next to her closer to me with her left foot.
“And you know you’re only bitter because you’re fighting with your boyfriend. And you’re jealous of our love.”
“No,” I inform her, ignoring the chair and looking out into the crowd. “I just happen to find public displays of affection really distasteful.”
“Please,” she rolls her eyes at me. “I’ve seen you and James kissing passionately before. That’s worse than anything us lesbians could ever do.”
“You have not!”
“Sadly, I have. I wouldn’t lie about that. It was scarring.”
Sydney covers her mouth, giggling, and turns to me.
“Where is he, anyway?”
“Uh, I think he’s somewhere around here,” I shrug like it’s not a big deal. The last time I saw him, he was walking away from the crowd with Tatiana by his side.
“Ugh, stop moping and go find him, then!” Ela intervenes. “Make out and make up or whatever. I promise not to retch.”
“I know better than to believe any of your promises.”
I can’t see James anywhere so I give in and sit next to Ela, who has opened her eyes wide and is looking at me with shock.
“When have I not kept one?”
“That time you swore we would watch all episodes of Game of Thrones together and then the next time we hung out you’d already seen a whole season without me!” Andrew reminds her, crossing his arms against his chest.
“Well,” Ela rolls her eyes again. “You wanted to finish reading the second book first and I couldn’t wait any longer!”
“You couldn’t wait just one week?”
“Whatever. It was a minor promise.”
“You promised you would find an appropriate suit if I wore this dress tonight,” Sydney says, shaking her head. “And now, look at you!” she gestures to the ensemble Ela’s wearing.
“What’s wrong with it?” My best friend frowns, looking down at her clothes.
“Don’t tell me it isn’t one of your dad’s old tuxedos. It’s red!”
“It matches your dress!” she argues. “As far as I’m concerned, I’ve kept that promise.”
“What about that time you promised I’d never have to dance in front of other people if I learned the Bang Bang Bang choreography with you? And then you tried to force me to do it at a party!”
“They were playing the song! And everyone was too drunk to notice, anyway.”
“And thank God for that!”
“Gosh, I wish I’d been there to see that!” Sydney says, giggling.
That was the whole point, I think, but don’t say it out loud. Ela, who loves dancing and isn’t half bad at it, was trying to impress her, but she was too drunk to notice Sydney had left.
“It was really funny,” Andrew snorts, covering his mouth. “I know you were wasted, but you still managed to pull off some moves.”
“I didn’t give in to her demands,” I inform Sydney. “But my point still stands. You can’t be trusted with promises.”
“Fine, I’ll retch while you’re not looking,” Ela assures me, trying not to laugh.
“You should go find James, though,” Sydney leans towards me, her red dress showing off her cleavage. “I think he was really looking forward to being with you tonight.”
I open my mouth to ask what she means by this when the first chords of Ela’s favorite song start playing on the speakers. She looks up, letting out an excited squeal.
“Oh, my God! I can’t believe he did it!” she stands up, pulling Sydney along with her.
“Who did what?” I ask, laughing at the expression on her face.
“C’mon,” she says, ignoring my question and beckoning us forward.
Andrew and I look at each other, unsure of what to do. He raises his eyebrows like he was saying “I’m in if you’re in,” so I nod in return and we stand to join the girls on the dance floor.
We start moving a little awkwardly at first, but then Ela’s jumping and moving with such glee that it becomes contagious and we all relax into the music. My best friend starts singing loudly, pointing at Sydney and practically shouting the “I didn’t know I was lonely till I saw your face” line. Her girlfriend is covering her face and blushing but nobody else seems to notice.
That is the moment when I realize I’m happy here. Standing on the dance floor next to my stupid, silly friends. And I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. Right this second, I know that in ten years, I won’t even remember what that stupid fight with James was all about. All I’ll remember is him. His playful smile, his wild curls, the way he says my name, as if he couldn’t hold it in. All I’ll remember is this feeling in my chest, this thing that can’t be anything but love.
So, I made the wrong choice. It’s not a definite wrong choice. I can still fix this. I can still have him, here, next to us. I can still kiss him in the middle of the dance floor. I can still take our picture, his mischievous smile frozen in my memories forever.
The song reaches an end and Sydney starts clapping as the next one begins. When the first guitar string starts playing, I look up, startled, and Ela’s words come back to me, “if he just wanted to have sex with you, he wouldn’t be following us around asking what your favorite song is.” My heart starts pounding in my chest, realization dawning, when a sad, long voice begins singing through the speakers. I turn around and find my best friend looking at me with a smile.
“Go find him,” she says, like it’s obvious.
And it is.
I turn around, moving frantically through the tables, the happiness inside of me like a lighthouse, calling James to the shore. I find his table almost immediately. Tatiana’s here, sitting next to a girl I recognize as a senior, whispering secretly to each other.
Which means he must be close by. He must be looking for me, too.
The smile on my face, as I move blindly through the crowd, is starting to devour me whole. But I can’t find that familiar crown of curls anywhere. He’s not on the dance floor and he’s not lurking around the corners.
Here and there I spot people I know, dancing, laughing, kissing, swaying to the notes of my favorite song. I find the exit and make my way through, but there’s no one there.
A desolating thought starts creeping through the corners of my mind, but I keep going, making my way to the parking lot, certain that I’ll turn around a corner, and James will be there, smoking, laughing, reaching for the sleeve of my cardigan.
But he isn’t.
The swelling happiness I was feeling only a few moments ago fades with every passing second as the song comes to an end and I admit to myself, with a stab of blind pain, that he’s left. James is gone.

Chapter Text

But I can see us lost in the memory
August slipped away into a moment in time
'Cause it was never mine

Chapter Text

Augustine Thomas closed the door of her car with a bang and practically ran across the street, looking for the brown building Frances had described. It didn’t take her long. It had a huge, old sign that read “Wolfe’s Antiques & Curiosities,” and, next to it, a newer one, that read, in red blocky letters: “FOR SALE.”
She walked past, wondering just how late she really was. Frances had told her to be there at ten and it was now a quarter past. She hadn’t meant to be late. She really hadn’t. She’d set an obscene amount of alarms to prevent this exact scenario but she should’ve known better than to trust herself on Monday mornings.
She should’ve known better than to allow herself to sleep late. She also hadn’t meant to do that. But Carter was only free at nights and dyeing her hair had taken longer than she’d first anticipated. Of course, it also didn’t help that Carter’s gossip had been so juicy she had to take breaks to ask questions and gape at her friend’s answers even if he couldn’t see her.
By the time she was done and her hair was almost the exact shade of orange she’d been aiming for, it was already three a.m. “I have to wake up in four hours,” Carter had complained as they said their goodbyes. “Aunt Shayla will fucking kill me if I don’t wake up.” But Augustine didn’t really believe it. Carter’s aunts adored him. He could never do any wrong with them.
She should’ve been more worried about her own situation anyway.
Because, yeah, okay, Frances might be a nice person, but she was also paying Augustine to help her in the shop. She supposed that meant she had to act the part. And she did want to.
She wanted to work with Frances at doing whatever it was she was supposed to be doing —Frances hadn’t made it clear. She would have nothing else to occupy her time this summer, anyway. At least, not until Carter came back and he wasn’t supposed to be back for another two weeks so she might as well just make some money in the meantime. Either that or stay locked in her home with nothing to do.
Augustine took a deep breath outside the door to the shop —she had noticed Frances’ SUV parked only a few feet away, which meant the old woman was inside, waiting for her —and pushed her hair behind her ears, trying to make it look as presentable as she could. Frances was always giving her grief about her hair and she didn’t need to make matters worse now that she was 20 minutes late.
The girl put on a wide, apologetic smile as she pushed the door open and was about to open her mouth to say hello when she bumped into the pair of green-yellow eyes across the room. She stopped in her tracks.

When Augustine Thomas was 14, she found a boy inside her father’s studio.
She hadn’t been scared. Not exactly. And she knew the boy. She’d seen him around, before. He was her neighbor’s grandson, but they’d never really talked to each other. The boy’s family —his little sister, his tall, slender mom and his always scowling dad— were only ever around during the holidays and the summers.
She liked to watch them, sometimes, from the inside of her boring, quiet home. She had always figured they were a happy family, what with the kids running around and the adults laughing and patting their heads, but the boy, as he stood looking at her dad’s old DVD collection, didn’t seem happy.
His shoulders were slouched forward and his hair was a mess. He didn’t notice her at first, even as she stood at the door, watching him. He was looking at the titles on the spines of each DVD and he seemed engrossed in what he was doing. Augustine considered turning around and leaving him to it. It wasn’t like he would steal anything and, even if he did, the girl would know where to look.
But It had been the worst holiday of her life and she was alone. She’d been on her own, mostly, her dad going off to his meetings and leaving her to rot in the quiet of their house. She’d tried not to think about it. She’d tried not to miss her mom; she’d tried to call Julia a couple of times but her sister never answered and her mom never once called Augustine.
She had told herself that was okay. She didn’t blame them. She would’ve left too, if she’d been able to. But of course, she was still underage and her father was still legally responsible for her, even if he was never around to make sure she had eaten or done her homework.
Maybe that was the reason she said, after a second:
“You know, if I called the cops they would arrest you for trespassing.”
The boy jumped in his place, clearly startled and turned to look at her with a strange muddle of emotions in his face.
“Are you really going to call them?” he asked, sounding annoyed and repentant at once.
She shook her head.
“Why are you trespassing?”
He shrugged, turning to look at the movies again.
“I thought everyone had left,” he said, simply, unbothered by his own admission.
“And you like to break into people’s houses when everyone’s left?”
“I didn’t want to be home,” the boy pulled another DVD from the shelf and examined it with curiosity, just as Augustine examined him.
He must have been her age and while she’d always thought of him as one of those kids with big, loving families, he did look a little sad, a little tired, a little like he was desperate to run away.
She felt a weird sense of connection with him then. Because she also felt sad and tired and like she needed to run away.

“Augustine,” Frances said, clapping her hands with delight. “You’re here.”
Augustine looked away from the boy sitting down on top of a wooden chest and turned to the old woman.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” she said, and was surprised to hear the brittleness of her voice.
Frances made a gesture as if to say not to worry.
“Have you met my grandson, James?” she asked, turning to the boy.
Augustine did look at him then, waiting to see what he would say to that but he wasn’t looking at her. He stood up and wiped his hands on the tops of his jeans.
“Hi,” she said, from her spot and James dipped his chin awkwardly, once.
Augustine took another step closer to where Frances and her grandson stood, trying hard to act like she wasn’t at all bothered by this sudden appearance and doing her best to recognize the boy she once knew in the James who now stood in front of her.
He was much taller than he’d been back then. And he wasn’t as skinny. He looked a little more solid, now, as he stood there with his hands buried deep in the pockets of his jeans. But his eyes were the same. Even from where she stood, she could see the flecks of yellow in them. Like sand.
“Oh, no!” Frances said suddenly, turning to Augustine with an anguished expression on her face. “What did you do to your hair? You had such pretty blonde locks!”
Augustine tried not to laugh as the woman reached out to touch the orange strands that had escaped from behind her ears —like that was enough to keep her wild hair tamed—; Frances looked truly discomfited.
The girl smiled her practiced nonchalance.
“Well, you know what they say about blondes, Frances. And it will wash out eventually.”
James laughed under his breath, quietly, and Augustine felt a sliver of pleasure run through her at the sound. She tried to shake away the feeling as Frances turned to her with a frown.
“Oh, I wish you didn’t talk like that,” she chided. “You’re such a pretty girl! You don’t need to hide it!”
Augustine tried to arrange her features to look like she was only mildly teasing the old woman.
“I know that, Frances. But I like to be a different girl every once in a while.”
Frances tsked with disapproval and turned to look at her grandson, who was watching Augustine like he found the entire conversation beyond funny. Like he was trying to contain his laugh.
“Please tell me your girlfriend doesn’t have all this stuff on her face,” she said, with a vague gesture toward Augustine’s ring nose.
James’ smile fell at once.
He shook his head and Augustine felt her stomach plummet to the ground underneath her but tried to ignore it. What was she expecting anyway? That he hadn’t moved on from her? That he still missed her?
“I really can’t wait to meet her,” Frances said, in a grandma-ly wistful kind of way.
“I don’t even know if she’s my girlfriend anymore, Grandma,” James answered, pushing a hand through his hair and looking down at his shoes as he pushed a box away with the tip of his right Converse. He didn’t sound saddened by this revelation. If anything, he sounded annoyed.
“Oh,” Frances opened and closed her mouth a few times as if she was trying to decide what to say. In the end, she smiled, clasping her hands together in front of her chest, like she was praying, and turned to Augustine.
“Well, now that you’re here,” she said cheerfully. “We can begin! I’ve already explained everything to James but let me show you really quickly what you’re supposed to be doing.”
She led Augustine through the back of the shop, explaining which things went into which boxes and which needed to be packed carefully to be sold. Augustine was trying to pay attention because she knew it was important but she was keenly aware of James, following closely behind.
She wondered, not for the first time since she’d arrived, if he truly didn’t remember her. If she hadn’t made a lasting impression.
Not that it mattered. It had been a long time ago. She didn’t think about the holidays they’d spent together anymore. She hadn’t for a while. In fact, if he hadn’t shown up today, she would’ve never thought of him again, ever.
But he was here and he looked… Well, not the same. Not like the boy she’d met back in eighth grade. Not like the boy who’d kissed her on her rooftop on New Year’s Eve, who’d tasted of cheap wine and Tostitos. Not like the boy who had probably saved her.
“Okay, well, that’s pretty much the gist,” Frances said, finally stopping when they reached the front entrance again. “I’m going to go run some errands because God knows I’m no help with a back like this,” she smiled at them. “If you need anything, just call me.”
She winked at them, moved forward to place a kiss on James’ forehead and then walked away, leaving the two teenagers behind.

Neither James nor Augustine said anything for a long second. She’d be damned if she’d be the first one to speak. And she was used to uncomfortable silences. So, instead, she started sorting through the stuff on the shelves the way Frances had told her to, willing James to say something, to acknowledge that he’d been her first kiss.
“I like your hair,” the boy said, finally, as he crouched down to open a box.
“Thanks,” she answered, not looking at him.
“You look like that girl from The Fifth Element.”
Augustine did turn to look at him then, full-on, eyes gone wide with surprise.
“Yes,” she said slowly. “That’s what I was going for.”
James looked up from his spot, smiling a lopsided smile.
Augustine had been trying to pretend like she hadn’t noticed just how handsome he was. But she couldn’t pretend anymore. Not with him looking at her like that.
He’d been cute when they’d first met, at 14. But he’d been cute the way most boys are cute at that age, like he hadn’t grown into himself. Like his limbs were too long and the features on his face were catching up with his nose.
But now. He was different now.
He was beautiful.
That was the only way to describe him fairly.
There was something old about his face, like he could star in a period movie about war. Like he could wear one of those steel helmets Augustine hated so much and it wouldn’t look out of place on his face.
He reminded her a bit of that painting she’d seen at school, when they’d been learning about academic art. The one with Satan looking through his arm. Maybe it was because of the shadows underneath his eyes, so dark that they almost looked like bruises.
“It suits you,” he said, finally turning to the box full of things in front of him.
“I thought about dying it brown and doing it like the girl from Blade Runner, but those bangs look like they’re a hassle,” she answered, watching him as she said the words, waiting for a flicker of recognition.
He looked up and, for a second, Augustine thought he saw it clicking into place but then he looked away, closing the lid of the box and marking it with a red marker.
“You look hot with orange hair,” he said, simply.
If Augustine had been younger, if she hadn’t spent the last two years of her life trying to get over him, she might have blushed at this comment. It might have made her heart skip a beat. But Augustine was older now. She knew better than to take his words at heart. So instead, she pushed a hand through her hair, letting it cascade around her shoulders.
“Thanks,” she said, imitating the easiness of his voice.
They started working in silence after that. Augustine didn’t know what to say. Memories kept flashing in her eyes. Of him and the number of movies they’d watched the week after Christmas, huddled in her father’s studio, eating popcorn and drinking alcohol her dad had supposedly thrown away. The first time they’d watched Blade Runner together, James hadn’t been able to shut up afterward. He’d loved the movie and while Augustine had mostly focused her attention on that gorgeous coat the cyborg girl was wearing, James had been fascinated by everything else.
“It’s just so human,” he’d said, as they’d lay down on the floor of the studio, shoulders touching.
He yawned now, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand and blinking a few times.
“You look like you haven’t slept in weeks,” she remarked, focused on her task, or at least, pretending to be.
James shrugged.
“I’ve had a shitty week.”
“Don’t tell me. Your girlfriend dump you at prom?”
She’d meant it as a joke but he didn’t laugh. Instead, he frowned even deeper and pushed a hand through his hair, like he was exasperated.
“Something like that,” he mumbled.
“See? That’s why I never bother with any of the dances. There’s always so much drama.”
James laughed, without humor, and moved to another box.
“It was a mistake,” he agreed.
“Going to prom is always a mistake.”
“What did you do?”
“We went to a party instead. Much more fun.”
“We as in you and your boyfriend?”
Augustine shook her head, trying not to read anything into his question.
“We as in me and Carter, my best friend.”
“Was it fun?”
The girl tried to answer the question honestly. She didn’t remember much. She’d woken up with a terrible headache the next day and a bunch of new phone numbers on her contact list. Which usually meant it had been fun. She shrugged.
“There was a lot of alcohol. And a lot of weed. Other than that, can’t remember much.”
James smiled like he thought that was funny.
“That does sound fun,” he agreed. “Not like my prom.”
Augustine didn’t know what to say to that so she didn’t say anything else and, after a second, the boy spoke again.
“So, if you’re the type to get wasted at parties, how come you know so much about films?”
Augustine turned to look at him through slit eyes.
“What does that mean? The type to get wasted at parties? So if I like to hang out with my friends I can’t be an interesting girl?”
“No,” James’s eyes had widened with alarm. “That’s not- I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Sure you didn’t.”
“No! I just meant- I don’t know. I guess I just hadn’t met someone who liked old films. Most people just watch the superhero kind.”
Augustine wanted to roll her eyes at him. She wanted to be annoyed.
“That’s very snobbish of you,” (she’d at least managed to sound annoyed).
“Yeah,” he admitted with a laugh. “I guess it is.”
The girl turned to look at him again. He was smiling abashedly, rubbing a hand to the back of his head. She wasn’t really annoyed. She might have been if it’d been any other person saying that shit.
“I used to watch a lot of old movies with my dad,” she answered, finally, still watching him, still waiting for the moment when he finally understood.
“Me too. With my uncle, I mean. I used to watch a lot of old films with my uncle.”
Augustine was surprised to hear this. She hadn’t thought of James’s uncle for a long time. Not since he’d died. She also didn’t remember the boy mentioning him much when they’d first met, even though, at the time, his uncle —Noah, she remembered— was living with Frances.
She suddenly remembered the day she watched the ambulance pulling up in front of her house and the concerned whispers of neighbors as they pulled away and Frances cried, sitting down on the curb with her hands clutched tightly to her chest.
“Oh,” she said, trying to push the memory away. “I-”
“Blade Runner was his favorite,” James mused, seemingly unaware of the flight of emotions passing through the girl’s face. “But I like Japanese films better.”
“Oh, God,” she said, grateful that he’d moved on to a lighter topic. “Please tell me you aren’t one of those losers who gets off watching anime porn.”
“What? No! I just like how animation opens up the-”
“Oh, please,” she interrupted, delighting a little in the helplessness of James’s expression. “I bet you have a poster from that girl from Evangelion in your room. Or better yet, that girl from Ghost in the Shell.”
James opened his mouth to say something but no actual words came and Augustine knew that she’d been right.
She let out a laugh, opening her mouth in mock surprise.
“You do, don’t you? At least tell me she’s not fucking naked.”
James shook his head and looked away, annoyed.
“I just like science fiction movies, okay? And there are a lot of sci-fi animes out there.”
“Sure, whatever you say.”
He let out a frustrated sigh, closed the box he’d been working on, and sat down with his knees wide.
“What kind of movies do you like?”
“All types. Old and new and everything in between. I watched this old Chinese one recently that was really good,” Augustine answered, casually, like she wasn’t trying to show off. “The custom design was incredible. It was very slow but very good.”
James looked a little impressed. He wasn’t frowning anymore, his mouth was slightly parted and he seemed to be considering her answer.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen any Chinese films.”
“I know. You’re only interested in one type of Asian movie. For very particular reasons.”
“Okay,” he said, leaning forward on his knees and blowing a strand of hair out of his eyes in frustration. “If I send you a picture of my room so you can see there’s nothing weird there, will you knock it off? I wanna talk to you about movies.”
It was this last statement, more than anything else, that made Augustine hold her tongue. She had a few other responses prepared: “How do I know you’re not hiding any of the perverted stuff?” and “I really don’t want to see your room” (a blatant lie, accompanied by a scoff). But she didn’t say anything because his words hit her like a wave.
“I wanna talk to you about movies.”
She shouldn’t be so affected by this. He didn’t remember her. It was clear that the holiday three years ago had meant nothing to him and she shouldn’t be falling down this rabbit hole again. But she couldn’t help herself. She could still hear his earnest 14-year-old face telling her he would take care of her. Telling her she wouldn’t be alone.
She knew better than to believe anything he said but his words were still ringing in her mind. He wanted to talk to her. About movies, sure, but he wanted to talk to her. He wanted to be around her. Even if he didn’t remember her, he still wanted her.
“Fine,” she said, sounding cool and unbothered, like her brain hadn’t just exploded. “Let’s talk about movies.”

Chapter Text

Augustine was getting a headache, which was honestly the worst way to start a day. She tried not to think about what awaited inside the shop, tried to pretend that this was just like any other day, nothing had changed since that Monday morning when she had first run into the ghost of someone who had broken her heart long ago.
But then she heard Frances’ laugh as she pushed the door open and let out a breath of relief. Maybe this meant she wouldn’t have to listen to the boy she’d been spending her mornings for the past week ramble on and on about his favorite “films” (Augustine found his use of the word films hilarious).
And ramble he did.
All they’d been doing for the past few days was talk about movies. James seemed to delight in the fact that Augustine knew as much as he did (not that she cared). The girl found it outrageous that he hadn’t seen any French “films” from the 50s and 60s and was mostly interested in science fiction. James seemed to find it funny that she could get hung up on the historical accuracy of her favorite movies’ costume design. He’d told her, the day before, that it wasn’t really all that important, which led her to an almost hour-long rant about the weight a good costume designer could have on a movie.
He’d kept watching her with a face that meant he was trying hard to contain a laugh. Augustine didn’t care. She didn’t care what his face did or how cute it looked doing it.
She really didn’t.
If she hadn’t been forced to spend her mornings next to him, she would’ve never wasted her time with him. Maybe once. But not anymore.
But she still wasn’t immune to all of him.
She had begun a list in her head of all the things about James that were different now. He was taller. Which meant his legs were longer. They seemed to go on for miles and miles, especially when he leaned on the desk at the back of the shop with his legs crossed in front of him. She’d had an impulse, once, to kick his feet open and then stand there, in the middle of his eternal legs, looking at him.
But, of course, she didn’t. Because she didn’t care.
Okay, yes, she might have found it a little intriguing when she noticed he was sketching, one morning.
She’d wanted to peek at the notebook he was using but she didn’t want to seem like she cared so she hadn’t. But then he started taking it out from time to time, as they were working, to add a few strokes to his ongoing sketch, and she caught a glimpse. It seemed to be a drawing of an ocean. She thought she’d seen a mermaid somewhere in there but then James had closed the notebook and she’d looked away.
She found it annoying, really, all that sketching. And a little dorky. And a little cute, too, but that was neither here nor there.
Augustine shook her head, trying to quell her thoughts, and found Frances dropping off a box of doughnuts on the desk, along with two coffee cups.
“Augustine,” the old woman smiled, cheerfully, and Augustine felt a little ashamed to be so late, yet again.
“I’m so sorry I’m late, Frances,” the girl answered, dropping off her bag on the coat rack she loved so much she was considering buying it. “I had breakfast with my dad and you know how much he loves to talk.”
It was a blatant lie —her father couldn’t care less if Augustine ate anything before she left—but Frances didn’t seem to catch it.
“Don’t worry about it, dear,” She gave her a gentle smile and shook her head. “Oh,” she added, as if she’d just remembered something. “I need to ask you a huge favor. I don’t mean to inconvenience you but since you have a car… Would you mind it terribly if James hitched a ride with you tomorrow?”
The boy, who was sitting down on the desk taking a sip of the coffee, turned to look at them both with a puzzled expression on his face.
“Did I not mention Augustine is our next-door neighbor?” the old woman said, with a startled laugh, looking at her grandson. “How silly of me!”
That’s when Augustine saw it, finally clicking (finally!), on James’ face. One second, he was taking a sip of his coffee, a slight frown in between his eyes and the next the frown had transformed into a befuddled expression, mouth slightly open, eyebrows hitching up.
Augustine didn’t really want another reason to be spending time with the boy, but she couldn’t think of a good excuse to refuse and, anyway, she didn’t want to disappoint Frances.
“I know it’s a lot to ask. But I’ve got to meet with the realtor really early tomorrow and I don’t want to drag him around with me. Plus, it’s better for the environment,” the old woman smiled apologetically. “I hope you don’t mind,” she added, blinking her grandmother's gaze at Augustine, who was already shaking her head no because of that stupid need she felt to please all middle-aged women around her (Carter said it was one of the effects of her mom’s abandonment). “Oh, it’ll be fun, won’t it?” she asked, turning to James, who nodded once, awkwardly, not looking at Augustine.
“Perfect! He’ll be at your door at 9:30 a.m., sharp. Thank you so much, my dear!” Frances squeezed her shoulder once before turning to the door. “I have to run!”, she announced, before placing a sweet kiss on James’ head and turning with a whirl of her grandmother's dress. And then she was off, the door closing with a bang behind her, leaving the two teenagers immersed in an awkward silence.
James wasn’t looking at Augustine and the girl didn’t feel like atoning him for his sins so she took the cup of coffee Frances had brought for her and went to work on the pile of stuff she’d been sorting through last.
“D’you-D’you really live next door?” the boy asked, finally, after a few minutes.
Augustine took a second to breathe, deciding which answer would be best before she turned around and looked at him.
“D’you really not remember me?” she asked, because, really, what was the point in pretending anymore? Thankfully for her, her voice had come out casual, steady.
She turned to look at him and was surprised to realize that James was blushing. Not a lot, just a slight twinge of pink in his cheeks. She would’ve found it adorable in any other situation.
He opened his mouth once and then closed it, and then opened it again as if he was trying to decide what the best answer was.
“I- Yes, I do,” he said, finally.
Augustine turned away again, with a laugh that sounded mortifyingly like a scoff.
“Sure you do,” she said, and didn’t bother to hide the prickle of irritation that she felt at the back of her throat.
“No, I do!” he intercepted, a little loudly. “I do! You- We watched movies together one Christmas holiday.”
Which wasn’t exactly the way Augustine would’ve put it but whatever. She really didn’t care how he remembered it. She almost wished he hadn’t.
“Something like that,” she said and was happy to hear she still sounded irked, not hurt. Because she wasn’t hurt. To drive that point home, she added: “I guess you’ve made a tradition of kissing girls on rooftops on New Year’s Eve.”
To his credit, James did seem a little ashamed. The pink in his cheeks was now spreading to his neck and to the tips of his ears.
“Uh, no,” he mumbled.
“Then I’m officially offended. I’ve been told I’m a great kisser and you can’t even remember me!”
She meant to make it sound like an off-hand joke but wondered if perhaps a bit of the edge of the knife that currently sat against her ribs had made it into her voice.
But James didn’t seem to notice. He laughed, putting a hand on the back of his neck and tilting his head a little, regarding her with something akin to amusement. Fuck him and fuck that stupid smile of his.
“I remember you,” he said, all previous remorse now completely gone, replaced with something far more dangerous. “You’re August.”
Augustine kept her eyes firmly on the shelves in front of her, biting her cheek, trying hard to contain the smile that was tugging at the corners of her mouth.
“Augustine,” she corrected, forcing her voice not to betray the pleasure she felt at the bottom of her stomach to hear him calling her the old nickname he used to tease her with.
“Right,” he said, turning his attention back to the pile of things in front of him (Thank Fuck!). “I remember you. You got me drunk on New Year’s Eve and then took advantage of me.”
“Please,” Augustine said with a scoff that sounded more like a laugh. “Like you weren’t dying to kiss me. You just had to drink all that alcohol to finally get the courage to do it.”
She turned to look at him, full-on, like she was presenting a challenge. James didn’t look away. He let out a low laugh that vibrated in the girl’s stomach.
“Well, you’re a very intimidating person. I was afraid you’d bite my head off if I tried anything.”
“I probably should’ve,” Augustine replied, mirroring his lopsided smile, accentuating the dimple on her left cheek (Carter always said this was her mantis smile, the smile she used before striking to kill). “Maybe I still will.”
James’ expression, as he retorted back, was almost flirty (she would’ve been sure if she didn’t know he had a girlfriend).
“I’ll be careful next time you get me drunk, then,” he said, squinting her eyes at her and biting his lip.
Augustine wished she could’ve walked out screaming at that point, cursing him for his brazenness, but she’d be damned if she lost this challenge.
“If there is a next time. But since you absolutely forgot about me, I wouldn’t count myself lucky.”
“August,” James said, still looking like he was about to start laughing, like maybe he was laughing, internally. “Begging isn’t beneath me.”
“I’m gonna have to see proof of that.”
“I’m sure you will.”
Augustine didn’t smile (at least, she tried not to), instead, she took a sip of her coffee and looked him straight in the eye for what felt like forever but was probably less than five seconds because he was oh-so-close and he had a girlfriend.
She turned to what she was doing, smiling internally for herself and trying to decide just how dangerous his words were. She decided, not very.
He was probably all bark and no bite, as they said, and Augustine wasn’t about to fall down a rabbit hole for only a few smiles (regardless of just how fucking much they were) and a few flirty words. Oh, no.
“So, how’s your family?” he asked, also fixated on what he was doing. “Is it still just you and your dad?”
“Pretty much,” she answered, forcing her voice to be nonchalant.
“How’s your sister?”
Augustine stopped, the cup of coffee on the way to her mouth, and gulped down the knot at her throat.
“Wouldn’t know. Haven’t talked to her in years.”
In truth, she hadn’t talked to Julia in 1045 days. She was sure nobody but her knew this because nobody but her had counted the days since that dreaded September afternoon, when Julia finally told Benjamin to go fuck himself and then walked out with an orange suitcase that used to belong to Abigail, their mother, got into her boyfriend’s car and left, just like that.
“Why not?”
The girl shrugged. She didn’t really feel like getting into all of that. She already had, once, three years ago. If he couldn’t remember that then that was on him.
“Don’t you want to?”
She turned to look at him then, her previous mirth now turning to exasperation. What did he care, anyway?
“Couldn’t even if I did,” she admitted, because she wanted this conversation to be over. “I have no way of contacting her and she hasn’t tried to either.”
At first, saying this truth out loud felt like she was forcing a bunch of sharp glass to pass through her throat. She hated seeing the pity on her neighbors’ faces whenever they asked about Julia and Augustine had to admit that her older sister had just left one day and never looked back.
But at some point, the truth had started to hurt a little less, as the days went by and her life moved on and Julia wasn’t there and Augustine found that she could still be happy, sometimes, especially with Carter by her side.
“That- Are you sure about that?”
“What?” Augustine turned to look at James, confused. Was she sure that her sister hadn’t tried to contact her? Yes. She was sure. She would know if she had.
But James was frowning now, his whole face seeming to work on that frown. A small dent had appeared between his eyebrows and Augustine wondered, stupidly, if it would hold a drop of water. She shook her head. It was an idiotic thought.
“Well, how do you know she hasn’t tried to? Maybe your dad just didn’t tell you.”
“That sounds evil. Stepmother-in-a-Disney-film evil.”
James didn’t smile at her joke, his face continued to contort in that complicated way, like he was trying to show just how indignant he felt.
“It can happen. Didn’t you say your dad was an asshole?”
Yes. That was very much the truth. Benjamin was a dick. But not an evil dick. Just a neglectful one. Augustine wasn’t convinced he could actually keep his two daughters from having a relationship. Julia might have argued once that Benjamin didn’t think of her as his daughter, since she had probably been the result of their mother’s infidelity, but Augustine knew that whatever had happened in the past, her father loved them both. He would want the two of them to have each other.
Right?
“That shit only ever happens in soap operas,” she said, dismissive, not wanting to start questioning the truth she’d been living with for three years now. “It doesn’t happen in real life.”
James shrugged and looked away.
“I’m just saying. Maybe you could ask him for a way to contact her. See what he says to that.”
“What do you care, anyway?” Augustine interjected, completely irritated now. He was just putting ideas in her head and for what? He got to go home to Frances and his perfect life.
Augustine felt broken next to him and now he was rubbing it in her face.
“I just don’t think your sister completely abandoned you,” he said, his eyes looking at her with such earnestness that it was almost sickening. She could almost believe he actually cared.
“What about your family?” she asked, because she really couldn’t continue down this road. “Still crazy?”
James laughed and looked away.
“Still crazy,” he agreed.
Augustine still wasn’t sure she believed him. Because Frances was nothing like her own family. She clearly cared for him. And the girl knew his parents probably cared about him, too. He was just too much of a brat to know it.
But then she remembered the way his eyes used to look whenever he knocked on her door, trying to escape Frances’ house, always so heavy, mirroring her own desperation. She remembered thinking he wanted to run away, too; she remembered thinking they could do it together.
“Is that why you’re staying with Frances?”
He shrugged.
“I just wanted- not to be there.”
He wasn’t looking at her and his voice wasn’t really giving much away but Augustine felt like something warm had been poured down her heart. She imagined the ice coat around it starting to melt and then looked away. This was dangerous territory.
“That bad, huh?” she asked, because she couldn’t help herself. She wanted to put a finger in the dent between his eyebrows.
He scratched his nose absentmindedly and gave her a one-shoulder shrug.
“It’s not that bad. It mostly just feels suffocating. I just feel like I need to get out of there soon or all their bullshit will suck out my soul.”
“Yeah,” she agreed. “I know what you mean.”
And she did. That was the reason she hated being home when Benjamin and his girlfriend were around. Because Augustine was sure Monica would never approve of her; she wasn’t one of those girls who attended debutant balls and married the rich, ivy league alumni and went on to have his babies and acted delighted whenever someone introduced her as Mss. Richard Williams III, no name of her own.
Augustine would never be one of those girls. She would never let Monica suck out her soul.
“Families fucking suck,” she mused, more to herself than anything else. But James answered back, regardless.
“Yes, they do. But maybe you don’t have to be stuck with the family you were born with. Maybe we can build our own,” he said, and he sounded way too sincere for her own good.
Augustine turned to look at him and was surprised to see that he was blushing again, like he’d been caught doing something wrong. Like maybe she’d seen something she wasn’t supposed to. Her heart started to beat furiously in her chest, the ice coat almost completely melted away.
Fuck, she thought to herself. To James, she said:
“That’s very wise of you,” like she was joking. But she wasn’t. It really was very wise of him. It made him seem older, somehow. Maybe he’d changed in more ways than one.
James let out a small, sheepish laugh that was more a sigh than anything else.
“No,” he said, passing a hand through his hair. “I just know a lot of wise people.”
But Augustine wasn’t listening anymore. Because his words kept repeating in her mind. “Maybe we can build our own.” We. Not you, not I. We.
Augustine wondered if he was right. If maybe she’d known this since that first time she’d found the boy looking through her dad’s old DVDs, insisting they should watch Blade Runner, which he didn’t know then was her favorite film. If maybe things did happen for a reason and them finding each other that day had been a sign that she could finally start to have a real family. A family of her own.

Chapter Text

Augustine couldn’t stop thinking about James’ words all week long. He couldn’t be right. Her dad would never hide things from her. He may be pathetic but wasn’t evil. Not really.
But then he thought of Julia, who always claimed Benjamin didn’t love her, he just put up with her. Julia believed that she’d been borne out of an affair their mother had had before she married Benjamin. Julia was never clear about the details of who the man was or why their mother had gone through with the marriage if she was pregnant with another man’s child but that didn’t matter. She was convinced she was right.
She claimed Benjamin never showed her the affection he showed Augustine, which the girl thought was insane because her dad didn’t really show anyone that much love, other than Monica. But she had to admit, he was always kind of cold towards Julia in a way that he wasn’t with Augustine.
They had had no proof, regardless.
That is, until the day Abigail left them, claiming she was trapped in a loveless marriage and she couldn’t do it anymore.
Augustine had been 12 when her mother left and she hadn’t really made sense of it. She figured she didn’t love her father but then, why leave her two daughters behind?
Julia told her Abigail had fallen in love with another man and had chosen him instead of Benjamin. Again, there was no proof of that except for that cryptic loveless marriage comment and the fact that she’d simply gone one day, just like that, without giving her two daughters a second thought.
And, of course, the fact that Benjamin had gone on the deep end after that.
Okay, it was probably unfair to claim that Abigail had caused her husband’s alcoholism, because the man had been drinking heavily for years before she’d left but her absence had certainly done something to him. He started drinking during the week and then he was drunk all the time, locked in his bedroom, not worrying whether his children had eaten or not, whether they were going to school or doing their laundry. He had just stopped.
He wasn’t a violent alcoholic, at least. Mostly he just disappeared.
Julia hated him. She’d said so out loud more than once. Augustine, at 12, didn’t really understand what was going on.
All she knew was that her mother had chosen another life because she didn’t love them enough. Because she didn’t love Augustine enough.
She would never admit this to anyone out loud but sometimes she wondered if perhaps her leaving had broken something in Augustine that would never be fixed. If perhaps she was forever ruined.
And then, a year and a half later, Julia had left too, as soon as she was old enough to get a job.
Augustine hadn’t cared why Abigail had left but after her sister had packed up her things, she spent years wondering if she could’ve done something to prevent it. She still wasn’t sure.
Because she knew, for a fact, that Julia had just been waiting for the moment when her father couldn’t legally force her to come back. Plus, she just wanted to save enough money to find her own place when she’d left. Augustine was sure she’d managed to do it. Julia was nothing if not resourceful.
And Augustine had been left behind, yet again, stuck in a house with her alcoholic father.
To his credit, he did pull himself together after Julia left.
He started going to AA meetings and he went back to work. He still wasn’t a model of a father but he at least gave her enough money to feed herself.
And then, he’d met Monica.
Monica had been his sponsor or some shit like that. Augustine didn’t know. She didn’t actually care.
She hated Monica.
Which was odd because Augustine had that mommy complex that meant she was usually eager to please the closest motherly woman.
Only, Monica wasn’t very motherly. She was a thin, tall woman with a horse face who always made snapping remarks about all the ways in which Augustine could improve.
She could never win with Monica and she never actually tried.
Not since that first time the woman had called her fat.
Well, she hadn’t actually used the word fat, she’d just said Augustine should stop stuffing her mouth if she wanted to look good in the dress she’d just bought (a lovely purple thing she’d found second-hand in a flea market; it was purple and old and with a few twists here and there could look like a runway dress). She’d actually said “you should stop stuffing your mouth,” like it was no big deal. Augustine had just stared at her and then at her dad, who’d just pretended like he hadn’t heard a thing and went on with his meal like nothing had happened.
That was the thing about her dad.
He didn’t have the guts to stand up to anyone. He wasn’t evil. He was just a man-child who could barely care for himself, let alone two teenage daughters.
And he had enough money to be the target of every middle-aged single woman who was willing to up with his shit. Monica was more than willing. Plus, Benjamin wasn’t bad looking. In his old pictures, he even looked handsome.
Augustine supposed that was good enough for Monica.
At least she was lucky enough that the woman hadn’t moved in yet, though she was sure it would happen as soon as Augustine was out of the picture; Monica was probably just scheming to find a way to make Benjamin name her the sole heir of his whole state, which was pretty handsome if the adults around her were to be believed.
Augustine didn’t really know how Benjamin hadn’t figured out Monica’s scheme but she supposed she’d only get in trouble if she’d tried to make him see the truth. So she hadn’t.
She didn’t even really talk to her dad that much, if she was honest. Other than the few polite words they exchanged, they mostly kept to themselves and that seemed to work well for the both of them. It worked perfectly for Augustine.
Only, lately, she couldn’t stop wondering if maybe her dad was hiding something from her, like James had suggested (that fucking idiot). She didn’t believe Benjamin could but she wouldn’t put it past Monica and she knew her dad was just the woman’s pawn.
So, on Saturday, three days after her talk with James, she decided to intercept her dad before he left to do whatever he went off to do, and ask for a way to contact her sister and her mother.
She knew Benjamin wouldn’t be happy but she hadn’t expected his face to go stone cold as soon as the words left her mouth.
“Why?” he asked, standing in the middle of the kitchen, his hands still holding the car keys, his short graying hair sparkling a little in the blazing summer sun.
“Because I want to talk to them,” Augustine answered, like it was obvious.
“What makes you think they want to talk to you?”
Augustine knew that would be the official answer and she was prepared. She wasn’t afraid of her father. She did have the guts to stand up for herself.
“Even if they don’t want to talk to me, I’m still their family,” she replied, calmly. “They have to talk to me.”
“Why the sudden interest in the two people who walked out on us?”
Her dad, who was usually so quiet and meek, was looking at her, his gaze steady, unflinching.
“Because I’m not sure I believe the official version of this story.”
Augustine, who had learned from Abigail how to keep her ground, even as she felt cold pooling deep in her stomach, returned his gaze, just as steady.
“There is no other version. Your mother wasn’t happy with us, so she left and never looked back. And your sister went looking for her.”
That was brand new information. Augustine tried not to react to it but the cold was now starting to gain a sharp edge, as she imagined Abigail and Julia, living together in an apartment of their own, laughing and hugging and drinking wine together, gossipping about boys and work and life.
“And I want to talk to them,” she said, the words cool and unbothered by the image in her head.
“You can’t. Abigail was very clear when she left that she didn’t want us to contact her.”
“So you’ve said.”
“Do you think I’m lying?” he didn’t sound particularly hurt by this revelation, just merely curious.
“I think this version of the story sounds very convenient for you.”
“So, you hate me, too?”
“I-” Augustine was thrown by this.
Julia might have talked openly about how much she hated her father but Benjamin himself had never acknowledged it, not to Augustine’s face.
“I just wanna have a relationship with my mom and my sister. I think you owe me that.”
Finally, Benjamin let his head fall forward, letting out a frustrated sigh. He shook his head slowly and then looked back up at her.
“I figured this might happen one day,” he said, again, like this was only a mild annoyance. “I don’t know why you think it wise to have a relationship with the two people who clearly didn’t want us. And I don’t know why you would want to. All I can tell you is that they don’t. And that I’ve only spared you the pain of knowing that.”
“I don’t believe you.”
He looked at her with something that was almost pitiful then.
“You should.”
“Just give me their fucking number so I can call them and we can be done with this. If they don’t want to talk to me they can tell me themselves.”
He shook his head again, sadly, nonconfrontational. But Augustine was done with this shit. She couldn’t take it any longer.
“Don’t even try to pretend like you don’t have a way of reaching them because I know that you do. And if you don’t give it to me I’m gonna call grandma and I’m gonna ask her to give me the number.”
Benjamin just looked at her like he was drained of all energy.
It was an empty threat and they both knew it. Augustine’s grandma, Benjamin’s mother, was too lenient with him, she would snap at Augustine to mind her own business and she wouldn’t help.
But she’d probably lecture Benjamin about the way he was raising his daughter and just to be safe, she would probably show up one day and just stay for a month or two to make sure that Benjamin was doing his job as a father and no one would be happy with that, Monica least of all.
That was probably the only reason Benjamin finally took out his phone, his mouth locked in a thin line of disapproval.
Augustine took out her own phone, too, ready to write down the number but then Benjamin turned the screen toward her and said:
“See for yourself, then.”
He was showing her a thread of unanswered messages that spanned four years. As she scrolled through them, Augustine felt the cold like a sharp knife now twisting at her gut. She felt like she was losing her footing. Like everything around her was immaterial.
At first, Benjamin’s texts had been angry. Then they’d been pathetic, imploring Abigail to come back. Then, he’d tried to reason with her, reminding her of the two daughters she’d left behind. Then he’d threatened to sue her for child support and take all of her money and her new husband’s money (finally, confirmation that Julia had been right and Abigail had left them for a new man). And then, he’d asked about Julia, he’d tried to appeal to her mother's side.
But Abigail had never answered. Until she wasn’t receiving his texts anymore. The last message was an automated one, informing Benjamin that his texts weren’t reaching the intended target anymore.
He clearly hadn’t tried after that.
Augustine wouldn’t either.
It’s not like she cared about Abigail anyway. She’d left them.
But Julia.
Julia.
“What about my sister?” she asked, as forcefully as she could.
“Before she left, your sister told me she wished she’d never been forced to be a part of this family. And then she gave me her old cellphone. I don’t know how to contact her. I’ve never tried. I knew she didn’t want me to.”
And Augustine knew Benjamin was telling the truth. She knew Julia didn’t want to be around them anymore. She knew that she had never been good enough to make her sister want to stay.
She didn’t try to fight anymore. She handed him back the phone and just nodded, tersely. Benjamin looked like maybe he wanted to say something to her. But he didn’t.
He put the phone back in his pocket, grabbed his keys, and walked away, just like that.
Augustine didn’t care. She was used to people walking away.

Chapter Text

There was something very relaxing about listening to Deftones really fucking loudly while lying down in the middle of her living room, Augustine thought, her eyes closed, her right hand thumping to the rhythm of the music. It always made her feel better in these types of situations.
Because she could just start screaming everything she felt out of her chest and no one could hear her, not with the bass rumbling through the walls.
After Benjamin had left, she’d taken a shower, done her makeup and worn her prettiest purple outfit —the mini skirt and the tank top— and put on her biggest platform heels. She was supposed to be going to a party at Rebecca’s but after seeing her father’s texts on the screen of his phone, imploring Abigail to come back, to care, without receiving an answer once, she knew she wasn’t in the mood to be surrounded by people. She’d be a mess and not the fun, flirty kind that she enjoyed best. The mopey, sad type that ended up doing renditions of Eric Clapton’s Stairway to Heaven in karaoke when no one stopped her (and no one would since Carter wasn’t home). Augustine knew everyone hated this drunk version of the girl and so she tried her best to always keep her hidden, because then no one would invite her to any parties and what was she supposed to do during the weekends?
And so she intended to get all her sad drunk out right now, where no one could see her. She could go to the party once she had done her little ritual, the one she always performed whenever everything around her started to become too much. Too smothering. There was something so comforting about feeling pretty and cool and being alone with her anger and her feelings, being completely herself, listening to music she’d never listen to in public, screaming and thrashing in ways she’d never let anyone else see.
This was her private place, her sacred place.
She started to scream the lyrics to her favorite song when she heard the doorbell ring. It was barely a ding in the midst of all the noise but she heard it nonetheless. She tried to ignore it and focus on the music but she heard it again a few seconds later.
She stood up with a groan and walked to the door, forgetting to put on her platforms again. She knew she couldn’t exactly pretend that she wasn’t home. Maybe some new neighbor had come to tell her off, thinking it would work. She prepared a reproachful smile and an apology and was about to open the door when she caught a glimpse of the person on the other side of the door.
A couple of dark curls flapping in the summer breeze.
She cursed out loud. This was worse than an angry neighbor could ever be.
The bell rang again and she took a deep breath.
She pulled the door open.
James smiled at her, his head tilting to the left only slightly, an amused smile dancing in the corner of his lips.
Augustine didn’t say anything, just watched him, as the music blasted behind her.
“Why is the music so loud?” James nearly shouted, the smile deepening as he tilted forward on his tiptoes, presumably so she’d be able to hear him (presumably).
“It’s your fault,” she said, not bothering to raise her voice.
James frowned, puzzled but still smiling.
“What?”
“It’s your fault,” she repeated again, raising her voice only slightly but not getting any closer to him.
James looked completely confused now. He put a hand to the back of his neck and smiled again, as if he thought she was joking.
“The music is my fault?”
“Yes,” she answered, not returning his smile. “All of it is your fault.”
“Wait, how is it my fault?”
She didn’t want to stand there in the door trying to explain to him why she needed a moment to breathe and scream and let everything out.
“What do you want?” she asked instead.
James looked taken aback, like he wasn’t expecting her to sound so irked.
“Can I come in?”
Augustine knew she should say no. She didn’t want him to interrupt her wallowing party of one. She had everything ready and waiting for her. She didn’t need the distraction.
Even if she couldn’t stop looking at the chain around his neck, which disappeared somewhere beneath his black, vintage Gorillaz shirt.
She stepped aside, realizing she was barefoot, and let him in.
James took a curious look around the living room, at the couch pushed against the wall and the speaker in the middle of the room, next to her platforms and the two bottles of wine she’d been drinking from, since she couldn’t decide if she was in the mood for white or red.
“So, are you gonna explain how this is my fault?”
Augustine walked across the room and turned the volume down, turning to look at him with her arms crossed.
“You have to drink first.”
“What?”
“I’m not talking to you about this while you’re sober.”
James frowned, his amusement sinking deeper into his face, but took a step forward and took a drink from the nearest bottle to him. After he was done he looked at Augustine pointedly.
“You made me do something I didn’t wanna do and it was a huge fucking mistake.”
“So now you’re taking it out on your neighbors?”
“Well, you are my neighbor so yes, I’m taking it out on you.”
“I like this song,” he shrugged, amused. “I don’t really think anyone can make you do anything you don’t wanna do.”
Augustine smiled against her will.
“I know that,” She took a step forward and joined him, taking the bottle from his hands and taking a sip before sitting with her back against the couch. James joined her. “But you somehow convinced me it was a good idea so I thought I did want to do it even though I didn’t wanna do it.”
James raised an eyebrow like he was trying not to laugh at her, looking eternally amused. In that way, at least, he hadn’t changed one bit.
“I convinced you?”
“I think it was your face”
He scoffed and raised a hand like he was about to touch his face but stopped, only a few inches away. She noticed his nails were round and only starting to grow.
“My face?”
“There’s something about it. You have a convincing face,” she waved a hand in a circle, close to it, but not touching him.
“I- have a convincing face?”
“Oh, please, like you don’t know it,” she laughed, taking another drink and pushing the bottle towards him, who accepted it. “I’m sure you use it to convince lots of girls to kiss you.”
He guffawed, halfway through his drink and had to take a moment to swallow before he could talk.
“My convincing face?” he repeated, amused and dubious.
“Yes. The one you use to get girls to do your homework for you.”
At that, he looked away, still smiling but suddenly bashful, taking another drink.
“So, what? I used my face to convince you that it was a good idea to do something you didn’t want to do?” he was back to sounding playfully skeptical.
“Yes,” she took the bottle from his hands, feeling like he’d tased her knuckles when they brushed against each other. “It’s your eyes or something. They look very honest,” she continued, keeping her voice sprightly and steady.
“So, I also have honest eyes?”
She shrugged.
“You tell me, you’re the one who’s been seeing your face your whole life.”
He laughed and shook his head as he took another drink.
“I don’t tend to analyze the attributes of my face.”
She squinted her eyes at him and he laughed again.
“Sure you don’t.”
She took another drink and then realized she was starting to feel lightheaded and stupid, the way she always did when the alcohol started to run through her veins freely. Which meant danger.
“So, now will you tell me what it was that I convinced you to do that you didn’t wanna do?”
Augustine sighed and turned to look at him, tilting her head to the side like he’d done before.
“No. I won’t let you convince me of anything anymore. Not after you totally fucking forgot about me.”
James, who had been playing with the cork turned to look at her, with that same abashed look from before.
“I- I didn’t. I- just hadn’t realized it was you.”
“What does that even mean?”
“I mean, I remember that Christmas holiday. I remember you, I just didn’t realize it was you that first day. You look- different. Your hair is different”
Augustine tugged at a strand of hair that had escaped from behind her ear.
“I look different because my hair is orange?”
“Well, yes. And you also look-” he stopped, his eyes traveling down her body in a way that made her feel like he was almost touching her, like she could feel the breath of his fingertips against the skin of her legs, against her shoulders and her collarbone, against every soft curve of her body “-not the same.”
She laughed. At least she intended to laugh. It sounded more like an exhale.
“What does that mean?” she asked and she realized she was speaking too low and he could hear her because he’d leaned forward.
“You don’t have braces anymore,” he said, tapping her two front teeth with his index finger.
She pushed his hand away and recoiled, acting disgusted but not really moving too far away.
“I look different because I have straight teeth now?”
“Yes. Very straight teeth. You’re unrecognizable, August” he tapped her teeth again and she caught his finger this time, pushing him away but not letting him go.
“Well, good,” she said, pretending like she couldn’t feel the strange hum of his skin against hers. “I worked very hard on my straight teeth.”
“Am I forgiven then? Now, will you tell me?” he asked, not pulling away. Decidedly not pulling away.
Later, when Augustine would spend entire nights agonizing about that summer, she would always come back to this moment. Because James hadn’t pulled away. Even though he should have.
But at that moment, all she could think about was his eyes.
She hadn’t been lying when she’d said he had very genuine eyes. Looking into them you could believe everything that James ever said was the complete truth. You could believe you could trust him.
But there was more.
They were green and yellow at the same time. She wasn’t sure how that was possible.
They were the exact same color of sand under the ocean on a cloudless, sunny day, when the water is clear and the tides come in lazy, sleepy waves. Her favorite kind of day.
She felt like she could drown in them.
“I asked my dad about my mom and my sister,” she admitted, against her will, clearly tricked by his huge, eager eyes. “I thought maybe you were right and I should be the one to contact them,” she swallowed, letting her gaze travel down to their hands, to the place where they were still touching, blinking the pain away furiously. “But they don’t- they don’t want me to. Benjamin showed me. It’s pretty clear they’re better off without me.”
She hadn’t meant to sound so pitiful but it was the truth. She had seen it clear as day in her father’s phone.
“Even your sister?” he asked, quietly, his shoulder bumping into hers as he leaned forward to look into her face.
She closed her eyes for a second and then took another drink.
“Yes,” she admitted. “And I can’t even blame her. I would’ve left too if I had had the chance.”
James was shaking his head slightly.
“But what about you?”
“What about me?”
“Who takes care of you?” he asked and the near whisper of his voice pierced through Augustine’s chest. She could hear other words, older words, echoing behind.
“I do,” she answered, firmly.
He shook his head again, gently, like he was trying to make sense of something.
“But she shouldn’t have left you behind.”
“You don’t know how it was when she left,” Augustine argued, hearing how defensive she sounded, her voice suddenly coming out sharp. “You can’t judge her unless you’ve lived it.”
James nodded, his ching dipping a little as he did. He was still watching her like he was trying to make her see something.
“Maybe,” he mused, quietly, so quietly. “But I still would’ve stayed. For you. To take care of you.”
Augustine could feel the pain in her chest spreading slowly, torturously.
She remembered another day just like this, clear as water, as they sat on the floor of her bedroom. James had looked at her then the same way he was looking at her now. Those green-yellow eyes shining in the afternoon light.
She had just told him that she actually did have a sister, but Julia had left that summer, because she hated their home, she said it made her feel like she was smothering, like she wasn’t welcome in any of the corners of their house.
“I don’t blame her,” Augustine had said then, too, because she really didn’t. “She’s gotta live her life, you know?”
“No,” he had shaken his head vigorously, with that self-righteousness only a 14-year-old could muster. “I would’ve stayed to protect you.”
She knew he’d meant it then. As much as she knew he’d meant it now.
He would’ve stayed for her. For Augustine. Even when no one in her family would.
She shook her head slightly, seeing the 14-year-old boy she once knew looking at her through his impossibly long eyelashes.
He was so handsome. And he was so close. So close
And she was so lonely. And his eyes were the perfect mix between green and yellow, almost like they were made for her.
She leaned forward and kissed him.
Because she was drunk and sad and she wanted to feel a little less alone.
And he let her. He kissed her back.
Gently, at first. And then like he was trying to take something from her.
And something painful exploded inside her chest.
Something impossible.
Something she hadn’t felt since that night on her roof when he’d made her all those promises.
Promises she knew she shouldn’t believe.
She believed him now as his tongue touched her lips, as his teeth clashed against hers, trying desperately to get closer.
She moved to touch him, to feel the skin of her neck on her palm.
And then he pulled away, impossibly away, his lips taking her breath with them.
“I-” he started, breathless, his eyes closed and his face twisting in a grimace. “I can’t. I have a girlfriend.”
Fuck him, Augustine thought, furious, feeling as that thing inside her chest twisted her whole body into a ball.
She felt cold and lonely all over again.
And like she wanted to keep kissing him.
But, of course, he had a girlfriend.
And then she remembered him saying his girlfriend had broken up with him at prom.
Maybe he was pulling away because he still felt some sort of obligation toward her.
Whatever the reason, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that he had pulled away she wasn’t about to beg him to kiss her again.
So she looked away from him and took another drink from her wine. Which maybe wasn’t the best idea right at that moment but if Augustine was feeling sad and mopey before, she felt destructive now.
She wanted to get drunk and reckless and do stupid shit she would later regret.
She wanted to lose herself.
She wanted to lose herself in him.
“Right,” she quipped, taking another drink, ignoring him.
Nobody said anything for a few minutes. She could feel James next to her. She could feel every shift of his body like it was her own.
“I should leave,” he said, finally but it sounded more like a question, like he was asking her.
He should leave. She knew that. He has a girlfriend, the more rational version of herself kept repeating, desperately.
She didn’t say anything. She wasn’t going to stop him but she didn’t want him to leave. Not yet. Even if he wasn’t going to kiss her, she didn’t want him to leave her on her own.
And she didn’t think he actually wanted to go, either.
“Do you want to watch a movie?” Augustine asked him, instead, waiting for him to say no, to be the responsible one.
He wasn’t.
He said yes.

Chapter Text

Which is how they ended up in her bedroom.
There was a perfectly reasonable explanation for this, but Augustine couldn’t remember what it was, except that it had something to do with the TV in her father’s studio not connecting to the internet, and, for some reason, neither one had suggested they try the TV in the living room.
So now, here they were.
Augustine sat with her legs spread out in front of her, her knee touching James’s only slightly.
She had watched this movie too many times to be distracted by it so all her brain seemed to focus on was the heat emanating from him. The hum of her skin whenever he took the bottle from her hands and their knuckles brushed for just one second.
It was torture. Of the worst kind.
So she tried to focus on the screen in front of her.
Blade Runner was still her favorite movie. It might always be her favorite movie.
For all the wrong reasons.
She’d watched it for the first time about a month after Julia had left.
On one of those days she’d spent wandering around in her own home, moping in every corner and trying to distract herself with anything that she could.
She’d started to watch her father’s DVD collection a few weeks earlier and that day she finally decided to try the weird sci-fi film with the girl with the huge bangs on the cover.
It had changed her life.
Not because of the movie itself.
But because she realized afterward that she was obsessed with the costume design.
She couldn’t stop thinking about that gorgeous coat Rachael wore for weeks after she’d seen the film.
And then one day she decided she was going to try and recreate it.
Which is how she’d come up with her little hobby. She started recreating clothes she’d seen in movies and in fashion shows, clothes that blew her mind.
It hadn’t been easy at first. And the results had been far from satisfactory.
But then she’d done some research and the clothes she’d made from scratch weren’t half bad. Carter was obsessed with the little vest Gary Oldman wore on The Fifth Element and, even though it had taken her a very long time she’d finally managed to pull off a convincing replica. Carter loved it.
And then he’d told her to try and start working on designs of her own.
Which was how she’d ended up obsessed with the idea of becoming a fashion designer.
And she was good at it. She knew that now. She had an eye for it and she was patient and detail oriented and even though it took her months to finish a single piece, her clothes always looked professionally done.
And it was all because of Blade Runner.
But it wasn’t just about that. Not really.
The other reason she loved Blade Runner so much was because, for the longest time, it had been her strongest tie to James.
It had felt like destiny, watching him pick out that particular film that day after Christmas, when she’d found him in her father’s studio, from amongst the thousands of DVDs in there.
Wasn’t it such a huge coincidence that they both thought of this particular movie as their favorite, even before they’d exchanged a single word?
Like they were tied together through an invisible line, pulling them together, one way or another.
At least she’d believed that then.
She’d believed it when she realized James was crying after watching it together for the first time. Because the movie meant so much to him too. Because he saw something in it nobody else did, except her.
But then, of course, he’d made her all those promises, of coming back, of being together, and then he’d just disappeared and, for a while, the movie was just a painful reminder of the boy she once thought she was fated to be with.
Except here he was again, watching her favorite movie, sitting so close to her she could feel his pulse next to hers. She could feel him in the air. Which was heavy and electric and throbbing around her.
Augustine was afraid to move, afraid to breathe for fear it would make everything burst.
Because the first person she’d ever wanted like this was him. Even if at fourteen she didn’t really understand why she wanted to touch him so bad. Even if she couldn’t make sense of the thrill of her skin whenever he sat too close to her or breathed into her hair or bumped his shoulder into hers, torturously playful.
But she knew now that that was what it had been.
Desire. Of the kind that feels consuming.
She had desired other boys since. And other boys had desired her in return. She’d become an expert on desire.
She knew how to make it thrill her skin, she knew how to work it to her advantage. She knew how to move and how to talk and what to say to make boys lose their minds with desire for her.
But she’d always been capable of keeping her own want at bay. She’d always been able to stay in control.
Not with him.
He was too much.
He’d always been too much but this was- This was impossible.
She shouldn’t feel so stupid. She shouldn’t feel so much need.
She wanted it to hurt but it didn’t. She felt reckless.
She wanted to give in.
She took another drink from her wine, acutely aware of James, who had stretched his legs in front of him and was tapping his knee against hers.
She took a deep breath.
She was about to do something and she shouldn’t. She shouldn’t be the one to do it.
She wasn’t.
James leaned forward and touched the birthmark on her left knee. His touch nearly made her jump but she forced herself to stay still, to let the waves of pleasure wash over her without flinching once.
“It looks like a cloud,” he said, tracing the shape of it with his index finger, turning the electricity in the air into fire on her skin.
She wanted to laugh at this because she’d always thought it looked more like a snail. She didn’t laugh. She let out a slow breath and reached out to touch his knuckles, slowly, so fucking slowly.
“I guess,” she said, waiting for him to pull away. He didn’t. He stayed perfectly still with his thumb drawing a circle on her knee.
Everything inside of her burned. Her whole fucking body was on fire and now she was starting to lose her mind. She was starting to lose control.
She was starting to burn, slowly, from his heat.
And she knew that he had a girlfriend. She hadn’t forgotten about that but she just wanted to give in.
The want inside of her was too much. Too fucking much.
And perhaps their relationship was a dying thing. Hadn’t he said as much?
And his girlfriend wasn’t there. It wouldn’t have to hurt her. This moment was for them alone.
James stopped drawing circles on her knee and instead began trailing his fingers slowly up her thigh. His touch was a feather on her skin, leaving behind a trail of hot, white fire.
“Are you sure you have a girlfriend?” she asked then, because she felt like she would stop breathing if he kept touching her but she didn’t want him to stop.
James shook his head slowly, swallowing. She could see his Adam’s apple moving as he did and she imagined holding it in her mouth and felt a thrill run down her body. And knew that she wasn’t going to be able to stop and she knew that he wasn’t going to either.
“I just-” he started, as his fingers found the hem of her skirt, far up her thigh. “I’ve never done this before.”
“Nobody needs to know,” she whispered, unable to snatch her gaze away from his fingers, keenly aware of every single place where his skin was touching hers.
James nodded.
And then he kissed her.

Being with James wasn’t like being with other boys. She was used to kissing and touching and wanting but this was an entirely different thing.
This was a need.
She needed him. And at that moment, he was hers. Hers as she felt him everywhere. Every bit of her body attuned to his, every breath, every sigh, every exhale lighting up the fire inside of her.
And she was his. His as he whispered how beautiful she was against her skin. His as he said her name and crashed against her, completely undone by his want.
It was thrilling. It made her feel alive and complete and real.
She felt real in his arms.
She felt alive in his desire for her.
She felt like she belonged here, in his arms, as he gave her a gentle kiss on the nose and collapsed on the bed next to her, pulling her into him, breathing into her hair.
After it was done, they just lay there, naked in between her twisted sheets, breathing raggedly and joyously.
Everything around her was him. His breath, his smell, his hair tingling her forehead, his skin burning hot underneath hers.
It was enough, she thought, feeling stupid and defeated and not caring in the slightest. This was everything she would ever need.
She felt elated and silly and still a little drunk, but mostly just… enough. This was enough.
And then her phone started to ring.
She ignored it. She didn’t want to move. She didn’t want him to ever untangle himself from the sheets and pull away.
He would take something of hers with him the moment he left, she knew, something vital.
The phone stopped ringing, just to start again a few seconds later.
“Are you just gonna ignore it?” James asked, sleepily, his eyes closed.
“Yes,” she answered, delighting at the trail of fire his breath on her ear left behind.
But it was ringing yet again and she knew that it must be Benjamin. No one else was ever that insistent.
She reached out to answer, closing her eyes and hoping, against hope, that whatever her dad needed wasn’t important.
“Hello?”
“Augustine,” he said and he sounded irritated. “I need you to pick up Monica at work. I’m stuck in traffic and it’s starting to rain.”
Augustine opened her eyes. It was true, she realized. Gentle drops of rain were falling against her bedroom window. She wished she could fall asleep like this, the rain outside her window, James’s arms holding her waist, keeping her close to him.
“Do I have to?” she asked, annoyed.
She hated having to abandon her little paradise just to go pick up his father’s girlfriend.
She would’ve hated having to pick up the woman regardless of the situation because it was always so awkward and Monica always ended up making a slightly (if not outright) offensive remark.
But this felt like a torment. Like the world was conspiring to take away the little happiness she’d been able to conjure up after her conversation with Benjamin.
But, of course, her father would have none of it.
“Augustine,” he said, in that voice that meant there would be no discussion. “Go pick her up. She’s waiting for you.”
And then he hung up.
Augustine closed her eyes and let the phone fall down on the pillow next to her.
“Is everything okay?” James asked her, pushing himself up on his elbow so he could see her face.
“Yes,” she said. “I just have to go pick up my father’s girlfriend like, right fucking now.”
She could disobey him, she knew. And she usually did. But for some reason, Benjamin always got so worked up when it came to Monica. She knew she was fighting a losing battle.
Her dad could simply stop giving her gas money. He could simply decide one day he wasn’t going to pay for her to study fashion design and then she would be destroyed. She needed to stay on his good side.
“Oh,” James pulled away to sit up, taking her warmth with him. “Is that bad?”
“She’s a bitch. But I can deal with her, don’t worry.”
Augustine sat up too, watching as his now incredibly messy hair sprang up everywhere, like a halo around his head.
“Do you want me to come with you?”
“What?” she asked, strangely moved by this. “No, you don’t have to do that. I can face her on my own. I’m okay.”
“I know that,” James scratched his nose, looking at the sheet that was pooling around her waist. “But I want to go. You know, be there for you and all that.”
He looked at her with those huge, honest, ocean eyes. And he looked so cute it was unbearable.
The worst part was, she knew he meant it, too.
It nearly destroyed her.
“Okay,” she said, pushing a hand through his hair, holding onto him. “You can come with.”
They untangled themselves from the sheets slowly and, as Augustine put on her clothes, James made his way to the sketches taped to the walls of her room, of her favorite projects. Most had come to fruition but a few were experiments she hadn’t yet been able to figure out. Like the jean jacket she wanted to dye white and pink but an exact shade of pink she hadn’t yet found in any store.
“Hey, is that Rachael?” he asked, looking at one of the sketches taped on top of her mirror, one of her unfinished projects.
Augustine nodded, putting on her heels and walking to join him.
“You did all these?” he asked, impressed. She didn’t bother to answer, of course she had. “These are… fucking good. You’re very talented, August” he said, quietly, awed at her sketches.
Augustine felt a sliver of pleasure run through her body and, before she could think much of it, she reached a hand to touch the hairs on the back of his neck.
James didn’t say anything, he simply continued to study her drawings.
“Hey,” he said, suddenly, “this is from Akira!” he was pointing to the sketch of a red bomber jacket. “And you were making fun of me because I like Japanese films!” he said, sounding both indignant and amused.
“I only like the clothes,” Augustine laughed.
James opened his mouth to say something but then he closed it, shook his head, and turned his attention back to the sketches.
“How do you do these?” he asked, squatting down to look at the drawings taped at the bottom, Augustine’s hand falling down by her side. “How do you make them move so much?”
The girl felt a different kind of warmth flooding her chest as she heard his words. She knew his awe was genuine. She knew that he meant everything he was saying, which only made everything worse. She shrugged.
“You have to work on the shading,” she answered, after a second, watching as the boy moved his finger from drawing to drawing, studying her technique.
“You’re really talented,” he said, again, and then. “Will you teach me how?”
At that, he turned to look at her with those fucking eyes.
She knew it was probably a bad idea, but then again, it was too late to be worrying about bad ideas and what choice did she have, really, but to say yes? Especially with him looking at her like that.
Finally, she pushed a hand through the tops of his curls, looking at him, before nodding.
James smiled like she had given him something, a sort of gift.
And after, as they drove through the streets of Montauk, he couldn’t stop asking questions about her sketches and her technique. He was so excited that, try as she did, she couldn’t act annoyed at his eagerness. All she could do was smile, really.
Even after picking up Monica, who, mercifully, didn’t say much on the drive back, her smile never faded away. When they were finally back home, they stood in the rain for a little while, as they watched the woman enter the house, glancing suspiciously at them.
“Do you want to watch another movie, tomorrow?” Augustine asked him, desperate to touch him again but unsure of how much she was allowed.
He laughed.
“Sure, if I manage to get away from Frances,” he answered, casually, tugging on a strand of her orange hair.
And then, he leaned forward and kissed her goodbye.
And she knew that she wouldn’t be able to come back from this mistake. And she knew that she didn’t care.

Chapter Text

“I was not going to miss this party,” Carter said, taking a drag from the joint he’d just rolled and letting out the smoke slowly as he spoke. “I had to convince my mom to come back a day earlier, that’s how much I wasn’t going to miss it.”
He handed the joint to Augustine, sitting next to him, listening to her best friend with amusement. This was one of the reasons she loved him so much. Carter was never afraid of saying exactly what he was thinking, no matter who was or wasn’t listening. He was just always so blunt.
“I mean, it’s going to happen tonight, I know it,” he said now, letting his head fall on the backrest of the couch he was sitting on. By that, he meant he was finally going to get drunk enough to try and kiss the college kid he had met while working at the Gap those last few months. According to Carter, he was 95% sure the boy, his name was Simon, was gay, but hadn’t dared to act on his crush for fear things would turn out incredibly awkward at work. Since Carter wasn’t planning on going back to the Gap for the summer, he’d figured the party would be a good place to shoot his shot (how he had managed to convince Simon to come to a high school party, Augustine didn’t know).
“I’m going to fucking kiss him tonight,” her friend decided as the girl took a drag from the joint, immediately feeling the effects on her body, her muscles relaxing, her mind moving slower than usual.
Perhaps it was the weed working, but Augustine suddenly felt a strong surge of affection for her friend. This was the first time they’d seen each other since he returned to Montauk after visiting his family in Philly, and, although they had talked on the phone practically every day, sitting next to each other at that moment, Augustine was suddenly reminded of how dramatic he could be.
“You absolutely will,” she said, smiling at him, endearingly.
Carter didn’t answer, he was probably still coming up with a plan to kiss Simon.
She turned to pass the joint to James, who stood up to take it and sat back down before taking a drag, looking at her like he was trying to decide whether or not he was allowed to laugh at Carter.
He wasn’t, of course, but Augustine couldn’t help but look him in the eye and smile back, not out of amusement, but out of happiness.
Because Carter had always been her safe space, from the moment they met when they were 12, at a shitty summer camp their parents had sent them to keep them occupied while their family drama unfolded. Her friend had come out to his parents a few weeks before he was sent off to camp and his father had apparently been trying to convince his mom to send him to therapy, because he believed it was the result of some unresolved trauma (which, of course, it wasn’t). Carter’s mom had decided to send him to camp instead and began to file for divorce papers while he was away. Augustine’s mom, on the other hand, had just left them and his father didn’t seem to know what to do with his youngest daughter, so camp had been the solution. Perhaps that was the reason they’d befriended each other so easily, because neither of them really wanted to be there and both felt like there was something fundamentally wrong with them, given just how quickly their parents had turned away from them.
Augustine liked that Carter was funny and mean and that he never seemed to judge her for any of the shit she said. Carter seemed to think she was cool and a bit of an asshole, which didn’t seem to bother him at all. They’d stolen some alcohol from one of the counselors one evening and had gone off to drink it in the woods and, when they were properly drunk (which didn’t take long given how inexperienced they were), Carter had confessed he was gay and Augustine had asked who was the hottest of the older boys in his opinion and, after he had given her the only correct answer (a boy named Paul), they’d both started to giggle madly,
“Woah, woah, woah,” Carter had said, touching his index finger to his thumb, like he was complementing a dish and Augustine had laughed so much she actually peed herself.
Not long after that, they discovered they lived pretty close to each other and became inseparable. Whenever one of the two saw a cute boy walking down the street, they’d whisper “woah, woah, woah” to the other and then laughed stupidly. It had become their tradition, their safe space, and Augustine found that, no matter how shitty things were at home, as long as she could text Carter to complain and gossip, she could keep herself afloat.
“You are driving, right?” her friend asked, interrupting Augustine’s reminiscence.
“Oh,” she blinked, tearing her eyes away from the ceiling and turning to look at James, whose eyes had now gone red and soft with the weed. “He is,” she answered, pointing at the boy with her chin, because Carter was looking at her like he would kill her if she didn’t have a way of driving him to and from the party. Augustine wouldn’t put it past him.
James raised an eyebrow in surprise and was about to say something when his phone started to ring. He looked at it for a long second, as if he couldn’t figure out what the ringing meant, a frown appearing between his yellow-green eyes.
He stood up, still frowning, and murmured something about having to take the call before disappearing through the door, heading toward Carter’s front yard.
Her gaze followed him out the door, without her meaning to.
She should feel stupid about it but she didn’t.
She felt content, here, sitting next to her best friend, smiling at the boy she’d been kissing for over a week.
It’d been a wonderful week. All those stolen kisses in the shop, all that time curled up in bed next to him, as he admired her sketches (which he did often and loudly). All those complicit glances across rooms.
She was happy. Simple as that.
James made her happy.
He was sweet and funny and caring and so fucking much.
He felt consuming.
After that first night, he occupied every single corner of her life. He followed her everywhere, stalked every single thought she had at night. He was on her lips when she woke up and he made her skin thrill with pleasure before she went to bed. Every car ride, every waking moment, all she could think about was him.
Augustine knew she shouldn’t let herself be consumed by him. Especially not after what had happened last time but this felt different somehow. Or maybe she just didn’t want to think. She just wanted to feel and when she was with him she felt so much.
And yes. She hadn’t forgotten about James’s girlfriend. She couldn’t, even if she wanted to, because late at night she wondered just how much this other phantom girl meant to him.
Yes, sure, he’d told Augustine he had a girlfriend so, on some level, she was still in his thoughts but that could be the guilt or the commitment or whatever thread still tied them together. But that thread could vanish, it could wither and die away.
She had a feeling it was withering and dying away, more and more every day.
Because only a few days back, Augustine had caught James looking at her as she sorted through antique cutlery and dishes that were very ugly but probably worth a few thousand dollars. He kept glancing at her and then down at the notebook he always carried with him. At first, she thought he was just trying to annoy her but then she realized he was sketching her. Sketching her!
She walked closer to him, slowly, so he could stop her if he didn’t want her to see what he was working on. But he didn’t stop her.
“Wait,” he said, putting up a hand when she was almost standing next to him, “Just… one… more… thing,” he continued, looking down at the notebook and tracing a few last lines, his long curls falling against his forehead lazily (Augustine was dying to give him a haircut).
Finally, he looked up and turned the notebook upside down so Augustine could look at the finished result.
He had sketched her. And he’d done a beautiful job.
He’d used the technique she had taught him only a few days back; she could still see faint circles around her knees and her shoulders and elbows. And he hadn’t drawn her face, only her hair, flowing down sensuously behind her. And her clothes, of course. The clothes she was wearing that day, the purple top and the leopard print jacket she loved so much.
She loved it. Everything about it spoke of someone who saw beauty everywhere he went. It was almost painful.
“I-” she started, trying to think of something to say that could convey just how much she loved it, just how much it meant to her, but Augustine had never really been any good with words and she felt something sickening pushing in her throat, some strange emotion that made her feel like crying.
“You can keep it if you want,” James said, like it was no big deal.
Augustine was still looking at the sketch. Next to it, on the other page, he’d drawn other strange things, a mermaid stretching out a hand to a girl standing on the shore on top of her, wearing a cardigan and glasses; a cat curling up against a windowpane, yawning lazily; a table filled with cakes and sandwiches and coffee cups. None were as beautiful or as detailed as her own sketch.
“It’s- Thanks,” she said and was alarmed to find that her words sounded strangled, like it was hard to push them out.
James smiled, taking back the notebook and ripping out the page before handing the sketch back to her.
“It’s yours,” he said again, closing the notebook and leaning back against the chair he was sitting on. “It’s harder than I thought,” he admitted. “I don’t know how you manage to draw clothes so well. You’re very talented.”
And though Augustine was still clutching the sketch in her hand with some uneasiness that she couldn’t quite understand, she promised herself she would keep it next to all her own drawings, stored as the precious object it was.
“You have to be fucking with me,” Carter laughed, letting his head fall sideways against the headrest, looking at her.
“What?” Augustine snapped her attention back to her best friend.
“Please don’t tell me you’re falling for that guy,” Carter was looking at her through his hazy eyes, and, even though he was clearly high, she could see his judgment clearly on his face. Never blunt, she thought to herself.
“What? No!” she shook her head, dismissive, and looked away from her friend, because Carter always knew how to read her and she wasn’t sure she wanted to confess the truth. “We’re just having fun.”
Her friend raised an eyebrow.
“Doesn’t he have a girlfriend?”
Augustine winced. She shouldn’t have told him that. The only reason she had was because she’d started to freak out after that first night they’d spend together and she needed to tell someone and why wouldn’t she tell Carter? She told him everything.
But now, she regretted that decision. Carter was not the type of friend to forget uncomfortable truths.
“Whatever,” she said, angling to take the joint away from him. “She doesn’t have to find out.”
“Really?”
She hated hearing those words even if she knew he was just being fair. Even if she knew that was the reason she loved him.
“Aren’t you supposed to be on my side?” she asked, trying to push down the shame she was starting to feel.
“I am. This is why I’m saying this. I wouldn’t want you to believe that just because he’s a pretentious white boy who likes the same weird movies you do, that you’re meant to be together or something.”
“Please,” Augustine took another drag, though it was probably a bad idea. “I don’t believe in that crap and you know it.”
The lie came out easily enough, because it wasn’t a complete lie.
She really didn’t believe in all that.
It was just… different, with him.
She hated to admit it but she saw the signs everywhere.
It was like she and James had always meant to encounter each other, one way or another. Maybe not like she thought it would happen last time, stumbling into each other the day after Christmas, both sad and desperate to run away.
Maybe this time apart had been for the better. Maybe they needed to grow, to change, to learn more things before they could finally be reunited again.
And now they had stumbled into one another’s path yet again. Like they couldn’t help it. Like it was always meant to be this way.
Carter wouldn’t understand it. All he saw was the facts as they were. James had a girlfriend. Yes.
But Carter hadn’t been there as he wrapped his arms around Augustine and kissed every available inch of her skin; Carter wasn’t there as James marveled over her drawings and talked about films and saw so much of everything.
Carter didn’t know how consuming it was because Carter had never been cold. He’d always been loved, adored, cherished by his mom and his sisters and his aunts. He’d always had someone to kiss him goodnight and hold him when he felt sad.
But Augustine had lost it a long time ago. Maybe she’d never been loved. Not properly. She’d never felt warmth.
But she did now. She felt like she was on fire. She felt like she only needed the memory of James moving on top of her murmuring how beautiful she was, again and again, like he couldn’t stop saying it, to sustain her.
Carter wouldn’t understand. He didn’t know how addicting and necessary warmth could become. He didn’t understand
“Right,” he said, still looking at her with intention, clearly skeptical of her words. “You’re just having fun. And talking about him all the fucking time.”
Augustine laughed, unashamed.
Yes, she was aware that she spent an awful lot of time these days dissecting everything James ever did but she didn’t care. She knew Carter didn’t mind either. Not really. Because Carter could see just how happy he made her and yes, okay, he might be worried for her but he didn’t have to be.
Augustine knew what she was getting into. She really did.
She turned around, to look out the window, at James, who was leaning against one of the pillars of the front porch, still talking on the phone, that faint frown still etched in his face.
“You have to admit, he is kinda beautiful,” she said before she could help herself.
Because it was true.
She didn’t say it out loud often but she couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed whenever she watched him from afar.
He was just so… beautiful.
Everything about his face felt intentional. Because none of it made sense. Because he was beautiful in a way that was almost ugly. Like maybe if his nose was a little smaller or his eyes were a little less sunken or his mouth was a little bigger, his face wouldn’t make sense. He wouldn’t be beautiful anymore.
But as he was, Augustine thought sometimes he was perfect. Nothing was out of place.
Of course, she would never say that to him out loud.
“Fuck, you’re too far gone,” Carter said, laughing under his breath, though he didn’t sound amused. He sounded a little annoyed.
Augustine didn’t care.
She knew her friend was right, even if she wasn’t ready to admit it to herself. Because James had a girlfriend. He’d be gone when the summer was over. To Hartford, and his friends, and his school, and his girl. Too far away. The thought was enough to break her heart most days. But when he turned around and noticed her looking at him and he smiled in that way that made her heart stop in her chest, like he was trying hard not to laugh, like he was telling her a secret, all the way from the yard, like he was thinking how it felt to breathe onto each other, hot, slow, heavy, she knew that Carter was right. She knew that it was true. She knew that she didn’t care.
“I know,” she said, returning James’s smile, feeling the thrill of his eyes in her legs, knowing none of it mattered in the end, not when it was just the two of them.

Chapter Text

Half an hour later, they had arrived at a house Augustine had never been in before. Carter seemed to know the house pretty well, though, because he went straight to the backyard, waving to a few people Augustine didn’t recognize on the way. There was a pool and a few people seemed to be eyeing it with interest but so far, nobody had dared to take off their clothes and go in. Maybe they weren’t allowed to.
Carter ignored it and kept walking, toward a table where two people were playing a clumsy game of beer pong. The girl kept missing and then laughing when the ball would fall off the table.
“Either you’re both fucking wasted or you just suck at this game,” Carter said, in a way of greeting when he had reached the table, catching the ball the boy had thrown before it, inevitably, went off in the wrong direction.
“We both fucking suck,” the girl answered, taking one of the cups that was still full and gulping it down in a single motion.
“And we’re both kinda drunk,” her friend quipped, imitating her.
Carter laughed at that and then gave the girl a hug, which was surprising, because Carter wasn’t a very affectionate person. That was one of the reasons he was Augustine’s best friend. The girl, who was wearing a terrible flannel shirt that looked way too big on her, also seemed surprised, but she hugged him clumsily.
“Simon’s already here” she informed Carter. “He asked me where you were,” she continued, raising a dramatic eyebrow. “You ready?”
“How d’you know Simon?” Augustine asked, surprised, at the same time that Carter said, putting a hand on his forehead. “I’m fucking high, it’s what I am. Fuck. I do not want to screw this up.”
“Don’t go near the alcohol, then,” James said, quietly, standing behind Augustine.
The other girl, the butch one with no sense of fashion, either hadn’t heard Augustine’s question or she didn’t care to answer, because she stood there, looking at James with confusion, and didn’t explain how was it that she was familiar with Simon.
“Good advice,” Carter mused, closing his eyes once and then turning to look at the girl. “Where’s the bathroom?”
“I’ll take you,” she answered, passing a hand through her short, wavy hair. “Keep you away from danger.”
Carter laughed at that, allowing the girl to take his hand and guide him through the backyard and into the party inside the house. He didn’t seem to remember that neither Augustine nor James knew any of the guests, or if he did, he didn’t seem to care. He left without turning to ask if they were okay.
Which wouldn’t have usually bothered Augustine. It’s not like she needed him to be able to socialize, but there was something about the way her best friend was talking to the strange girl that bothered her. Some familiarity there that she’d never seen before. Except between the two of them.
“Ahem,” James cleared his throat behind her. “I, uh- I’ll go get us some beers.”
And before she could say anything smart (fuck, the weed had turned her completely useless), he turned around and followed Carter and the girl into the crowd.
Augustine turned to look at the other boy, the one who had stayed behind, standing with his hands buried awkwardly in his pockets. He didn’t actually seem to be drunk. He was not looking at her, but frowning down at the cups of whisky in front of him.
“So, how d’you guys know Carter?” she asked him, intrigued. She had never seen either of the two before and she was sure Carter told her everything, but she couldn’t remember her best friend talking about befriending a butch girl and her dorky sidekick.
“What?” the boy seemed taken aback by her question, he moved a hand to his face and then stopped close to his eyes, like he’d just remembered something. “I- what do you mean?”
Augustine blinked, confused.
“I mean, where did you guys meet?”
The boy frowned.
“At school,” he said, hesitantly.
“No way,” she looked at his face, trying to remember if she’d seen him before, but his face didn’t ring any bells. “I go to the same school. I’ve never seen you before. What’s your name?”
The confusion on the boy’s face now turned to pure irritation.
“Sebastian,” he said, like it was obvious. “We’re in AP Calc together,” he added, flatly.
“Oh,” Augustine blinked, trying desperately to remember. She couldn’t recall a single Sebastian in her AP Calc class, but, then again, she’d never really paid much attention. “I-” she started, but Sebastian interrupted her, like he knew she was still no closer to figuring it out.
“You call me Ned Flanders,” he said, without any humor in his voice.
Augustine opened and closed her mouth, unsure of what to say. She was baffled. Ned Flanders (Sebastian, she chided herself) didn’t look like the boy standing across the table from her. He wasn’t wearing his glasses, for once, and his hair had grown longer over the summer; it curled a little at the ends now, it didn’t fall flatly at his sides. Plus, he hadn’t combed it, which helped a great deal.
Someone snickered behind her and, when she turned, she found James standing there, with two beer bottles in his hands, watching them with amusement.
He offered one to Augustine, who was still baffled by Sebastian’s revelation.
The other boy was looking at James, clearly annoyed.
“I’m gonna go find Carter and June,” Sebastian said, shrugging at no one in particular before walking away, his hands still buried in his pockets.
Neither Augustine nor James said anything, watching until the other boy had disappeared inside the party.
“You’re fucking ruthless” James snickered, when it was clear Sebastian wouldn’t be able to hear them anymore. “Ned Flanders,” he laughed under his breath at the nickname and then grabbed the ball that June had let drop onto one of the cops. “Fucking ruthless.”
“It sounds worse than it actually is,” Augustine explained, taking the ball away from him and aiming clumsily at one of Sebastian’s cups. Unsurprisingly, it didn’t go in. “He just used to wear this green sweater all the time. And he used to wear glasses. If you’d seen him in school, you’d understand.”
James shook his head, laughing an airy laugh.
“But you couldn’t even fucking remember his name. Fucking broke his heart.”
“You don’t remember every single one of your classmates,” she pointed out, throwing the remaining ball in his direction and failing miserably, yet again.
“I probably do,” James answered, catching the ball before it could fall on the ground. “But you. You gave him a nickname and everything.”
“Not a terrible nickname,” she argued, looking toward the party, at the door through which Sebastian had disappeared. It really wasn’t. At least, she hadn’t meant it to be. It was a private joke between her and Carter, never meant for the ears of the actual victim. It wasn’t derisive; it was just silly.
“Fucking broke his heart,” James repeated again, aiming at one of the cups in front of her and scoring, because of course he would. “He was totally checking you out before you went and ripped it out of his chest.”
Augustine laughed, looking at James straight in the eye.
“Jealous?” she asked, amused.
The boy smiled, holding her gaze and shook his head slowly.
“Nope,” he said, before aiming the other ball. “I just feel sorry for the poor guy.”
Augustine laughed, and watched as the ball landed on the cup in the center of the triangle in front of her.
She felt something tug in her chest but tried to ignore it. She knew James was telling the truth. He wasn’t jealous. She should be glad. She’d always hated the idea of jealousy. Other girls seemed to revel in the idea of their boyfriends making a huge deal out of a boy talking to them but, to Augustine, it had always seemed a little barbaric. She liked to talk to boys. She didn’t want someone who would get sore whenever she merely looked at another person.
“Because I broke his heart?”
“Shattered it, August”
“Maybe I should go back and fix it, you know? Kiss him and put it back together,” she raised an eyebrow at him, challenging. She wasn’t sure what the challenge was but James didn’t seem bothered at all.
“Maybe you should,” he said, cooly, taking a sip of his beer.
She didn’t want James to be jealous. She really didn’t. But something about the smile on his face was bothering her. It was the glee on it, the absolute laugh he was having at her expense. He shouldn’t be this amused at the idea of another boy being interested in her. It happened all the time. She wanted to say that. She wanted to be angry. Maybe it was the weed or the alcohol or the combination of both but she wanted to be pissed. She wanted to turn around and leave and make him follow her and beg for her forgiveness. But she knew that she shouldn’t. Only girlfriends were allowed to act that way and she wasn’t his girlfriend. And what if James didn’t bother to follow her? What if it was too much of a hassle for him?
She took the only cup of whisky that seemed to be untouched and gulped it down.
“Wanna get out of here?” she asked him, swallowing down her unease.
James’ smile only grew wider.

“It’s so quiet out here,” James said, sitting on the hood of Frances’ SUV, taking a drag from the cigarette he’d been sharing with Augustine.
The girl hummed in agreement, watching the waves as they lapped back and forth on the sandy beach. It was really quiet. They could hear the music from the restaurants on the avenue and the chatter from the people inside, but only slightly.
James gave her the cigarette and Augustine took a drag.
When she suggested they’d leave the party, she hadn’t known where they would be headed. She just knew she wanted to get out of there. She wanted to squash the awful thoughts that had been assaulting her brain ever since James had made that comment about Sebastian’s broken heart. She knew they shouldn’t have been driving, not in their condition (at least James claimed he wasn’t drunk at all, only a bit high). They were a terrible example but she didn’t want to stick around the party after Carter had abandoned them. She didn’t know what she wanted. She didn’t exactly want James to be offended by the idea of another boy being interested in her. She didn’t want him to get into a fight or anything. She just wanted him to be… what?
She didn’t know.
Not this nonchalant, for sure.
The boy was watching the sea, too, quietly, intently.
“It’s because everyone’s out partying and you’re not allowed to go into the ocean at night. Too many stupid drunks have drowned,” Augustine explained, looking at his profile through the corner of her eye. His long nose stuck out against the stark night and his curls fluttered against his forehead in the cool breeze.
James laughed low under his breath and he let the cigarette butt fall down on the pebbles under his feet before stomping on it. He hooked his right foot on her leg and pulled her to him, placing his hands on her waist, gathering the silk of her shirt in between his fingers.
“I’m sorry if I was being an asshole before. It was just really funny,” he said, quietly, pushing his nose inside her hair and placing his chin on her left shoulder. “Poor guy got his heart broken.”
“You’ve probably broken more hearts than I ever could,” Augustine answered, closing her eyes against the salty air.
James laughed and the sound resonated through her collarbone, traveling up her hair. He didn’t deny it; he simply kissed her neck lightly.
Augustine wondered if he knew he’d already broken her heart, once, when he’d broken all those promises he made to her that evening on her rooftop. That he’d be back, that they’d spend the following summer together, that she wouldn’t have to be alone. But he never came back. The summer came and went and he didn’t come back.
“If we went to school together, you’d have probably broken my heart like you just broke Ned Flander’s,” he whispered, close to her ear, before taking her earlobe in between his teeth and pulling gently.
Augustine felt her whole body wake up in attention, a shiver running through her blood. Her skin burning furiously under his hands.
She pushed a hand under his shirt, feeling the skin of his stomach against her fingers, the muscles clenching as she touched him.
“Yeah,” she agreed, speaking so quietly that she wasn’t sure he’d heard her. “I would have.”
She kissed his hair, his forehead, touched every bit of skin she could reach underneath his shirt, as he gripped her waist so tightly it was almost painful. He slid a hand under her skirt, touching her thighs lightly as he kissed her neck, her ears, bit her collarbone.
“You already are breaking my heart,” he murmured, drunkenly, biting her jaw. “All the fucking time, August”
And then he kissed her and Augustine let herself get lost in the intensity of it all.
Because whoever may be waiting for him back home wasn’t here, with them. And for her, this want was enough, this monster that kept pulling them together, that kept them intertwined and drunk for each other.
James pulled her on top of his lap but the hood of France’s SUV was too slanted to be able to sit comfortably and she slid back down. He laughed under his breath and then kissed her again, gently, before taking her hand and guiding her to the back of the van.
And, all along, Augustine couldn’t stop hearing his words in her head. “All the fucking time.”
He was right. She could feel her heart breaking all the fucking time. This thing was too fucking much. It would consume her and she would be okay with that.
She was okay with it.
Because at that moment, that was all she ever needed. That was more than enough.
The salty air, the rust on the doors of the SUV, his hands on her hair, on her waist, his lips on her lips.
She would never need anything else.

Chapter Text

When the bell rang, Augustine practically sprinted to the door to avoid her dad opening it, but she was too late. And it was a lot worse than she could’ve predicted it. There, standing on the threshold was James, and next to him, was Monica.
The woman was asking if she could offer him some water and James was shaking his head awkwardly when Augustine finally reached the bottom of the staircase.
“Are you sure?” she heard Monica say. “We have some lemonade.”
“Oh,” James threw a helpless glance at the girl and shook his head again. “No, thank you. That’s very nice. I’m just not very… thirsty,” he finished lamely.
“It’s okay, Monica,” Augustine said, before the woman could insist on cooking him a meal or showing him some sign of hospitality she’d never shown to the girl before (even though the woman was dating Augustine’s dad). “We’re just gonna go to my room.”
Monica nodded and walked back to the kitchen as James joined Augustine and whispered “I didn’t know your parents were gonna be around.”
“Monica is not my parents,” Augustine said, not as quietly, as they climbed up the stairs.
And perhaps she should have kept her mouth shut because, before they could reach the second-floor landing, she heard the woman’s voice ringing from the kitchen.
“Augustine, could you come here a sec?”
The girl would’ve usually ignored her, but she didn’t want to make things even more awkward with James there to witness the absolute hell her family life was, so she told him she’d be right back and then made her way into the kitchen.
When she got there, it was her father who spoke first.
“What are you up to?” he asked, not looking up from the crossword he was working on.
“Just hanging out.”
“Aren’t you going to introduce us to your friend?”
Augustine bit her lip. She wanted to say that no, she had no intention of doing so, but she was afraid to piss off her dad, who wouldn’t have usually cared except Monica was there and she had a strange influence on him.
“I- I’m sure you’ve met him before. He’s Frances Wolfe’s grandson.”
“Oh,” Benjamin looked up from his crossword, surprised. “I didn’t know her family was visiting.”
Augustine nodded and then had a brilliant thought. She knew how awkward her father was when it came to family tragedy, so she said.
“Not all of them, just James. ‘Cause, you know, they don’t like to visit ever since Frances’ son died. I mean, it’s hard for all them, and it’s been really hard for James now that he’s visiting so like, he doesn’t, really like to talk to people much.”
It was a weak excuse and, judging from Monica’s facial expression, she knew it, too, but it seemed to work wonders on Benjamin, who nodded, slowly, before looking down at the paper in front of him.
“I can only imagine.”
“Can I go now?” Augustine asked, before her dad could think better about what she’d said.
“What does he do?” Monica intervened.
“He’s in high school, what do you mean?” the girl answered, a little rude.
“Oh, I thought he looked old enough to be in college,” Monica continued and Augustine finally understood that the woman probably disapproved of James. She smiled inwardly to herself, before saying:
“Nope, still in high school. I can get you his school records and his GPA if it will make you feel better,” she added, because she really couldn’t help herself.
“Augustine,” her father chided, still focused on his crossword.
“We just want you to be careful,” Monica explained, clearly affronted.
“Don’t worry. we’ll be safe,” the girl smiled innocently at the woman, who opened her mouth to say something and then closed it again.
Augustine turned to leave then but she wasn’t fast enough because still heard Monica say, from the kitchen, “Just be careful with yourself,” before she went up the stairs to meet James.

“August, I’m trusting you with my life,” James said, about ten minutes later, looking straight into Augustine’s eyes through the mirror. The girl smiled and nodded, passing her fingers through the curls at the top of his head. She’d manage to convince him to let her give him a haircut. She’d promised if it got too short and he asked her to stop she would, that it wouldn’t look terrible when she was over and James had finally agreed, though a little reluctantly.
“Don’t worry,” she said, measuring the length of his hair at either side of his head, carefully, rejoicing in the feeling of his silky curls sliding through her fingers. “I know what I’m doing.”
Jaimes raised a questioning eyebrow but didn’t say anything, watching as she brought the scissors close to the ends of his hair and wincing as she took the first layer off.
“So,” Augustine said, to distract him. She’d get nervous and annoyed if he kept a close watch on everything that she did, “how come you don’t have a car on your own and must comply with Frances’ curfew?”
“I do have my own car,” James answered, still watching the scissors as they chopped off the ends of his hair. “But my dad was pissed and wanted to teach me a lesson or some shit, so he said I wasn’t allowed to bring it,” he shrugged like it was no big deal.
“Why was he pissed?” she asked, focused on her task
James shrugged again, looking away, and Augustine nearly cut off a few strands of hair she hadn’t meant to touch.
“I- uh, drove to New York City one weekend without asking for permission. He wasn’t pleased about that.”
The girl laughed and pushed his head gently forward so she’d have better access to the back of his hair.
“I bet he wasn’t,” she hummed. “And so now you’re stuck with Frances’ SUV?”
James laughed or maybe he groaned, the girl couldn’t tell the difference sometimes.
“Yeah, but it’s okay. She’s always chill about everything,” he murmured.
“Wasn’t she angry that you came home late last weekend?”
Augustine had made a mental promise to herself to make sure that James got home on time but the alcohol and the weed and all that kissing in the back of the car had distracted her. By the time he finally parked in front of Frances’ barely lit porch, they were already an hour late.
“I don’t think she even noticed.”
Augustine laughed with relief, making sure the back of the boy’s head looked even.
“Carter, on the other hand, was fucking furious,” she told him. “He’s worse than a grandmother sometimes.”
“I get the feeling he doesn’t like me much,” James murmured, shyly, while the girl tilted his head slightly to the left.
She hummed, unsure of what to say. He was right, of course. Carter didn’t like him. He hadn’t been outwardly rude but when he liked someone, he made it obvious. He hadn’t made it obvious with James.
“He’s just protective of me,” she explained. “It’s like his default setting. Suspicious of anyone with dubious intentions. Like a gay older brother or something,” she spoke slowly as she worked on making sure both sides of James’ head were even. “He’s the family I’ve built.”
James hummed, vaguely, but didn’t say anything else.
Augustine focused on her task. She wasn’t sure why she’d said what she’d said. She just hadn’t been able to stop thinking about his words for a while. About the families that you got to build, away from the given one.
For such a long time, she’d figured people came into the world with an already built-in community, a given family bound to accompany you everywhere you go. To always choose you.
That is until the day both her mom and her sister had chosen someone else.
From that moment on, she’d figured she’d lost her built-in people. She’d be alone for the rest of her life. But then Carter had always chosen her, from the very first time they’d met. He was allowed to dislike James. Because he was her chosen family and he would always, always pick her.
“Frances loves you. She’s way too patient with you,” Augustine mused, looking at him through the mirror.
James nodded, slowly, looking at her hands as she cut his hair.
“I know. But it’s just because she knows what a huge dick my dad is.”
“Is he?” she asked, hoping to distract him again.
“Biggest dick in the entire universe,” James smiled like he was joking. “Seventeenth consecutive winner of the Worst Parent of the Year Award.”
Augustine laughed.
“I’m pretty sure my mom could easily take his crown,” she said, brushing off the bits of hair that were falling all over his shoulders. She was done. She took a step back and admired her work. “Abandoning your child for a man will probably make you a solid runner-up,” she added, smiling at him, jokingly.
James frowned through the mirror, not returning her smile.
“Yeah,” he mused. “That fucking sucks.”
She shrugged and then pushed her hand through the soft curls she hadn’t touched, on top of his head.
“I’m done,” she told him.
He was still frowning, watching her.
“Your mom sucks,” he said, slowly,
“And your dad is a huge dick,” she agreed.
He smiled slightly, but the frown didn’t disappear. Slowly, he reached for her hand and gave it a gentle kiss on the palm, before looking at himself in the mirror, admiring her handy work.
“You know,” he said, touching the sides of his hair carefully. “When you told me about your mom and your sister leaving, I figured they’d be back, eventually. Like things needed to settle before they could get in touch with you again. What with your dad’s problems and stuff. I never really thought they’d just- disappear.”
Augustine sat on the bed behind her, watching him.
She had also figured that they’d be back, eventually. One way or another. She’d never figured one could just detach oneself from their child. Her father hadn’t, but then again, she guessed he probably felt a moral obligation to stay, to make sure that his daughter (maybe his only daughter) survived.
“I’m sorry,” James said, still looking at her through the mirror. “That sounded horrible. I didn’t mean it to sound so bad.”
“No, I know what you mean,” she shook her head. “You know, sometimes I wonder what will happen after I’m done with college. I mean, once I finish high school I’ll have an excuse to leave but, after that, I don’t know what I’ll do. I don’t know that I want to come back and I don’t know how to maintain a relationship with my dad afterward, you know? But I guess I have to. I guess I owe it to him. Because he stayed.”
She hadn’t meant to say those things out loud. But it was true. The closer she was to finishing high school the more she thought about what would happen after. She definitely didn’t want to come back. And she didn’t want to spend every holiday with a sour-looking Monica making mean comments about her weight. But she knew she had an obligation to her dad. To at least return, one way or another.
James hummed, rubbing the back of his head awkwardly, looking away, like he didn’t want to be present for this outpour of emotions.
Augustine cleared her throat.
“Anyway, yeah. I figured she’d be back too,” and then, because she had been meaning to ask him since that day he admitted to remembering the sloppy kiss they’d shared on New Year’s Eve, she added. “I figured you’d be back too.”
James didn’t look at her. He kept his eyes locked on the reflection in front of her.
“Why didn’t you?”
The boy didn’t say anything for a long while. When he spoke again, his voice came out a little forced, like maybe he was pushing the words out.
“After my uncle died, my dad wanted Frances to sell the house,” he shrugged. “She refused to do it, so he gave her an ultimatum. He said we wouldn’t be back to visit her and she could only come visit us. I think he thought that would convince her to sell the house,” he passed a hand through his locks, in a gesture that Augustine now understood meant he felt angry.
“He is such a huge dick,” she murmured, in amazement.
James laughed bitterly.
“I know. Sometimes I think I hate him for that. Because this house is the only link she has to Uncle Noah and he’s asking her to give it up. To just part with it like’s no big deal,” he let out a frustrated sigh. “And now she will. And she will never be able to go back to the home where he grew up.”
Augustine bit her cheek. She felt a surge of emotions flood her chest. She’d never seen James look so angry or so emotional. She hadn’t heard him talk about his uncle either. And, most worrisome of all, she hadn’t known Frances would be selling the house. Which could only mean one thing. Augustine tried to push the thought away. She didn’t want to contemplate the possibility that James may never come back. She didn’t want to make this moment about her, not when he was clearly hurting.
“What happened to your uncle?” she asked him, instead.
James looked at something on her desk, his eyes gone a bit hazy.
“He, uh,” he cleared his throat. “He killed himself,” he said, finally, tapping her desk rhythmically with two fingers.
Augustine didn’t say anything for a long while. She’d heard the rumors, of course. She’d just never thought it could be true. She had an impulse to reach out and wrap her arms around the boy, to kiss the top of his head, to take all the pain that was clear on his face and swallow it so it couldn’t hurt him anymore.
She didn’t move.
“Do you miss him?” she asked, quietly.
James kept tapping her desk again, not answering. He wasn’t frowning anymore. His face was doing something weird instead, something empty and hollow that scared her.
“Yeah,” he said, finally. “Sometimes.”
After a second, it became clear that he wasn’t going to explain himself. Augustine didn’t know what to say. She didn’t want to push him but she wanted to comfort him in some way. She wanted to do something to make that hollow expression in his eyes vanish.
“I’m sorry about your uncle,” she told him.
James nodded but didn’t look up, so she walked closer until she was standing right behind him.
“Your dad’s a huge dick,” she told him again and James laughed, bitterly.
She hesitated for a second, because she’d never done anything like this before and she wasn’t sure what would happen if she just let herself be tender and loving like she wanted to be. But he was still lost in some horrible thought he wasn’t sharing with her and she simply couldn’t stand it anymore.
She leaned forward and kissed his forehead, quickly, once, pushing the few strands of hair still falling on top of his eyes away.
“I’m really sorry, James,” she told him, hoping he could know just how much she meant it.
Even though he was finally looking at her again, his eyes still felt empty, somehow, like he was hiding his pain away.
“Yeah,” he murmured, standing up, suddenly, pushing a hand through his hair and ruffling it like he hoped it could go back to its usual shape. “I should go,” he added, pushing the chair he’d been sitting in awkwardly, out of the way. “Frances’ waiting for me and she’ll be pissed if I don’t show up for dinner.”
Augustine nodded. She knew it wasn’t true. Frances could never be mad at the boy. She knew James didn’t want to keep talking about his uncle and she understood it.
She wanted to say more things, to apologize for ever bringing up the subject but he looked like he couldn’t get away any faster. He looked like he didn’t want to be around anyone.
So she stepped aside and watched as he disappeared through her front door.

Chapter Text

“Hello?”
The voice on the other end of the phone sounded hesitant.
“Hello,” James said, speaking slowly and softly, like he was approaching a wounded animal, trying hard not to scare it.
“Hey,” Betty said, just as softly, like she was holding her breath.
James closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He hadn’t heard her voice in what felt like an eternity. He hadn’t realized just how much he missed it. How afraid he’d been that she might not answer his call. He let out the breath he was holding and pushed the phone closer to his ear, like he’d be able to reach her through it, somehow.
He still wasn’t sure of what to say. He’d been trying to come up with an apology since that night he’d run away to Dan’s to get drunk and be miserable. But the right words kept eluding him.
Or maybe, he couldn’t face the possibility that he wouldn’t be able to come up with the right apology and that Betty might never want to talk to him again.
He knew she’d be right to break up with him. He’d been expecting it, as much as he hated the idea, as much pain as it caused him, he’d been preparing for it.
But he missed her so much. So damn much, it felt impossible. At night, before he fell asleep, he always wondered what she’d be up to. If she’d spent her days reading or hanging out with her friends (he hated that idea). He had entire imagined conversations with her where he always ended up apologizing and she’d always tell him just how much she needed him.
But he hadn’t dared call her. He dreaded the possibility that she might not answer the phone at all.
Except, of course, now she had.
He felt something growing inside his chest. Some horrific balloon of hope he thought he’d already squashed.
“Are you busy?” he asked, because he couldn’t think of anything else to say, because all of the words he’d been rehearsing were suddenly eluding him.
“No,” she said, her voice still soft and shy. “Just reading.”
“I’m- I’m sorry for calling out of nowhere,” he spoke fast, trying to imagine her laying down on her always perfectly made bed. “I just- I wanted to hear your voice.”
At least that much was true.
For the past thirty minutes, as he felt something old and vicious curl inside his chest, threatening to swallow him whole, all he could think of was her. Her voice. Her face when he told her his deepest, darkest fears.
He was afraid that dark hole would rip him open and he wouldn’t be able to put himself back together. He’d seen it happen to Hannah enough times to know how scary it could be. He’d seen it with Betty too. It had only come for him a few times but he just couldn’t afford to let it get to him. Not like this. Not here.
“Are you okay?”
Betty’s voice, on the other end of the phone, had changed. She didn’t sound guarded anymore. She was concerned. It nearly broke his heart.
He slumped on the foot of the bed, passing a hand on his face, trying to control his breathing, trying to keep it under control.
“My uncle killed himself,” he said, without meaning to.
Because it was always just so easy to say exactly how he felt and what he thought when he was talking to her. He’d forgotten this strange talent of hers and he bit his tongue immediately, regretting saying the words out loud. He shouldn’t be talking about this. He should be apologizing to her. He should be telling her just how much she meant to him.
“James,” her voice came out softer, the pain clear in her words. “No. I’m so, so sorry.”
He shook his head and then remembered she couldn’t see him.
“No,” he tried to explain; he couldn’t seem to be able to make sense of anything. His words escaped him, all he knew was that horrible balloon on his chest, all that pain he’d been pushing away. “He- That was three years ago. I’m- I didn’t mean it to sound so…”
He shook his head again. He could feel the pain pressing on his eyelids, roaring to be let out.
“No,” she said. “It’s okay. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”
James rubbed his forehead frantically, willing his brain to work, to not let itself be overwhelmed by all the memories of Uncle Noah as the boy remembered him, slumped on his sofa, curtains drawn tight, the only light in the room coming from the screen in front of him.
“What happened?” she asked him, with such care, such tenderness, that he desperately wished to be by her side, to be close enough to touch her, to bury his face in the fabric of her favorite cardigan.
“He,” James forced the words to come out, “he shot himself.”
He could still remember hearing Frances’ voice through the phone, her wailing desperation reaching them at the dinner table, even though Samuel had gone into the other room to talk to her.
“He used to live with my grandmother. Here, in this house. I hadn’t been back since he died and now,” the words were now coming fast and freely and he could feel the pressure on his eyelids build, “I’m staying in his room. And it’s just so- Fuck,” he gulped down that horrible monster inside his throat, tried to compose himself but he needed to tell her, he needed to tell someone. “I just- I can’t stop thinking about him and how it’s probably my fault that he died.”
And now that he’d said the words out loud, he felt like his whole body had coiled inside of itself, everything taut and compressed.
“No,” Betty cooed in his ear, and he could hear his pain reflected in her voice and he nearly hated himself for that, too, because he couldn’t seem to be able to stop hurting her. “That’s not true. James, you know that’s not true.”
Except, she was wrong.
He could still remember coming home every night during the last holidays his family had spent together, before Noah’s death, and hearing the sounds of the TV coming from his uncle’s room, late at night. He could remember the furious whispers of his parents every morning when they’d wake up to find that Noah hadn’t moved from his place on the sofa, that he hadn’t showered, that he hadn’t brushed his teeth, that he hadn’t even changed his clothes.
“We used to-” he rested his head on his knees, closed his eyes, and let himself talk to the phone as if he were talking to himself. “We used to watch films together whenever I visited. Especially during the Christmas holidays. It was like our tradition or something- But that last time- I don’t know. I just didn’t want to be there. I don’t know why. I can’t explain it. It just felt like it was too much. Like he needed me to be there with him but I couldn’t do it. I wanted to. I mean, he was the one who taught me everything I know about films. He’s the one who made me watch Blade Runner. He’s the reason I began to draw. And he always had some cool new film to show me. He told me,” he whispered, ashamed of himself, afraid that this revelation would convince her to turn her back on him. He gulped down his doubts and forced himself to say it. “He told me he’d been looking forward to watching movies with me and I just- Fuck. I just couldn’t do it. My dad was always getting into fights with him, saying how he was wasting his life and I just didn’t want to hear it. It made me so angry but, at the same time, all Uncle Noah ever did was stay in his room and watch movies and it’s like I couldn’t defend him because he never did anything else and I was afraid- I don’t know. I just didn’t like it. So I ran away every morning and every night, when I came back, I always told him I was too tired and wanted to go to bed. We didn’t watch any movies and then two months later, he was dead. And maybe,” he felt the tears streaming down his face and hoped to god that she wouldn’t be able to hear it through the phone, “maybe if I’d been here, he wouldn’t have killed himself.”
Betty had heard him rant without saying anything but now, she spoke up, gently, but firmly.
“No,” she said. “That’s not true. You know that’s not true. You were a child. How could you have known? It wasn’t your responsibility to take care of him. It should’ve been the adults who should’ve prevented it.”
James didn’t say anything. He wasn’t sure she was right. Sure, yeah, his dad shouldn’t have been such a dick to Noah, but maybe, if James had been there to watch movies with him, maybe he’d have noticed some warning sign, maybe he could’ve said something or done something to convince him not to do what he was about to do. Maybe he could’ve convinced him to stay.
“Sometimes,” he confessed quietly, wiping his face frantically with the back of his hand, “I think- I’m afraid I turned out like him. Which is a horrible thing to say, I know, because you shouldn't speak ill of the dead but I just- I wonder if my dad’s right and I’m just wasting my life like he was. If I’m just aimless and lazy and will end up just like him, locked in a room watching movies night and day without any purpose in life.”
He blinked the tears away, tried to swallow down the pain that kept a tight hold of his chest. He stood up, he needed to get out of that room, need to steer clear of ghosts.
“No, James, no,” Betty cooed in his ear. “That’s not true. You have a purpose. You want to go to college and you want to do your movies and your drawings. I used to think you didn’t care about anything,” she admitted, which would’ve made him laugh because it was such a Betty thing to do, being honest even in the hardest times. But he was still crying and he probably would sound pathetic if he laughed now, “but then I saw your drawings and I thought,” she let out a quiet laugh. “I hadn’t met anyone before who loved movies as much as you do. Who was so passionate about one of those unimportant things I love so much. I feel like what you care about is so much more important than school and college, it’s about being human. You’re not aimless or lazy. You just care about things your dad could never even comprehend. You’re not-” she hesitated. “You’re not your uncle.”
James stumbled through his door and into the bedroom where he and his sister used to sleep in, at the end of the hall, shut the door, and slid down onto the floor, hearing her voice at the other side.
She couldn’t know, of course, just how much that meant to him.
Because being aimless, being purposeless was his biggest fear. It was the accusation his dad kept throwing in his face and there were times when James knew he was right. It was the reason he’d been convinced Betty would eventually realize that Andrew was better suited for her. Because he had a purpose, like her, because he knew what he was going to do with his life.
But now, she was telling him she didn’t actually believe that. Quiet the contrary, she thought he was passionate too, about all the right things.
“I’m so sorry,” he said to the phone. He still couldn’t remember the apology he had rehearsed time and again but he knew it didn’t matter. He just needed to be honest. “I should’ve called before. I should’ve texted after the dance. I should’ve told you I was leaving, I just– Fuck. I was just afraid you were so angry at me that you wouldn’t want to hear it.”
Betty didn’t say anything for a minute and James started to panic again, afraid that she was only being kind to him because of his pain.
“I was angry,” she admitted, finally. “I wish you’d been there when my song started playing. I wanted you there. And I was so angry when you didn’t text me. And then I was hurt. I thought maybe-” she hesitated for a second before speaking loud and clear, like she was forcing herself to be brave, “all those things people said about you were true and you had moved on really quickly.”
“No!” he nearly shouted, and then bit his tongue, trying to qualm the angry burst of emotions threatening to come out, not at her, of course, at himself, for being such a damn fool. “No, I should have texted. I wanted to. Fuck, I know I should have. I just- I was afraid you were done with me.”
She let out a sigh and when she spoke again, she sounded so sincere, so unguarded, that it nearly broke his heart.
“No,” she said. “I’m never done with you.”
He let out an exhale, relieved.
“Do you promise?”
She laughed and he felt her laugh travel up his hair and into his body, settle on his heart, and lit a fire.
“Yes,” she said, honestly. And then, before he could say anything else: “And I’m sorry, too. I thought it was important that I honor that promise I made, but I really wanted you there. I really missed you. I really miss you.”
“I miss you, too,” he admitted, nearly choking on the words he’d been whispering to himself these past weeks. “I’m so stupid glad I called you,” he admitted, and then, because he felt emboldened by her response. “Will you come to prom with me? Next year?”
Betty laughed again, that throaty laugh that meant she was blushing, or rolling her eyes. He could picture her so clearly, rolling her eyes at him, so close that he could just reach out and kiss her if he wanted.
He wanted to so badly. His whole body felt like it was trying to reach her through the phone.
“Isn’t it a little too early to be asking?”
“No. If I ask you now, no one can beat me to it next year.”
She hummed; it vibrated through the phone and into his hair.
“So, what do you think?”
“I think you’re ridiculous,” she answered, serious. “And I think you didn’t even need to ask. You know I’m going to say yes. To everything.”
A shiver went through his body upon hearing her words. He wanted to stay like that forever, curled up on the floor with her voice in his ear. He didn’t want to leave the room; he didn’t want to step outside, to whoever awaited him out there.
“Everything?” he asked, teasing, focusing on her voice.
“Everything,” she sounded like she was in pain. “Gosh, you could ask me to go to one of Daniel’s football games with you and I’d say yes. And I hate football games.”
James couldn’t help but smile, even if nobody was watching him and there was no one to smile at. Because Betty almost never flirted so openly with him. She always just blushed. Or rolled her eyes. Or shook her head. But on the phone, it seemed, she felt much braver.
“I don’t even go to Daniel’s football games,” he admitted. “But I’ll think of some crazy date I can take you to. Just to see if you mean it.”
“I mean it,” she whispered, so softly, that he had to hold his breath to hear her words.
“I miss you so much it’s insane,” he whispered, just as softly. And it was true. It felt like a need. He didn’t know what would have happened if she hadn’t forgiven him for the whole prom fiasco. He didn’t want to imagine it. Because the thought of never touching her again made him feel like he was drowning in despair. He wanted to listen to her voice again. “I miss you so much, I dream about you every night. You wouldn’t believe the conversations we have in my dreams.”
“About geography?” she teased.
“No, not about geography.”
She sighed again.
“I dream about you too. All the time. Lore says if you dream about someone, that means they’re dreaming about you too. It’s like witchcraft or something. Like a summoning”
He closed his eyes, tried to imagine himself in bed at night, dreaming of her, and then Betty, 200 miles away, dreaming of him. He imagined a thread between them, always pulling them towards each other.
“Do we have long conversations about geography?”
“No,” she said slowly. “We do other things. We almost never talk.”
James held his breath. He hadn’t expected her to speak so nonchalantly. He felt like he couldn’t breathe. He felt like his whole body was trying to reach her through the phone.
“I miss you so much,” he said again. Because he didn’t want to scare her and because it was true. “Are you wearing pajamas?” he asked and immediately felt like a pervert.
Betty laughed.
“Why?”
He shrugged and then remembered she couldn’t see him.
“I’m trying to picture you. I’m trying to imagine I’m sitting right next to you.”
She took a second to answer and when she did she spoke softly, like she was telling him a secret.
“Yeah,” she said. “I’m wearing pajamas”
James hummed. He didn’t trust himself to speak. He didn’t trust himself to do anything. Thank God she wasn’t there to see the way his body was reacting to her words.
He could picture her wearing the same clothes she’d been wearing the first night he’d snuck into her room. He remembered how much he’d wanted to touch her then. He remembered how hard he had tried not to stare at her. Because she looked different in her pajamas. She looked so tangible. So real. He could see every curve, every soft turn, every fleshy bit. And that fucking shirt she was wearing. He hated that shirt. (He loved that shirt). He wanted to see her in that shirt again. It was too small for her. It stuck to her in a way that felt perverted. He felt perverted. He bit his lip. He almost hadn’t been able to stay still that night. He almost hadn’t been able to keep his hands at his sides. Especially not once she started touching him. It had felt like torture, not being able to touch her in return but he’d made a promise to her and he knew he needed to be patient. He knew he would scare her if he tried anything. But he wanted to. So badly.
“Fuck, I wish I was there. Or you were here. Whichever. I wish we weren’t miles apart.”
Betty sighed again and he felt it in his whole body.
He felt it like a tremor.
“I miss you so much,” she said. “Te extraño. Te quiero.”
James curled his body into a question mark feeling the cold tiles of the floor underneath his cheek.
“Are you speaking Spanish to me?” he asked, with a laugh.
“Yes. Very complicated Spanish.”
“What does it mean?”
“It means I miss you. It means tell me everything about your summer. Even the boring parts.”
The boy swallowed. He didn’t want to talk about it. He didn’t want to think of the outside. He only wanted her.
“There’s not much to say,” he lied. He could feel something dark pressing against his eyelids and he wanted to ignore it.“My grandmother’s nice. She doesn’t hover much, which is cool. But the beaches are always crowded and I’m always deadly bored. Wishing I was home. Wishing I was there with you. Wishing I could talk to you.”
“So do,” she whispered back and he imagined he was lying right next to her and the lights in her room were turned off and they were talking to each other in the dark. He imagined she was talking in his ear and he could almost feel her breath. “Talk to me all the time. Talk to me in my sleep.”
“No,” he said, feeling emboldened. “I want to kiss you in your sleep.”
“Okay,” she said and it sounded like a moan. Fuck, he was such a pervert. His body was such a pervert. He clenched his fists by his side and took a deep breath.
He thought then, of saying the words he’d been saving for her his whole life. The words he’d never wanted to say before, not until now. The words she whispered into his ear every night in his dreams. The best part of his day. But he wanted to see her face when he finally said it. He wanted to be able to kiss her after. To hold her in his arms and repeat the words over and over again while he touched her.
“Okay,” he agreed. “Only if you tell me everything too. If you tell me about your days and the books you’re reading and the fights you get into with Ela. If you describe every single thought you ever have with excruciating detail.”
She laughed on the phone, quietly, like she too was making sure no one else could ever look into this little bubble of theirs.
“You’re ridiculous,” she repeated, but it sounded like she was saying something else. It sounded like she was breathless. He felt breathless too, like not enough oxygen would ever enter his lungs again, or maybe like he could float onto space, he wasn’t sure. “I’m really sorry about your uncle,” she added, after a second and he pushed his forehead against the cold tiles.
He hummed, unsure of what to say. He hadn’t lied about anything, but he didn’t want to dwell on that pain anymore. He just wanted to keep talking to her.
“Yeah,” he said, focusing his gaze on the squiggly lines that ran through the tiles. “Me too.”
“You’re not like him, James,” she said. “You’re so… alive. I hope you know that.”
The boy felt a lump form in his throat and knew he was being ridiculous. He felt weak. He couldn’t let her hear him, so he swallowed.
He wasn’t sure exactly what she meant by that but he felt something warm spread to his chest, a sanctuary she’d built around him without meaning to. He closed his eyes and listened to her breath across the phone.
“Betty,” he said after a while. “I want to bother you every night in our dreams.”

Chapter Text

When the line finally disconnected, James looked up at the ceiling of the bedroom, hearing Betty’s voice telling him how much she missed him, how alive he was, again and again. He didn’t want to move. He probably would’ve stayed on the phone with her until his phone ran out of battery but it was already one a.m. and he could tell Betty was tired, he could hear her trying to stifle a yawn. So he’d let her hang up, even though he felt like he wouldn’t be able to sleep all night, like he could walk the entirety of Montauk without breaking a sweat. He didn’t move, of course. Frances would be asleep by now and he knew she’d get up, worried, if she heard him fumbling in the kitchen for something to eat. He wasn’t really all that hungry. He remembered he still had an old doughnut in his backpack and was about to get up and grab it (which he knew was probably highly unsanitary) when his phone pinged. He unlocked the screen with nearly shaking hands, excited to know that Betty was still thinking about him.
But when he looked at the text on the screen, he felt something cold and heavy spread through his chest and sink into his stomach, where he had felt warm only a few seconds ago. He pushed the phone underneath his pillow and closed his eyes, forcing his body and his brain to shut off.
But it didn’t happen.
He knew why.
He’d made a mistake. A huge mistake. And a stupid one, at that.
He’d been so convinced that Betty was about to break up with him that he hadn’t even stopped to consider what would happen if she didn’t end things between them. Okay, maybe he had, for just a second. But everything had happened so fast that he hadn’t had time to really consider what he was doing. What he was jeopardizing if Betty were to ever find out.
He shook his head like he was shaking off a ghost, trying to ward off all those horrible thoughts, but they kept a tight grip on him. If word of his stupidest, most evil weakness ever got out, he would lose her. He knew that for a fact.
Except it wouldn’t happen. How could it?
He wouldn’t tell a single soul and Augustine wouldn’t either, other than Carter, of course, but there was no way in hell a guy like Carter could be connected, in any way, to a nerd like Ela or any other of Betty’s friends.
Frances might suspect something, but she wasn’t going to go around Hartford telling everyone.
No, the chances of word ever getting out were infinitesimal. Nothing that happened between them in her room would ever escape those four walls. No one would know.
Besides it didn’t mean a thing. It was just fun between them. It wasn’t anything serious. Just a way to spend the summer. And they both knew that.
Summer flings don’t count, he told himself. They never survived outside of lazy sunny afternoons and warm, dank nights.
Plus, he’d never made any promises. Once he went back to Hartford, neither he nor Augustine would ever look back.
It didn’t mean anything.
Not then, not ever. It wouldn’t mean anything.
No matter what happened, no matter what he did, or said, it would never, ever mean anything. He didn’t have to stop, because it just didn’t count. He wouldn’t look back on this summer fondly, if anything, he would try to forget it.
Plus, he could keep both girls separate inside his brain. They never had to intersect. Because Augustine wouldn’t exist outside of Montauk and Betty lived in a different universe altogether.
He tried not to think about his mistake any longer, he tried to focus on his girlfriend, on how much he missed her, on how much he would do just to kiss her.
For a second, a crazy idea popped into his head. He could go back to Hartford for the weekend. Just the weekend. He could take the train or something and be back by Monday morning. Of course, it was a terrible idea. His dad would be pissed if he showed up on his doorstep on Saturday morning and there was no way Samuel wouldn’t find out. James had to go home to sleep, at the very least.

It was a lousy plan. He knew that, but the next day, he still couldn’t keep it out of his mind.
He tried to, as he made an inventory of the things in the shop that had been sold that past week and listened, absentmindedly, to Augustine chat about Carter and the two new friends he’d made.
“It’s not that I dislike her,” the girl was saying, as she taped up a box. “I just don’t get it. He usually tells me everything. Like seriously, everything. You wouldn’t believe the fucked up shit he’s told me.”
James hummed, ticking an item off the list unaware that he’d already ticked it off twice before.
Augustine didn’t say anything else and the boy tried desperately to think of something to say but nothing appropriate came to his mind because he couldn’t remember the name of the girl he’d met at the party, a few weeks ago. So he focused on his task, waiting for the girl to keep talking.
After a second, Augustine pushed the box aside with her left heel and walked closer to him, resting his forearms on the desk in front of James.
“What’s up with you?” she asked him, a few strands of her orange hair escaping the messy bun she was wearing.
“Nothing,” he said, trying to ignore the fact that her shirt was hanging so low he could see the freckles on her chest. “Um, I’ve just been thinking about going to Hartford for the weekend.”
“Oh,” she pulled back, her cleavage disappearing. “Right,” she said, turning away, going back to the boxes she’d been working on. “Aren’t your parents gonna be pissed?” she asked casually, like she wasn’t bothered by the idea of him going back.
“Yeah,” he admitted, watching her work, frowning a little despite himself. “But it’s nothing I haven’t dealt with.”
Augustine didn’t say anything for a long while, focused on her task. He’d seen her like this before, back when they’d first met, like she was too cool to be bothered by anything he said or did.
“I thought we were hanging out this weekend,” she said, finally, not looking away from what she was doing.
“Um,” James looked at the list of items in front of him. “We could hang out next weekend. I mean, I’ll have to come back.”
“Right,” she said, with a sharp edge in her voice that he hadn’t heard before. “Problem solved.”
The boy hesitated for a few seconds. He knew she was upset but he wasn’t sure he wanted to get deeper into it. He probably should just let it go.
“Are you okay?” he asked, stupidly.
Augustine didn’t even turn to look at him.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” she said, coolly.
The boy felt suddenly weirdly annoyed at the girl. He could tell that she wasn’t okay and he hated hearing her pretend otherwise. He didn’t want her to suddenly burst into tears and beg him to stay either, but she could at least show- Whatever. He didn’t care.
If she claimed to be okay then that was even better for him. He didn’t have to worry about her. Whatever she was feeling didn’t bother him in the slightest.
He really could go back home. It was a wild idea but he could do it. He could ask Frances to drive him to the Ferry and then he could probably find a train and then spend all weekend on the floor of his girlfriend’s living room. He could take her to Bushnell Park and draw while she read.
He could almost picture it. Almost. But not quite.
Because it was an insane idea. He didn’t have any money. He was sure he could ask Frances for some but he didn’t want to explain that he’d spend all the money she’d given him on crappy drugs he’d already smoked. Plus, if his dad found out, he would kill him.
But that wasn’t everything.
“So, been missing your girlfriend, then?” Augustine asked, suddenly, still not looking up, that sharp edge to her voice turning it sweet and dangerous.
For some reason, the question irked him. He hadn’t expected her to bring up the subject quite so nonchalantly. He didn’t want her words to taint the memory of Betty on the phone last night.
He closed the notebook he’d been working with, with a thud, and Augustine turned to look at him, quite pleased with herself.
“So what if I am?” he asked, looking at her, challenging.
Augustine didn’t look away. She wasn’t one to back down from a challenge. She shrugged.
“I’m sure she misses you too,” she said, sweetly.
The words weren’t confrontational by any means but it still felt like a slap on the face nonetheless.
“What’s it to you, anyway?” he answered, more forcefully than he had intended. The truth was, he wasn’t up for the challenge. He was fed up with this whole interaction.
“Nothing,” Augustine answered with that same practiced nonchalance. “Nothing at all.”
He closed his eyes and let out a deep breath. He was tired; he wanted to go home to the one person who never pretended like she didn’t care.
“Fine,” he said, getting up and pushing everything carelessly into his backpack. “I guess I’ll see you around, then.”
He walked out of the store and took a deep breath. Out here, the salty scent of the sea made him feel less like he was asphyxiating.
He started walking, unsure of where to go at first, and then an idea popped into his head. It still wasn’t a brilliant plan but it couldn’t hurt to look at prices for a ferry ticket, departure timetables and all of that.
And, as he walked, he couldn’t help but think about all the ways in which Betty was completely different from Augustine. That probably wasn’t a fair comparison, but he couldn’t help it.
Because his Betty would’ve never acted like the other girl just had. He wasn't sure Betty would ever be caught in that position in the first place.
And then he felt ashamed.
Because the position he was thinking about wasn’t just Augustine’s but his, too. Betty would never do what he’d been doing either. He was sure of that.
And that was the real reason this whole back-in-Hartford-for-a-weekend plan was never going to happen.
He could buy a ticket to the ferry right now, but he would never go in.
Because she would see his shame clear in his face. She would know what he’d done.
And, even if she didn’t, he would still have to come back and he wouldn’t be able to once he could kiss Betty again. And he had to. His dad would probably drag him back to Frances in shackles if he refused to come back.
The thought of seeing Betty, holding her between his arms, kissing her, just to be back in Montauk and face what he had done was too much. He was a coward, he knew that. But that was the truth. The only way he could go back was to end things with Augustine first, but he was afraid that she might go batshit crazy and do something harsh and horrible that might jeopardize his relationship with Betty.
He clenched his fists as he took a left on Flamingo Avenue. He wouldn’t go back to Hartford. He hated himself so much for having made that stupid mistake and for not being able to fix it. He hated himself because now he truly was not worthy of the girl he’d been dreaming about all summer.
And he also hated himself because, no matter how shitty he felt, he knew deep down that he wasn’t going to be able to stop either.
“James.”
He startled and stopped in his tracks. He didn’t turn for a full second, but then she said his name again.
“James.”
She had pulled up to the curb and had rolled down the window to look at him. Her voice was no longer dangerous, and he could see her pretty lips pursed, the pink freckles on the skin of her chest disappearing down her cleavage.
“Get in,” she told him, but it sounded more like she was asking him to. “Let’s just drive,” Augustine said, shaking her head so that a few strands of her orange hair brushed against her shoulders.
He thought of how soft her skin was.
How warm.
He took a deep breath, bracing himself for his next horrible mistake.
He got in.

Chapter Text

meet me behind bridgehampton
Augustine blinked down at the text on her phone and then looked at the clock on the board behind the wheel. 12:15. James was late. And she was tired. She’d only managed to get a few hours of sleep because she’d arrived home late from the party Carter had dragged her to last night and Monica came over for breakfast pretty early in the morning. She must have been in one of those awful moods Augustine hated so much because she was talking and laughing so loud, it was hard to ignore. The girl wouldn’t have left her bed if not for the text James had sent her. And now, she could feel the start of a headache forming in her right temple.
She read the text again:
meet me behind bridgehampton
at noon bring some food
She wasn’t sure why the boy hadn’t just knocked on her door to get her to come out and she pretended for a few seconds, lying down on her bed, that she wasn’t going to comply, but, of course, she had.
Plus, she’d brought food. She was carrying two cups of coffee, half a dozen doughnuts, and two sandwiches. She was munching on one, reading the texts one of the girls from the party had sent her last night. An invitation to another party, next weekend, near Sag Harbor. And then a bunch of nearly unintelligible texts Augustine had sent herself from the other girl’s phone.
She was trying hard not to cringe at them when someone tapped on her window.
It was James, who was carrying a couple of ratty blankets, a notebook, and a bunch of other stuff inside a plastic bag.
“Hey,” he said, dropping the blankets on the backseat.
“Here,” Augustine handed him a coffee and then pushed the doughnuts onto his lap, before turning on the engine. “So, what are we doing?”
“D’you know any quiet beaches around? I’m not in the mood for crowds.”
“Duh,” Augustine started driving away from the mall. “I’ve lived here my whole life.”
James turned on the stereo and then started tapping his legs at the rhythm of the song, absent-mindedly.
“So, what were you up to last night?”
He shrugged, looking out the window.
“Just working on stuff. How was the party?”
“Fun. I drank too much.”
He laughed and took a bite from a doughnut. He was distracted, she could tell.
“Kissed a bunch of people. The guy hosting the party was hitting on me. I think I might have agreed to go on a date with him.”
James didn’t flinch. He didn’t even turn to look at her. He just laughed.
“You think?”
“I can’t remember much,” she answered, shrugging.
He laughed again and then switched radio stations.
Augustine tried not to let it bother her. She didn’t want him to be jealous, she just wanted him to care. At least pretend to care.
She’d practically run after him the weekend before, after he’d told her he’d been thinking about going back to Hartford. She knew she shouldn’t have. After he’d left the store, she stayed there, surrounded by a bunch of old stuff, trying not to panic, and failing. She should’ve known better than to follow him, than to be hurt by him.
After all, she knew, from the very start, that he had someone else, that someone else was waiting for him back home. She’d tried not to think about it but the situation hadn’t changed. She shouldn’t have been surprised.
And yet.
The pain she had felt as he left the store was unlike anything she’d ever experienced.
It was horrible. It felt like he’d taken something from her, something needed to be able to breathe. She felt something clawing inside her chest, some horrible need urging her to stop him, to do something, to not let him leave. Not yet. Not yet.
So, she’d followed him, almost blindly, through the streets of Montauk, her heart pulsing wildly inside her chest, that horrible monstrous need begging to keep him. She wasn’t sure what she would say or do to convince him not to go, all she knew was that she had to do something, that she had to find a way to make him stay, offer whatever she could: threaten, beg, do whatever she must.
She imagined herself, for a second, like a spider, trapping everyone around her inside her web, trying to force them to stay by her side.
She felt weak and stupid but she drove anyway, keeping an eye on him, trying to subdue that monstrosity within herself. Eventually, miraculously, she’d found him, walking slowly on Flamingo Avenue, his hands in his pockets, his backpack hanging lazily from his left shoulder.
She’d pulled up next to him, her wild beast of a heart trying to escape her, her whole body asking for him.
“James,” she’d said, nearly breathless from the urgency of him, “get in the car.”
She had had a whole speech prepared in case he refused, but James only looked at her for a second too long before he swung the door open and flung himself inside.
And that was that.
Neither of them had to say anything. They’d simply driven home together and when they got there, he followed her inside, to her room, where he’d stayed for the better part of the weekend, his arms and lips intertwined with hers, his perfidious words filling the need inside of her.
Augustine tried not to believe him. She tried to squash that foul glimmer of hope from taking root inside her chest, but she couldn’t help but wonder if maybe this meant something. He’d chosen to stay with her, after all.
Maybe the only reason he’d considered going back in the first place was because he felt guilty. She could understand that. There were times when her own guilt would keep her up at night. But guilt and love were different things. That much she knew. Going back because he felt guilty wasn’t the same as going back because he wanted to be with the other girl. And, in the end, he hadn’t gone back at all.
She parked on a deserted beach and then they found a place to lay out the blanket and the food. It was a near-perfect day, sunny and warm, with fluffy, white clouds in the sky. Augustine took off her sandals as they sat down, James taking off both his shoes and his shirt and sprawling his notebook in front of him. He’d told her, in the car, that he’d been trying to imagine what the waves would look like, crashing against the shore, seen from the bottom of the ocean, but he hadn’t been able to come up with anything, so he’d figured watching the waves from the shore might help him.
He sat with his legs wide open at either side of him, bending over his notebook, his curls dancing in the slight, warm breeze coming from the sea.
Augustine took a sip from her coffee, watching his back as he drew, his muscles flexing, shifting. The mole on his right shoulder blade, the individual bones of his spine moving as he leaned toward his notebook and then looked up at the sea. His skin had looked paler at the beginning of summer, but now, he looked a little tan, his arms slightly darker than the rest of him. Augustine wanted to touch him. She knew what it felt like to wrap her arms around his back, To hold onto it while he moved on top of her. How his muscles shifted underneath her fingers, what his skin felt like on her nails. She looked around; there was nobody but a lonely figure across the beach, and whoever it was, was not paying attention to them. She imagined, for a second, reaching out with her pen and writing her name on James’ back. She knew it’d wash out the next time he took a shower. It wouldn’t be permanent. But she wanted to leave a trace. To mark him as hers. Even if just for a day. Just for a moment. To create a monument to this thing they’d built together, this strange desire that at times was almost a need, a monster that was slowly consuming them both.
But she was afraid he wouldn’t like that. And, anyway, he was here, next to her as he sketched. Sharing his most intimate version of himself. Could anything be more sacred?
He was hers, at least at that moment, away from the rest of the world, in this little hideout. She promised herself they would come here more often, that she would show him everything here, the painful, ugly parts of herself, all her dreams, all her fears. This place would be theirs and when it was all over, she would come back here to remember him as he stood in that moment, his back beneath the sun, his naked pale feet buried in the sand, his curls dancing in the warm breeze coming from the sea.
She leaned forward and touched his back, tracing an A with the tip of her finger.
He didn’t move. He didn’t even turn around. She started tracing a U and then a G and then she heard him laugh.
“What are you doing?” he asked, turning halfway, his profile stark against the sun.
“Nothing,” she shook her head and continued on with another U. She started to trace an S when he turned around completely, amused, and caught her finger with his left hand.
“What are you doing, August?” he repeated.
Augustine shook her head and tried to free herself but he caught her whole hand and pulled her toward him.
“What are you doing?” he grabbed her left thigh and pushed her closer to him, which made Augustine fall on her back.
She started to laugh, loudly, shaking her head.
“What are you doing?” he kept asking her, forcefully, trapping her whole body in between his arms and his legs, like a cage.
He hovered on top of her, his hand traveling up her thigh. His left hand was pinning her to the ground and the curls on top of his head were hanging forward, tickling her.
She was breathless but kept on laughing.
Mine, she thought, you are mine. Because the way he was looking at her at that exact moment had to mean something. She knew it in her bones.
Augustine tried to kick him away. At least, she tried to pretend like she was kicking him away, but it was clearly a pathetic attempt. He leaned forward and started placing playful kisses on her face and her neck, furrowing his nose as he went. She kept shaking her head. Like she was trying to stop him. Like he’d believed her.
“I need to know if this is consensual or if I should call the police.”
Whoever was speaking sounded amused, not like he actually believed she was being attacked, but the effect on James was immediate.
He practically jumped back, away from her, startled.
“No,” Augustine shook her head at the boy standing next to them. She couldn’t see him properly because the sun was obscuring his features, but she could tell he was frowning. “I’m-”
“What are you doing here?” James spoke up before she could say anything else.
He was looking at the other boy with an alarmed expression on his face. Like he’d been caught doing something wrong. Augustine wanted to laugh. She could easily explain the situation away.
She opened her mouth to say something but the other boy interrupted her.
“Well, hello to you, too,” he sounded annoyed. “I thought you were busy and couldn’t meet today.”
The boy’s gaze shifted from her to James, who had his hands buried deep in his jeans pockets and wasn’t looking at Augustine.
“Oh, yeah, sorry, we were- just, hanging out.”
That’s when she finally understood what was happening.
“It’s, uh, Augustine this is Dan,” James said, watching as the other boy, Dan, took a step to the left.
“Hi,” she answered, awkwardly, getting up and brushing the sand off her shorts.
“She, uh, this is Augustine” James scratched his nose, nervous, his eyes fixed on his friend, who was very obviously ignoring whatever plea James was trying to communicate through his eyes. Instead, the boy was examining Augustine with interest.
She could see him better now. He was wearing a baby blue shirt with the sleeves rolled back, probably because of the heat. And he had on brown dress shoes. Not the kind people usually wore to the beach. He looked cute, even if a little uncomfortable in his outfit. He pushed his silky hair back, looking like he was trying hard not to laugh.
Nobody said anything for a full minute. James kept glancing at Dan, but the other boy was decidedly ignoring him.
“You’re, um,” James started. “I thought you were staying at the manor.”
Dan nodded and finally turned to look at his friend.
“My parents wanted to visit a quieter beach. And this is so much more private.”
James blushed. It was the first time Augustine had seen him like this. Like he’d lost his footing.
“Right,” he looked down at the sand.
“Why are you dressed like you’re running for Congress?” Augustine asked him, because James didn’t look like he was going to say anything anytime soon and she felt really awkward, standing next to the boys as they exchanged heavy glances.
Dan looked at her like he wasn’t sure she was speaking to him.
“My parents insisted,” he explained. “They’re really boring people.”
He kicked some sand with his right foot, watching as James put on his shirt and looked around for his socks.
“But we’re at the beach,” she said, looking at his shoes. He probably had sand in them, which must have made them really uncomfortable.
“Try telling them that,” Dan rubbed the back of his neck with his hand, annoyed. “Tried to convince them to let me stay in Hartford but they wouldn’t budge. Said it was a family trip or some crap.”
“So you’re also part of the ‘Terrible Parents’ club?” Augustine, asked, amused. When she’d first realized he was a friend of James’, she’d been a bit surprised. He didn’t look like what she’d imagined James’ friends to be like, probably because of the clothes. But this made sense.
Dan smiled, half-heartedly and shook his head.
“They’re just punishing me because I skipped prom to be with him,” he gestured toward James, who gave him a half smile, like he’d said a joke that wasn’t very funny. “And they’re highly suspicious of any dude I hang out with. I tried to tell them about Betty but I don’t think they believed me.”
Dan was looking at James like he expected an answer of sorts but the other boy was clearly avoiding his eyes, his entire attention focused on the sock he was putting on.
Augustine felt a sharp stab of pain in the stomach. She’d seen the name, Betty, on the screen on James’ phone the week before. She hadn’t made much of it, at the time, because she’d seen other names too, and they never meant anything. But now… She opened her mouth to say something, ask for more information about the subject, but James spoke up, frowning at Dan.
“We have to go,” he informed his friend, picking up his stuff clumsily. “I have to go back to help Frances with some stuff.”
It was an obvious lie, and by the look on Dan’s face, he knew it too.
“Right,” he said, frowning back at James. “But we’re hanging out later, right?”
“Yeah,” James was still avoiding everyone’s eyes. He started to pick up Augustine’s stuff, too, carelessly, since she hadn’t moved at all. “Yeah, I’ll call you.”
“I know what that means, dickhead,” the Asian boy frowned.
“Fine, yeah, I’ll pick you up around 7, okay? Get off my fucking back.”
Dan smiled. It was the first time he looked like he was happy to see James.
“I can’t wait to see my parents’ faces when they see who’s picking me up.”
James laughed at that and for a second they seemed to have reached an understatement.
“If you’re late I’ll break your nose again,” Dan promised, with a wicked look in his eyes.
James returned his smile, his eyes softening at the prospect.
“Frances will kill me,” and then he turned to Augustine, who still hadn’t moved. Her sandals were the only thing left on the sand, everything else bundled up in James’ arms. “C’mon,” he gave her that thumb-chin gesture she usually found so cute. “I’m gonna be late.”
She didn’t want to move. In fact, she wanted to stay there and ask Dan a million different questions. Most of them regarding the other girl, she really didn’t want to think of her name. A few about his promise to break James’ nose.
She turned to Dan, who still looked like he was about to start laughing. She imagined crossing her arms in her chest and sitting down on the sand, refusing to move. What could James do, anyway? She’d been the one to drive them there. He depended on her, completely.
But the boy was looking at her like she was hurting him, like he was in pain every second they spent standing together on that beach. And Dan was still watching her curiously. Like he was trying to make sense of something.
And then, a terrifying thought assaulted her. One of those thoughts she tended to repress whenever they popped into her head late at night.
Because Dan was looking at her like he was trying to understand why his friend would cheat on his girlfriend to be with someone like her.
That particular thought had only assaulted her once before and she had squashed it immediately. She didn’t care what the other girl looked like. She didn’t think of girls as if they were competition. She didn’t think of herself as not beautiful. And yet, it unraveled furiously in her mind now. She blinked. They were still watching her. They were expecting her to move.
She did.
She picked up her sandals.
“I’ll see you later,” James mumbled, toward Dan, who just nodded and watched as they walked away.
Neither of them said anything as they walked to the car. Augustine’s mind was like a furious shark, chasing some horrible truth.
She knew she shouldn’t be thinking these things. She hated this self-pitying version of herself. Because it didn’t matter who his girlfriend was or what she looked like or whether or not she’d ever dyed her hair orange. It didn’t matter if she wore proper lady clothes instead of outfits that screamed for attention (that’s what Monica had said about Augustine’s clothes anyway). It didn’t matter if she was the type of girl Frances would love, without all that “stuff” in her face.
It really didn’t. Augustine wasn’t the type to think fucked up shit about girls just because she felt threatened. She didn’t feel threatened by other girls, to begin with. She didn’t compare herself to others. And she wasn’t about to start doing it because of a boy.
And yet, as she climbed into the driver’s seat, she couldn’t suppress the image of a tall, skinny, white girl standing on a podium, being crowned prom queen —which didn’t make sense, of course, because James was still a junior. she had to be a junior too—, her pretty mouth twisted in dissatisfaction, pissed at James for whatever reason.
She tried to shake away the thought as she took a right on Seaside Avenue. She was spiraling down. She knew that. She should stop. Spiraling down was never a good idea. She could feel the self-loathing crawling up her throat and a flash of anger rising in her stomach. She was angry at herself for being this pathetic and she was furious at James, who wasn’t saying anything, either, He was probably thinking of the other girl, too. Augustine imagined her, sitting in the back seat. Watching them with contempt.
And, though she didn’t like to admit it, she felt hatred for the other girl, too. Because she had ruined what had been a beautiful day. Because she would always hover over them. Because he would go back to her, eventually, one way or another.
Because even now, she was taking him away from Augustine.
“Dan seemed cool,” the girl finally said, when they were only a few blocks away from her house.
“Yeah,” James was looking out the window, tapping his foot rhythmically against the door. “He is.”
“He’s a friend from Hartford, I take it.”
“Uh-huh.”
Augustine wanted to start screaming then. James looked angry at her, but he had no right. Even if his friend had found them together, which obviously displeased him, he had no one to blame but himself. No one had forced him into this situation. She obviously hadn’t. He should’ve been the one to leave that first night, after Augustine’s failed attempt to kiss him. He should’ve stopped it and he hadn’t.
And now, his friend knew, and if he went and whispered the truth in the girl’s ear, that would be James’ fault. As simple as that. He knew the consequences of what he was doing, so let him face them.
She wanted to say all of that. Be angry, lash out, bite and tear apart.
And then she remembered him telling her how everything was just so easy with her. And even though she felt angry at herself, she knew that she had to be the cool girl again, the one who didn’t like to get into unnecessary drama. She had to keep up the facade.
“You must be really happy to see him,” she said, as she parked in front of her house, because she couldn’t help herself.
“Yeah, real happy,” James said, taking a deep breath.
And that was that.

Chapter Text

The sky outside was clear and deep blue, tranquil. Unlike the party raging inside the house.
Augustine was surprised the neighbors hadn’t called the cops yet, since this was one of those wealthy neighborhoods where people liked to complain over the slightest disturbance. But most people in Sag Harbor had probably left for the summer.
She stood outside, watching the boy pacing back and forth on the lawn, his fingers typing frantically every now and again, watching the phone in his hands with urgency.
He’d been acting like that all night, distracted and aloof.
She’d tried not to let it bother her when he climbed into the passenger seat and didn’t say much other than hello. She’d tried to be okay with it.
But then they’d gone to pick up Carter, who seemed oblivious to James’ mood because he kept babbling on about Simon, who was supposed to be coming to the party too. Carter never demanded much from James, her best friend didn’t seem to like the other boy at all, but even he had noticed something was off, because he kept sending furious glances his way whenever Augustine said something to James and it took him a few seconds too long to answer, focused as he was on his phone.
Eventually, the girl got so annoyed, she didn’t really stop to consider what she would say before she asked:
“So, are you looking at porn or something? You can’t seem to put down your phone.”
James didn’t laugh, he didn’t even look away from it.
“What’s it to you?” he answered, after a few seconds, his voice coming out tired, like she had asked this question a million times before.
She ignored him after that, only focusing on Carter, who had clearly heard the interaction and would have probably said something mean in return had Augustine not intervened and asked him for further details about the development of his relationship with Simon.
Carter clearly knew what she was doing but he let it pass, telling her about his expectations for the night.
Augustine had hoped that once they arrived at the party, the booze and the weed and the music would be distracting enough to keep James off his phone.
Except it hadn’t worked.
Even before Carter had sauntered off to find June and Sebastian, James had asked a random girl at the party (smiling sheepishly like he found it hard to address a complete stranger) if there was a backyard. And as soon as she’d told him where, he disappeared through the back door, phone in hand, playing restlessly with the wisps of hair at the back of his head.
Augustine had told herself not to follow him and she hadn’t. At least not at first.
She tried to talk to Carter and his friends, she’d tried to laugh at their jokes, but she couldn’t help but glance through the door to the backyard every once in a while.
She’d known something was wrong long before this night. James had been acting weird all week, ever since they’d run into his friend that dreaded Sunday afternoon.
She figured he’d probably been hanging out with Dan, because he hadn’t texted or called her and he always left Frances’ shop earlier than usual.
She didn’t mind. Not exactly. But whenever she tried to ask him about his friend, James always played dumb.
He changed the subject or gave her noncommittal answers.
And that would be okay too, except he acted like he was mad at her.
And he had no right to be.
Okay, yeah, maybe he hadn’t wanted his friend to run into him while he was in the middle of making out with a girl who wasn’t his girlfriend. Maybe he was angry about that. Or afraid of what might happen afterward.
But that was his problem.
He hadn’t told her about Dan’s visit. Not that she’d have acted any differently at all.
But if he was going to hide things from her, he couldn’t exactly be angry at her when the things he did came back to bite him in the ass.
This was all his doing but he acted like she’d purposefully tricked him into going to that beach.
It was infuriating.
And yet.
Augustine couldn’t bring herself to say all this.
She felt like there was a version of herself, the Augustine she had been for the past three years, the funny, cool girl who didn’t give a fuck about anyone else’s feelings, trapped inside of another version, the 14-year-old Augustine that had wanted James to love her and stay by her side more than anything else in the world.
She pictured cool Augustine locked in a cell inside her chest, screaming her lungs out for the real Augustine to snap out of it.
She couldn’t.
She was angry and hurt and she was here. Now. Sitting on an old chair by the glass doors. Watching him as he texted someone frantically.
She wondered if maybe Dan had already told Betty about what he'd seen and now she was breaking up with James. He certainly looked distressed.
But she didn’t really believe it. He probably wouldn’t be at the party at all if his adoring girlfriend were breaking up with him.
But he had to be talking to her.
Maybe she was pissed about him doing something stupid and innocuous like not answering her texts within a few minutes.
Augustine clenched her fists and took a drag from the cigarette she was holding in her left hand. It was nearly consumed and she had only taken a few drags, focused as she was on the boy across the yard.
She felt something close to desperation clawing its way out of her chest.
She remembered the weekend before last, when James had spent nearly every waking minute by her side. She wished they could’ve stayed like that. Her face buried in the crook of his neck, arms around him, wearing his clothes, watching him breathe.
It was stupid. Pathetic, even, but she couldn’t help herself.
He hadn’t held her in his arms at all this week. Sure, he would kiss her, sometimes, when he was saying goodbye, and his eyes never failed to notice what she was wearing. But he hadn’t been the same.
Even when he was with her, it felt like he was far, far away. Back in Hartford.
Which only helped to make the need inside of her feel more urgent.
Because they didn’t have a lot of time left.
The summer was dwindling away and soon, he’d be gone, back to his white-picket-fence life and his white-picket-fence girlfriend.
And every time he touched her, every time he looked at her, Augustine felt like it could be the last time he ever did. She felt desperate. Like every kiss, every exhale of his lips could take her apart, completely, and she would never know how to put herself back together.
She shivered at the thought. She wasn’t wearing a jacket and she hadn’t expected to need one. But right at that moment, she wished she could pull a blanket on top of her, just to feel a little warmth.
Across from her, in the yard, James was kicking the trunk of a tree, frustrated.
Augustine didn’t move. She knew she couldn’t help him, even if she wanted to. She took another drag from the cigarette and then heard someone approaching her.
She figured it was Carter and was about to apologize for being such a drag, but then the boy spoke up.
“I always figured you’d be like, really fun at parties.”
It wasn’t Carter. It was Sebastian.
He hadn’t said much when they’d said hello, even if Augustine had tried to make up for forgetting his name by being extra friendly.
She figured he was still mad at her. He’d be right to, of course, but Augustine couldn’t really blame herself.
He did look completely different without his glasses or that god-awful green sweater he liked to wear. He even looked a little cute now.
“I am,” she said, turning away from him, back to James who had sat down on the grass. “Just not in the mood today.”
“Because of him?” he asked, a little forcefully; he was holding a beer in his right hand, and with his left, he pulled a chair closer so he could sit.
Augustine hated the implication in his words. That James had enough power over her to ruin her night. She hated that he was probably right.
“I’m just not in the mood,” she repeated, dryly.
She knew she was being rude. But she just didn’t want to go down that path. And Sebastian wasn’t even her friend. She didn’t owe him any explanations.
The boy hummed and took a sip of his beer, looking at the sky.
“Shouldn’t you be inside following June around like a puppy?” she asked, annoyed, and then immediately regretted it.
He hadn’t done anything to deserve her words. He was probably trying to be friendly and nice. He was friends with Carter, after all (for some unexplainable reason). She should probably try to breach the gap, too. For her best friend’s sake, at the very least.
But it was too late.
She’d said what she’d said.
She expected Sebastian to just turn around and leave, but he didn’t. He took another sip of his beer.
“I don’t think I do that. Follow her around like a puppy, I mean,” he mused, thoughtfully, rubbing his chin, like he was pondering her question. “She’s just my friend.”
For some reason, Augustine felt even more annoyed with his answer.
She focused on James, again, ignoring Sebastian, even though he was still sitting next to her.
“Who’s he talking to, anyway? It’s past midnight” the boy asked, after a few seconds of awkward silence.
Augustine had the sudden impulse to turn around and ask what his deal was, why he was trying to annoy her so much.
But she didn’t. Instead, she bit her tongue and said:
“His girlfriend, probably.”
“Oh, Jesus fuck,” Sebastian said, leaning back on his chair like he needed some space to take in the news.
Augustine laughed under her breath. She’d never heard him say a curse word before (not that they’d talked to each other much).
“Never expected to hear Ned Flanders taking the lord’s name in vain.”
She leaned forward and took his beer from him. Sebastian didn’t seem to mind. He didn’t even seem to notice. He smiled half-heartedly at Augustine’s joke, like he was only doing it to be polite.
The girl took a sip from his beer and then gave it back. Sebastian took it, looking toward James who had his head propped up against the wall around the garden and was closing his eyes.
“I’m- sorry, about the whole Ned Flanders thing,” she said, after a few seconds. Because she still owed him an apology. “It was just a private joke. It wasn’t meant to be, you know, rude or anything.”
Sebastian didn’t look at her; he took a sip from his bear and said, without a trace of humor in his voice.
“Could’ve fooled me.”
At that, Augustine couldn’t help but look down at the pack of cigarettes she was holding in her hands.
He was right, of course. Regardless of why she’d given him that name, she should apologize. And so far, she hadn’t offered a genuine apology.
“Yeah,” she said, taking out a cigarette and playing with it, embarrassed. “I really am sorry. I shouldn’t have called you that.”
Sebastian nodded and then turned to look at her, full on, like he was trying to figure something out.
“Okay,” he said. “I forgive you.”
He offered another sip of his beer to Augustine, who accepted it, thankful.
“I thought,” Sebastian said, after a few more minutes had passed in tranquil silence. “I thought you guys were,” he seemed to struggle to find the right words, looking at James “a thing.”
Augustine smiled despite herself at his clear uneasiness. She didn’t blame him if he judged her, either. Better he learned the truth about her now than later when they were already friends (which was probably inevitable since Carter seemed to be enamored with June).
“Yep,” she nodded, placing her elbows on her knees and leaning forward before lighting up another cigarette. “We’re a thing.”
“Oh,” Sebastian murmured.
Augustine ignored him. She expected this answer. And who could blame him, really? What she’d been doing wasn’t right.
And she couldn’t really explain (nor did she want to try) why she’d done it in the first place.
“But he has a girlfriend.” the way he phrased it sounded somewhere between a question and a statement.
“Yeah,” she repeated.
“Holy fuck,” he said again. Augustine suppressed a smile. “I’m sorry.”
At that, the girl couldn’t help but turn to look at him. He had a hand on the back of his head and his eyebrows were knitted comically together. She had the sudden image of a little dog growling and had to stop herself before she burst out laughing.
“Yeah,” Augustine hummed instead. “I’m sorry, too.”
About everything, she thought to herself, even though she still wasn’t sure what that everything entailed.
“Does she know?”
“Probably not.”
Sebastian hummed again before passing a hand through his face, like he was trying to shake off what he’d just learned.
“So, he’s a dick,” he said, so matter of factly that Augustine finally allowed herself to laugh.
It wasn’t a question but she nodded nonetheless.
“Pretty much,” she said, grabbing his beer and finishing it in a single drink.
Sebastian didn’t seem to notice; he was still watching James, who was now ripping grass from the ground so violently that if the house owner saw him, they’d probably kick him out at once.
“So, why are you with him? Is it just because he’s handsome?”
Augustine felt a fresh new wave of annoyance in her chest.
“What? Because I’m that shallow?”
Sebastian didn’t seem intimidated by the clear anger in her voice. He simply shook his head slowly, still frowning like he was trying to figure something out.
“No,” he said. “I just never imagined you’d be the type to let someone treat you like shit.”
Augustine didn’t know what to say to that.
Even though he didn’t know her, he was right.
Or he would’ve been right a few months ago.
Augustine wasn’t usually the type to let others treat her like crap.
She still wasn’t sure why she was okay with James doing it.
Except, of course, she wasn’t okay with it.
She just… wanted him.
And she’d known, from the beginning, that the only way she could have him would be like this. With his lovely girlfriend waiting for him back home. With his shitty mood shifts and his obnoxious love of pretentious films.
She still couldn’t bring herself to regret it, to want to stop.
Because he felt like hope. She could believe, next to him, that life could be good. That life could be endless and magnificent and colorful.
He was so colorful. Everything he did was so full of life. It was intoxicating. It was blinding. At first, she simply hadn’t been able to look away.
And now… she wasn’t so sure. It felt like a drug, sometimes. Like a drug that didn’t work as brightly anymore, but a drug she didn’t know how to give up.
And even though she knew it probably wasn’t good for her, that she was inadvertently hurting someone else, that she should probably stop, she still remembered the way she had felt only the week before. Like the want she felt in her whole body could be enough to damn her for eternity.
“I just…” she started, but then someone put a hand on her head, affectionately.
“Fuck, it’s so cold out here,” Carter said, shivering dramatically, appearing out of nowhere with a beer in his hands, which he placed on top of Augustine’s head. He seemed to notice James then, because he made a face full of disgust before stepping in front of Augustine, who had taken the beer, obscuring her vision.
“Came here to tell me what a bitch I am?” she asked, trying to sound like she was joking.
“I don’t need to tell you that. You already know it,” her best friend answered her, taking her chin in his hands, affectionately.
Augustine slapped his hand away at the exact moment that June reached them.
“What are you guys doing out here?” she asked, wrapping her arms around Sebastian and placing her chin on top of his head. She must’ve been tipsy because she was slurring her words a little and her smile was a bit loopy.
Sebastian took the beer she was holding and took a sip before answering.
“Talking,” he said, which Augustine was grateful for because they, as well as Carter, knew the real reason she was out here in the cold night, with nothing but the flimsy dress she was wearing.
June hummed for a bit too long before she spoke again, swaying with her arms around her friend.
“You know, we were thinking, we could hang out tomorrow if you guys are free.”
“Oh, yeah?”
Carter turned his back to James, like he didn’t want to think about the other boy anymore.
“I’ve been watching a lot of makeup tutorials lately and I’m pretty sure I could pull off a pretty good look for her show. We could do some test runs tomorrow,” he said, kicking the leg on Augustine’s chair lightly.
“What show?” the girl asked, turning to June.
“I do drag,” the other girl answered, smiling lazily. “I’m doing my first show in two weeks and I need like a good makeup look. Plus, a good wardrobe. Carter thinks you could help me with that.”
“You do drag?”
Augustine couldn’t help the tone of surprise in her voice, but the truth was, she’d never imagined June could be that cool. They hadn’t really talked much before, and a big part of that was because, from afar, the two friends looked like the biggest, most boring nerds in the class.
June shrugged like it was no big deal.
“I could bring some weed,” Sebastian offered, glancing upwards to make eye contact with her friend.
“Oh, I’m getting excited now,” Carter quipped, clapping his hands together, which Augustine always thought was a dead giveaway that he was gay. “We could smoke a joint, do our makeup, try on clothes, do like a little fashion show.”
“Get to know each other better,” June said, looking down at Sebastian and waggling her eyebrows.
The boy put a hand on her face and she laughed, slapping it away, unsuccessful.
“I’m in,” he said, looking at Carter, who smiled, happily. He turned to Augustine then, with a question in his eyes.
She opened her mouth to say that yes, she was in, even curious to see what things they’d come up together when another voice spoke, behind Carter.
“Uh, hey.”
Carter didn’t step aside, so James had to move to the right to look at Augustine. Nobody said anything for a moment. June was looking at Sebastian and her friend was looking down at the beer he was holding.
Carter hadn’t even turned around; he was obviously trying to pretend like the interruption had never happened.
“Um, could we go? I’m kinda tired.”
James sounded tired, too. His gaze was focused on Augustine, ignoring everyone else around.
“Dick,” she heard Sebastian say behind her, quietly enough that James wouldn’t be able to hear him. Or if he had, he pretended not to.
She didn’t say anything for a few seconds. Let him believe she wasn’t going to follow his every command. Plus, she was finally starting to have fun, and she wanted to stay. She wanted to ask June and Sebastian more questions about their unlikely friendship.
But then James tilted his head to the right, pointing his thumb lazily toward the street.
She stood up, put down the beer Carter had brought for her, and pushed the cigarettes back into her purse.
“Augustine,” Carter started but the girl shook off his grip.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said, instead, giving everyone a quick, apologetic look. Her best friend raised an eyebrow and she nodded. “I’ll be there.”

She could hear her high heels on the cobblestones as she made her way toward her house. They hadn’t said much on the drive back. James, thankfully, had stashed his phone away, in the pockets of his jeans, but he kept his eyes focused on the city blurring away outside his window. Augustine had wanted to say something, she wanted to ask what was wrong, what had kept him away all night long but she was also angry. Angrier than she’d been in a long time and she didn’t want to be the first one to speak. She couldn’t allow herself to be so weak. And he was probably upset about his girlfriend, anyway. He wasn’t about to open up to her about all the ways in which she made him miserable. So Augustine hadn’t said anything. And as soon as she parked, she’d walked away, not allowing a single glace to be directed at him. But as she approached the front steps leading to the porch, she thought that her high heels were too loud, like a clock ticking away. And then she thought of how the summer was dwindling away.
She felt the first tear run down her cheek just as he said her name.
“August.”
She stopped, clutching her keys in a solid fist and wiping her face frantically, forcing herself not to run back to him, not to throw her arms around his neck and ask his forgiveness. She had nothing to apologize for in the first place.
She turned around slowly, to find him standing by the cobblestones that led up to her house.
“I’m sorry,” he said, throwing his hands at his side, like he was admitting defeat. “I am a dick.”
So, he had heard Sebastian. Good.
“What was the emergency?” she asked, despite herself, but was glad to hear her words coming out clipped and short.
James looked confused for half a second and then he seemed to understand, throwing a glance at his front pocket.
“Nothing,” he said, pushing a hand through his hair. “My sister. She just needed to talk.”
That wasn’t the answer Augustine had been expecting. She relaxed her grip on the keys and let out a breath. She felt stupidly relieved.
“You are a dick,” she agreed and James laughed.
“I know,” he said, walking toward her, slowly. “I keep fucking up and I don’t know how to stop,” he admitted when he was close to her, only a couple of steps away.
She let out a derisive noise, unconvinced, and thinking that he looked beautiful under the moonlight. She hadn’t cut the hair behind his ears short enough so it curled around his earlobe.
“And I keep hurting you,” he said, his voice going down a few notches.
“Maybe I keep hurting myself,” Augustine gulped.
He shook his head, placing his left hand on her waist and pulling her to him, slowly and gently, so that she could refuse if she wanted to. She didn’t.
“Fuck, August,” he whispered. She could feel the muscles of his stomach against the fabric of her dress. She could feel his hands on her, sliding down her back, as he leaned forward and placed a kiss on the top of her left ear. “I wish I knew how to stop.”
And then he kissed her.

She could still feel him on her lips when she finally closed the door to her bedroom, gently, so as not to wake her dad. And, since she was finally alone, she took off her high heels and then crumpled down at the foot of her bed.
She wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol or his desperate, wanting kisses, or his words on her ear as he told her, again and again, how much he wanted her, that had left her feeling like this. Stranded. James kept asking her to meet him the next day, but she knew she’d made a promise to Carter and she couldn’t back down, now. She tried to convince James to meet later on the day or to go with her, but he only shook his head.
“I want you, just you, August,” he’d said, his thumb drawing slow, lazy circles on her hip.
She was stupid, she knew that, but she’d finally agreed.
And, as she laid down on her bed, she wondered just how much more she was willing to give.

“So, could you pick up some alcohol on the way?” Carter asked the next day, on the phone. Augustine could hear voices somewhere in the background and Carter kept humming in response to whatever was being said on his side.
Augustine sighed.
“Yeah, I don’t think I’m going to make it today. I just, uh, am kinda busy.”
There was a pause on the other side of the line and then Carter spoke again, his voice much clearer this time.
“Busy because you’re meeting James?” he asked.
Augustine closed her eyes. She’d known her best friend would ask questions.
“No, um, I just wanna be on my own.”
“Look,” Carter started, serious. “I’m not judging you, okay? I’ll never judge you. Just tell me the truth.”
The girl didn’t say anything for a full minute. She could feel the shame dripping down her arms, into her legs, into her whole body. She was ashamed and angry at herself for her weakness. For the hold James had on her, even now.
She wished she could’ve honestly given Carter a different answer, but her friend deserved the truth.
“He, uh, he said he wanted to see me. And, I just- I want to hang out with him as much as I can before the summer’s over. Because then he will be gone and-” she stopped herself before she could say the words out loud. I’ll still be here. You’ll still be here.
“Yeah,” Carter seemed to understand. He sighed. “Like I said, I’m not judging. Call me if you change your mind. I’ll be here.”
He hung up and Augustine turned to her reflection in the mirror. Her roots were starting to show. She would need to retouch them again. She would need to retouch the whole thing. She hadn’t meant to keep the color for so long. Her plan, all along, had been to dye it a rose gold color when the orange faded. That was before she’d met James, who loved her hair.
She would need to dye it again. It wasn’t as vibrant anymore. She wasn’t as vibrant anymore
She put on some music, opened her windows wide and laid down on the floor, with her phone close by, so she could pick up when he called.
He’d promised he would. He had to. Because they only had two more weeks together and then the summer would be over and James would go back home. And then, would he ever call? Would he ever think about her?
She didn’t want to obsess over it. She hated the needy version of herself she’d become but she just couldn’t bring herself to waste an opportunity to kiss him, to wrap her arms around him, to hear him whispering her name, telling her how beautiful she was as he crashed against her.
She only had two more weeks left and she needed to make the most of it. To have him while he was still hers.
She needed to be there when he called to tell her he was outside, so she could bring him to her room and keep him there as long as he would still be kept.
But three hours later, he still hadn’t called.
When Augustine dialed Carter’s number, she had a convincing lie prepared: Frances wasn’t feeling well, so James had to stay and take care of her. Her friend wouldn’t ask questions. But when Carter answered, and all he said was, “I’m still here,” the tears Augustine hadn’t let herself shed over the past few days came out in silent tides.

Chapter Text

When Augustine pushed the front door opened, she noticed something was different. The house was too quiet. She supposed that was because ever since they’d started packing up Frances’ home, the noise bounced through the walls with more ease. And the lack of noise always felt more eerie.
“In here!” she heard Frances cry out when she slammed the door shut.
Augustine made her way into the kitchen, feeling something warm flood her chest at the prospect of seeing James again. Because even though he had acted like a complete asshole during the party at Sag Harbor, he’d gone back to normal the last time she’d seen him. He’d been sweet again. It was like the last few weeks had never happened and she finally got the version of James that she’d met that first night they’d spent together in bed.
And even though she knew better than to trust him, she felt herself hoping, foolishly, that it could last just for a bit longer, until he left, at the very least.
She pushed open the kitchen door and then froze when she saw Frances wrapping porcelain cups carefully before placing them inside a small box.
The old woman turned to look at her, smiling gently.
And Augustine felt something cold trickle down her chest.
Because she’d never seen Frances pack anything before. She mostly just told them what to do while she worked on the inventory.
“Oh, I’m so glad you’re here,” she said, throwing her hands up, clearly delighted. “I’ve been packing up cups all morning and my fingers can’t take it anymore. It’s a miracle I haven’t broken any of them.”
Augustine opened her mouth to say something and then closed it again, unsure of what she should be asking.
“Oh,” Frances seemed to notice the three cups of coffee she was carrying and her smile fell off. “Oh,” she said again. “He didn’t tell you.”
It wasn’t a question.
Augustine shook her head slowly, waiting for Frances to utter the terrible words.
“James left yesterday,” the old woman informed her, quietly, like she regretted having to say the words out loud.
Oh, Augustine thought, and was surprised to find that her chest hadn’t opened up in two, that she was still whole and standing and that the pain hadn’t swallowed her whole.
She tried to say something in return because Frances was looking at her, expectantly, but nothing came. Her mind was blank.
Finally, Frances took a step forward and grabbed a cup of coffee.
“But thank you for the gesture,” she said gently, like she knew she needed to be careful. “I’m sure he’ll appreciate it.”
Augustine wanted to ask what had happened, when had it happened and most of all, why. But she didn’t.
“What should I do?” she asked instead.
And that was that.
Frances must have known something was breaking inside of her, because she told her what to do and then left to do her own chores.
Augustine would’ve almost preferred it if she’d stayed because she needed a distraction, something to quiet down the storm that was beginning to brew inside her head. So she put on her headphones and focused on her work. Which nearly worked, but every now and then, her treacherous brain would play back her memories in flashes.
James getting into her car, telling her to drive them to Ditch Plains, his long legs bouncing excitedly to the rhythm of the music.
She forced herself to focus on the task at hand, to keep the memories at bay, because as intoxicating as they were, she also felt an anguishing pain at the thought of not being able to inhabit her memories, to go back to that lovely Friday afternoon, when James had wrapped both arms around her waist and pulled her into the ocean.
Eventually, Augustine couldn’t take it any longer. She figured Frances would cut her some slack given what had just happened and when she apologized and told her she had to go home because she was getting a horrible headache, the old woman didn’t stop her. She simply gave her a weak smile and told her she’d be seeing her the next day.
Augustine had always loved how easy and convenient it was to live next door to Frances. She only had to walk out the door to meet James but as she walked home, she wished she could keep walking for hours, alone in her head with the memory of him grabbing a strand of her hair as they stood in the sand at Ditch Plains and wrapping it around his fingers.
“Your hair is going blonde again,” he’d said, simply, and before she could answer, he’d wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her into the ocean, laughing maniacally as she kicked her legs, trying to stop him.
“What are you doing?” she’d demanded, failing miserably at suppressing her smile. “No! My heels are going to soak!”
But James had only reached down to take them off and continued on in his merry way. Augustine never stopped protesting, even if her attempts to free herself were feeble and they both knew she was enjoying it.
He took them deeper and deeper into the sea, until the waves were crashing against her chest.
He stopped and pulled her to him, so she wrapped her legs around his waist and they stood like that for a few long seconds, just looking at each other as the waves hit them gently again and again.
“August,” he’d said, his right hand cupping her face and his forehead bumping into hers. “I wish I knew how to stop.”
And then he’d kissed her and it had felt like that first time, like he was trying to take something from her.
And Augustine let him. She moved against him like she knew how to move. Like her body was attuned to his.
After a while, he’d pushed her away, breathless, eyes heavy.
“It is too much, August,” he’d said, pushing his forehead against hers.
And Augustine had looked directly into his eyes.
Those eyes that were the color of the sea on a very sunny day. So green they were almost yellow.
And she hated that she couldn’t get any closer to him. She wished she could make their flesh disappear, erase all of the barriers between them. Vanish inside his eyelashes, in the flutter of his eyes.
“James,” she’d whispered and he closed his eyes. She didn’t know how to continue her sentence. Say the words she’d been wanting to say since the first time he’d called her beautiful.
“Too much,” he said again, shaking his head slowly against hers.
“James,” she’d repeated, opening her eyes wider, hoping he could read her thoughts clearly.
He pushed his nose into the crook of her neck and kissed her throat, with such fierceness that she imagined the imprint of his lips seared into her skin for the rest of eternity.
“I’m going to miss you, August.”
And Augustine had almost started crying. Almost. She would never actually let him see the effect he had on her. No way. It was the one promise she’d made to herself and she was going to keep it.
But she felt like crying.
Because, for a second, she believed his words wholeheartedly.
For a second, she imagined him calling her on the weekends, hearing him laugh and say her name on the phone, quietly, like he always did when he had her wrapped in his arms, when he was closing his eyes and breathing hard and fast and all she could feel was him.
For a second, she imagined what he was saying was that he didn’t want the summer to end. That he wanted it to go on forever.
But, of course, she’d been wrong.
She hadn’t known it then but she knew it now. He was saying goodbye.
Maybe if she’d known then, she wouldn’t have been able to enjoy the moments spent together after they crawled out of the ocean and James slumped onto the sand, taking out his phone from his pocket, which was completely wet and totally useless. Augustine hadn’t been able to stop laughing at his recklessness, but James seemed unbothered.
“The screen was shit anyway,” was all he said, shrugging, before he pulled her to him and kissed her hair. “I like you blonde,” he remarked, his words sending shivers down her body as he spoke and his lips caressed her skin. ”
Augustine closed her eyes and breathed him in, the ocean salt in his skin, the familiar scent of cigarettes in his clothes.
“You’re too much,” she told him, mirroring his words.
“Too much, August,” he agreed, placing little kisses all over her face. “It’s breaking my heart.”
Augustine pushed open the door to her house, feeling the tears pressing on her eyelids. She forced herself to take a deep breath and be calm. She would break down, she knew that, but she needed to reach her bedroom first. She needed to be alone.
She stumbled up the stairs, focused on her breathing. When she took a turn, she found that Monica and her dad were standing just outside the studio. Benjamin was holding something and they were both examining it with interest. She walked right past them, heading straight into her bedroom, without saying anything, which would probably get her into trouble, but she was in too much pain to care.
“Carter stopped by. With some other boy, can’t remember his name. They were looking for you,” Monica said, distracted, looking at her as the girl brushed past them. “Said they’d call later.”
“Okay,” Augustine mumbled and she must’ve looked worse than she thought because Monica’s expression changed and Benjamin looked up at her.
He frowned.
“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice just as rough and bored as usual.
“What’s it to you?”
Augustine hadn’t meant to snap. She didn’t, usually, no matter how much his father got on her nerves.
Benjamin blinked, once, took a long look at her and then passed a hand through his face. Monica, miraculously, didn’t intervene to snap at her. The woman was watching Augustine like she was making sure that she didn’t have a fever.
The girl ignored them; she opened the door to her room and was about to close it behind her when she heard her father say, in a voice that was uncharacteristically restrained.
“You’ll be fine, Augustine. You always are.”
The girl made a noise that was supposed to be a dismissive scoff but sounded more like a small cry. She was about to burst into tears, but she couldn’t do it yet, not with the two of them looking at her, so she began to close the door to her room, but, before she could, Monica took a step forward, toward her, and said:
“Pain always feels like death, you know? But it never is.”
The woman’s eyes had gone soft with worry and some horrid tenderness Augustine had never allowed her to show.
“I know you can take care of yourself,” Monica continued, looking at her through the door. “And I know you’ve survived worst. Remember that.”
And then she allowed Augustine to slam the door in her face without saying anything else.
The girl didn’t care if she was being rude. She didn’t care if Monica was trying to help.
She could feel herself coming apart at the seams. She could feel other absences, older absences, inside her chest, close to her heart. She could feel herself emptying.
The memories were playing inside her head like a damaged film, fragmented and twisted with pain. It had all gone so fast. He had gone so fast.
And, perhaps, if she’d been smarter, if she’d done things differently, she wouldn’t be here. Perhaps things would’ve gone another route. Perhaps he wouldn’t have left at all.
It didn’t matter.
He was gone.
And she couldn’t even bring herself to regret any of the decisions she’d made next to him. She’d made them hoping for a future, hoping for him.
She’d been foolish, she knew that.
He had never been hers to lose.
But there had been a few blissful moments when she was almost sure, despite what she knew to be true, that he was hers in a way he would never be anyone else’s. When she was sure he would keep all those promises he’d made her once, all those years ago. She knew he’d have to go back to Hartford, eventually, but she’d believed, when they were together in bed and whispering secrets to each other that they wouldn’t have confided in anyone else, that he would call her, that he would drive for four hours just to see her again during the weekends, just to hold her in his arms.
She’d been foolish. He had never said anything of the sort to her. She had just hoped. She had lived for the hope that perhaps he also felt that strange, powerful emotion inside of him. That maybe, he, too, felt love.
She’d been stupid.
And now, he was gone.
And she was still here, broken-hearted, clutching her hands to her chest to keep herself from dissolving.
She wondered if the memories were worth the pain, if all those wonderful moments were worth these many tears. She wished she could’ve said no.
But she knew it was all worth it. He was worth it.
Even if she never saw him again, she would always remember this summer, she would always know how the skin of his back felt on her fingers, the way his lips were always a little cracked in the edges, the shape of the scar he had on the center of his stomach, on top of his belly button, from the time he’d fell on the bike trying to outrun the neighbor’s dog.
She laughed as she remembered him telling her that story, hiccuping in between the tears.
And then she cried even harder.
He was gone. Gone for real. Gone forever.
And she was still there.
And she would never, ever, forget him.

Chapter Text

The worst thing that I ever did
Was what I did to you

Chapter Text

When James opened his eyes, the light coming in through the window nearly blinded him. He blinked a few times, taking in his surroundings. He felt like he was waking up from a long, tiring nightmare, and the sight of the Princess Mononoke poster he had taped on the wall directly in front of him gave him a warm welcome.
Someone knocked gently on his door and he pushed himself up on his elbows, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand.
“Come in,” he said, knowing that it could only be Hannah, since his parents didn’t usually do him the courtesy of knocking before storming inside his room.
“Mom says you have to wake up. It’s nearly noon,” his sister said, closing the door behind her and going to sit on the edge of his bed.
James looked at her with a smile on his face. She was wearing overalls covered in pins she had made herself and had gathered her hair (which had grown a little longer over the summer) in a messy ponytail. Even though they had spoken to each other on the phone quite a few times while he was away, he had missed her so much that seeing her again made him feel calm and safe.
“She made pancakes,” Hannah informed him, curling her legs underneath her.
James’ stomach growled in response and his sister laughed. He had been too tired to realize that he was actually starving. Even though his mom had offered him some food after he’d arrived home the night before, he had declined, knowing his dad was already pissed about having to pick him up so late at night, especially given that James had returned home a week earlier than expected and he’d had to rely on Frances to make sure that his father knew when to pick him up since his phone had completely stopped working after getting soaked in ocean water. Samuel would be outraged if, on top of all that, his son requested that his mom cook him a meal, so James had gone to his room, instead, after letting his parents know that he needed a new phone (which had probably only enraged his father further).
“Great,” James said, sitting up on his bed.
“You cut your hair,” Hannah, who had been sleeping when he’d arrived, was looking at him with a frown.
“Oh, yeah,” he answered, absent-mindedly, passing a hand through his face.
“Also,” Hannah said, showing him the square package she was holding, “Dad brought you a new phone.”
“Oh, cool,” James took it, and opened it as his stomach growled again.
“How was Montauk?” his sister asked, watching as he unwrapped the phone and turned it on, before going to charge it.
“Um, you know, warm, boring, same as always,” James answered, not looking at his sister and hoping she wouldn’t ask any further questions.
“Did you have fun with grandma?”
“Sure, if you could call it that. Did you learn how to play that song for your recital yet?” he asked, hoping to change the subject. Hannah had been very nervous about playing the violin in front of an audience and messing up in front of everyone, so she’d been practicing almost daily, to make sure that she knew the notes by heart.
“Almost,” she answered. “But my teacher says I have to feel the notes, not just learn them,” she shrugged, looking down at the drawings James had inked on her sneakers the summer before.
“You feel the notes,” James assured her, watching her expression with concern. Hannah was always too hard on herself. “That’s why you play so beautifully.”
“Sometimes you speak like an old man,” his sister laughed.
“I am an old man. Compared to you anyway. Soon I’ll be going off to college and everything.”
“You’re barely three years older than me. That’s nothing,” Hannah laughed, playing with her shoelaces.
“In dog years, that’s like twenty years,” he answered, looking down at his new phone to make sure it was working properly.
“But you’re not a dog,” she rolled her eyes at him in a gesture that made James’ stomach twitch, because it reminded him of Betty. As if Hannah was able to read his mind, she asked, playfully: “Are you going to see your girlfriend today?”
James nodded, going to his closet, trying to decide what to wear.
“I can’t wait to meet her.”
“You’ll really like her,” he answered, choosing an old shirt that Betty had once complimented from the pile of clothes he hadn’t had time to organize yet. “But not today. I really want her all for myself today.”
“Gross,” Hannah said, standing up and shuddering dramatically. “You should hurry, before I eat all the pancakes left,” she continued, turning his back on the boy.
“Hey!” James called after her, as she walked out of his room. “Didn’t you hear I’m starving?”
If Hannah said something in return, he couldn’t hear it. He knew she wasn’t going to eat everything, so, after taking a look in the mirror and seeing what a mess his hair was, he decided he would take a shower before going downstairs.
His stomach growled again as he went into the bathroom; he could smell the pancakes along with something else, probably bacon.
He smiled to himself, feeling suddenly elated.
He was back. He was finally back. And, okay, his dad might not be pleased, but Hannah was clearly happy to have him back and he would get to see Betty again. The thought nearly had him laughing with happiness.
He was back.
He had woken up from the nightmare and his life was still waiting for him. Nothing had changed. Betty had forgiven him; they were still together. They had all the time in the world to be together now. He had so many plans for them. A few of these even included doing homework. Which, he knew, probably sounded lame. Dan would probably laugh if James ever told him about his plans for the future.
On the train back, he had decided that he would finally start trying this year. He was going to apply to NYU so he could move to New York with Betty when they went off to college.
And he was going to make sure that he would get in. He would do all his homework. He would do more homework if it meant earning some extra credit. He would even volunteer to do something lame and probably unnecessary, just to prove to everyone that he was the person Betty believed him to be. He was going to prove to his parents and to her friends that he was someone worthy of her.
All of his past, stupid mistakes would be erased. Were already being erased.
He had made sure they wouldn’t follow him here. He had asked Dan not to tell anyone about what he had witnessed during his visit in Montauk and his friend had assured him he wouldn’t say anything.
He had gone into the ocean knowing that his phone was still in his pocket, that it wouldn’t work when he returned to Hartford, and that all evidence of his mistakes would be erased with it.
He was back and he was free, and he felt hopeful, once again.
Even that stupid, ever-present hollow pit on his stomach, the one he had felt for the first time laying naked in bed, seemed to have disappeared.
Things will be okay, he told himself, as he put on his clothes.
He walked to the mirror to look at himself. He hated this new haircut. He wished he hadn’t agreed to it, but it was too late now. He passed a hand through his curls but they flopped on top of his head once again, shapeless. He was going to have to borrow a blow dryer from one of his friends. The boys might make fun of him but he knew Tatiana wouldn’t judge him.
He wondered if Betty would notice any difference, if she would ask any questions. He felt the pit returning and he swallowed once. It would be okay. There was no way she would be able to tell anything from a haircut alone.
He heard his new phone pinging, as he tried once more (unsuccessfully) to force his hair to look decent.
He took a deep breath.
Everything would be okay. He knew that. He had to believe it.
He wondered what Betty was up to. He hoped she was home so he could surprise her there. He tried to imagine her face when she saw him again after all those weeks, but then decided there was no point in daydreaming because the real thing would be a thousand times better and it wouldn’t be too long before he finally got to see her again.
His phone was pinging madly.
He took a deep breath and looked at it for a second. Which was stupid. It was probably just one of his friends. It wouldn’t be her.
That wasn’t the deal they’d made.
Maybe it was Betty. Telling him about the latest book she had read.
The phone pinged again and James decided he was being paranoid. Everything was fine.
He unlocked his phone to find that he had a lot of new texts.
He let out a breath of relief when he saw they were from his friends.
And then he opened Dan’s and felt like someone had taken out all of his insides, including his heart.
dude im so sorry, it sad, i only told lil and she swore she wuldnt tell anyone. i didnt tink it would be this bad.
The pit at the bottom of his stomach was back. James felt like some horrible void had opened in his chest at the possibility that his worst, most stupid mistake was out. He was no longer hungry. He felt empty.
He scrolled frantically through the rest of the texts.
Lily was also apologizing: James I’m so sorry! I told Tatiana because I figured it was okay if our friends knew. I’m so so sorry!
Maya was furious: Please tell me u ddnt do it or ur even more an asshole than I thought.
Daniel was surprised: hey! you okay? maya said theres this rumor going around and its bad. call me.
Tatiana’s was probably the icing on the cake: Dude I know your probably pissed right now but I just wanna say I didnt think it was true until Dan said nobody was supposed to know. I didnt think you were capable of something like that but I guess I didnt know you that well.
The pit in his stomach was now consuming everything inside of him.
He scrolled down but there were no more texts.
Maybe that meant the rumor hadn’t reached Betty yet.
He called her at once. He wasn’t going to wait for her to hear of his horrible mistake. He needed to explain, he needed to reach her before someone else did.
But the phone only rang three times before it went to voicemail.
He called again, desperate to talk to her, to hear her voice. This time, the phone only rang once before he heard the automatic voice.
He hung up and called her again, immediately, his fingers shaking from dread.
When the call went straight to voicemail, he felt himself disappear.
He dropped his phone and slumped on his bed.
She knew.
That was the only possible explanation.
She knew and she probably hated him.
And he knew she’d be right to.
He hated himself at that moment. He’d done something horrible and stupid. He’d made a stupid mistake. And for what? He didn’t have feelings for anyone other than Betty. He didn’t want anyone else. He’d only done what he’d done because he thought he had lost her.
And now, he had. Lost her. For good.
Because there was no way she would forgive him. Who would?
But he had to try. He had to explain to her that it hadn’t meant anything. That he’d only done it to make Augustine happy, because she was so miserable and he felt bad and she wanted him to kiss her.
But it hadn’t meant anything.
It only ever made him feel like shit, all that time they had spent together.
Even then, all he ever thought about was Betty.
“Fuck,” he croaked, when the hole had sucked out all the happiness he had felt only a few minutes before. And then he started to cry.
He felt weak and stupid and he hated himself.
He had made the worst mistake of his entire life. And he had hurt Betty.
He’d done some other fucked up things in the past, but he wanted to believe that that version of himself was long buried in the past. That he would never hurt the girl he was in love with.
But he had.
He hated himself.
And he hated Augustine, more than anything.
Because if she hadn’t flirted with him, if she hadn’t been so fucking sad all the time, so fucking needy, then he wouldn’t have done it.
If he hadn’t met her nothing would have happened.
There was a part of him, the reasonable part that always advised him to think things through before he acted on them, that told him he was being unfair. It hadn’t been Augustine’s fault.
But he felt a savage need to hate her. He didn’t care if it was fair.
He didn’t even fucking like her all that much.
He just felt guilty to have forgotten all about her and he wanted to have fun.
And, by the end, it hadn’t even been fun. Augustine needed too much of him. The only reason he kept going back was because he was afraid she would go fucking crazy and find a way to contact Betty and tell her everything.
He almost laughed at the irony.
And then he started to cry even harder.
He’d fucked up. It didn’t matter whose fault it was, he had done what he had done and now he had lost Betty.
He knew that.
He thought of the book of drawings he’d been working on for months now, to give her on her birthday and then cried harder.
He was so stupid, so irresponsible, so lazy, such a fucking loser.
He would never be worthy of her now, no matter what he did.

Chapter Text

“Okay, that’s enough. You have to talk to me. You have to tell me what’s wrong.”
I turn to look at Lore, standing at the kitchen door. She has her arms crossed over her chest and is looking at me with a frown.
“Nothing’s wrong,” I manage to choke out, looking down at the cereal bowl in front of me. It’s gone soggy and I still haven’t had a single bite. I feel the tears I’ve been shedding all week coming back in slow waves. I shake my head and take a spoonful of milk.
“Betty,” Lore sits next to me and puts a hand on my arm. “Corazón, I’m worried about you. I can hear you crying all night and you haven’t been eating much. Por favor, dime qué te pasa.”
I blink down, at the spoon inside the cereal bowl. I don’t know how to explain what’s wrong.
I knew she would notice, eventually. I haven’t been able to stop myself from tearing up at the slightest possible trigger. I feel pathetic. I am pathetic. But I can’t stop my body from convulsing in tears whenever I think about him. Whenever I think about what Inez said last week.
We were hiding inside a bathroom stall, at Westfarms. Ela and I. She had spilled some chocolate ice cream on her perfectly white blouse after trying to force me to taste it and, because she was supposed to be meeting her mom later that afternoon, I agreed to swap her stained blouse for the yellow shirt I was wearing.
I wouldn’t have, had it been any other occasion (serve her right for insisting I should give chocolate ice cream another try despite my known hatred of it), but I know how difficult her mom can be when Ela isn’t up to her standards (and she almost never is, because her mom can always find a flaw with everything).
So we went to the bathroom, to swap our shirts, and, just as Ela finished complaining about how girly my clothes were for her taste, we heard the door to the bathroom close, and two people entered, chatting excitedly.
“I didn’t know they were going out,” a girl was saying. I didn’t recognize the voice.
“Oh, yeah,” that was Inez (I would recognize her voice everywhere). “For like a while now. Tatiana told me.”
“Wait, so, how do you know he’s cheating on her?”
Ela raised her eyebrows at me, amused, as she worked on the last button. She likes to pretend she finds gossip inconsequential but she loves to make fun of other people’s drama.
“Well, what I heard is that Dan went to visit him during the summer —he’s like staying with his grandma, or something—, and he was hooking up with this other girl, who was like very hot. Had like red hair or something.”
For a second, I didn’t know what to do. I stayed still, watching as Ela’s eyes widened with horror and understanding. I felt something starting to pierce my lungs and my heart but I kept listening, because there was a voice, somewhere deep inside of me, that kept wondering if maybe there was a chance that I had misunderstood. Maybe they were talking about someone else.
But then the first girl scoffed. I recognized her voice then, Luna, a year below me.
“Well, I’m not surprised, to be honest. I mean, everyone knows James Wolfe’s like super flirty. It’s like his thing.”
“I know,” Inez’s voice came out gentle, even a little sad. “But cheating is such a dickhead move. And Betty’s so nice, you know?”
“Yeah,” Luna agreed, thoughtfully. Someone had opened a faucet because we could hear the water running. “You know, I thought she was dating that other kid who’s always around her. Andrew Something?”
“Oh, yeah,” the water stopped then. “Me too. They look cute together. And I’m sure he would’ve never done something like that.”
Luna laughed under her breath, disdainful.
“James’ such a dipshit,” a pause. “Are you going to tell her?”
“Who? Betty?” Luna must have nodded because Inez kept talking. “I don’t know. Maybe. It’s like none of my business but if it was my boyfriend hooking up with another girl, I’d like to know. I might mention it to Sydney. She’ll know what to do.”
Luna said something I didn’t understand, because someone was drying their hands on the machine.
“Ela will go batshit crazy,” Inez answered, as they walked out. “What if she beats the shit out of him or something? I mean, I’m not…”
The door closed behind them and I couldn’t hear anything else. But my best friend was frowning.
“Ela is absolutely going to go batshit crazy,” she said. And then, “Are you okay?”
I didn’t know what to do. What to answer. I felt like someone had dropped a bucket of cold water straight into my chest. I walked out of the bathroom without saying anything. All I could register was Ela walking behind me, muttering “shit, shit, shit,” under her breath.
But how do I explain this to Lore, who doesn’t even know about him?
“I…” I start, but I can feel the knot in my throat tighten and I worry the pain of saying the words out loud will prove to be too much. I shake my head. “It’s nothing.”
“Betty,” Lore speaks softly, leaning forward and taking one of my hands in hers. “I know something’s going on. Ela’s been hovering around all week, acting extra cheerful. ¿Qué te pasa, corazón? Is it Dad?”
I shake my head furiously.
“I don’t care about that,” I lie, but it comes out easy enough. Right now, Oliver’s the least of my pains.
“Is it-” she hesitates. “Is it James?”
I turn to look at her with surprise. For a moment, all I can do is stare at her, aghast.
“How- How do you know about that?”
I’m so shocked, that I don’t even register the pain of hearing his name.
“Well, I’m not blind, corazón. He was always coming around during the weekends. You guys couldn’t possibly have that much homework.”
“We had a lot of homework,” I protest and she starts laughing, gently.
And then, just like that, I start sobbing again. I bend in half and bury my face in my hands.
“Oh, honey,” she says, wrapping her arms around me and pulling me closer to her chest. “Ay, corazón. ¿Qué pasó, mi amor?”
I don’t know how to explain it to her. I don’t even know exactly what happened. All I know is that it felt like everything I ever knew about him, about love, was a lie. Like everything he said in those phone calls during the summer was a lie. He didn’t even write to me that day. And then he wouldn’t stop calling. And texting. I couldn’t even read his texts. He was apologizing, I think. But I didn’t care. I told him to please leave me alone. I told him I didn’t want to talk to him. And he stopped. And that almost broke my heart all over again. Until I heard him knocking on my window one night. I didn’t know what to do. I knew that if I saw his face, if I opened the window to let him in, I would die from the pain. I could feel it. So I came downstairs and called Ela and then she must’ve said something to him because he didn’t come back after that.
I’ve felt like a zombie, ever since. Like I’m just walking around. Dead inside. Bumping into things and trying to feed my soul with something. Books. Music. My friends. Even movies sometimes. But they just make me weep.
“Did he break up with you?”
I shake my head.
“I-I just feel so stupid,” I hiccup.
“What happened?”
“I- He- He was with another girl. During the summer.”
“Oh, no,” I hear her whispering against my hair. “I’m so sorry, corazón. I’m so sorry.”
“I-” the thought I’ve been keeping at bay suddenly comes stumbling out of my mouth, like a fresh new stab of pain. “I don’t know what I did wrong.”
“No, no, corazón, you did nothing wrong,” Lore starts caressing my hair. “This isn’t your fault.”
“I don’t know why I wasn’t enough.”
“Betty,” Lore takes me by the arms and pushes me away, so I can look at her. “This has nothing to do with you, mi amor,” she says, serious, looking into my eyes. “Okay? People are mean and stupid, sometimes. And they do shitty things. But that has nothing to do with you or your worth. It isn’t your fault.”
I nod. And then laugh at her cursing. (Sometimes, I forget Lore isn’t like other moms). And then I start to cry, again. Because I know she’s probably right. But I’m still not sure I believe her. I still think I failed, somehow.
“You don’t deserve this,” she says, like she was reading my mind. “No one deserves it. And there’s nothing you could’ve done to foresee it or to prevent it. Okay? You didn’t fail.”
I nod, unconvinced. I want to go to my room and cry alone again. But Lore isn’t done. Her mouth has gone in a hard line.
“And you have to eat, okay? There’s no point in starving yourself over a boy.”
“I’m not- That’s not what I’m doing.” I shake my head, confused. “I’m just not very hungry.”
She’s still looking at me.
“I know,” she says. “That happens to me when I’m sad, too. But it isn’t good for you. It won’t do you any good.”
I nod, again, and she stands up.
“I’m ordering pizza. Or sushi. Or Chinese. Whichever you prefer. Or I can cook something.”
I shake my head. I know she’s not going to relent.
“Pizza sounds good.”
She nods and walks away and I watch her from my place, still in the kitchen.
I can still feel my heartbreak raw and new. A fresh wound opening with every heartbeat. But there’s that familiar warm blanket over me that I always feel when Lore is taking care of me. Like I’m safe.
I won’t die from this. I know it. Even if it feels like it sometimes. I just wish I didn’t have to feel it.
Because, up until a week ago, I was fine. I was happy. I was having a fun summer with my friends. I was looking forward to the moment I could finally see my boyfriend again. I was writing every day. I was studying for the SATs. I was reading at Bushnell Park and taking pictures of stuff I found interesting.
And I was thinking about him. Every single day. Missing him like he’d taken a part of me. Like I was missing myself.
I was ready to believe that our love could last. That we could move to New York together for college and build a life together, as foolish and as childish as that might seem.
And, now, it’s all gone.
And I didn’t do anything wrong.
How could I? Sure, we got into that stupid fight at prom but I apologized. And I trusted him. When he told me his summer was boring and he couldn’t wait to be back, I didn’t question it. I believed him completely.
I did nothing wrong.
I know Lore’s right even if late at night, I wonder if anything would have changed if we’d gone to prom together. If I hadn’t been so stubborn.
But Bitchy B won’t let me believe it. She’s furious. I don’t know if she’s more angry at him or at me for being such a trusting fool.
And, she’s right. Everyone’s right. This wasn’t my fault. I did nothing wrong. I’m not the one behaving like an idiotic teenager.
I feel a surge of anger and rage so clearly that it takes my breath away. It boils inside of me, festering like a wound.
I don’t know how to make sense of it.
It feels almost like hatred. Like I hate him for the shitty thing he did to me. Because I didn’t deserve it. Because I don’t need to feel this pain to grow.
I hate him for having lied, for saying he missed me when he was kissing that other girl.
I start crying again, biting my lip so Lore can’t hear me.
I feel so ashamed of being this weepy mess.
But the pain comes back to me in sickening waves as soon as I think of her, the red-haired girl.
In my head, she is beautiful: Sophie Turner meets Emma Stone.
And I want to hate her. I want to think this is her fault. I want to believe she did something to make him forget about me, but I know it’s wishful thinking.
She probably didn’t even know I existed.
And, even if she did, it doesn’t matter. Because he chose to do what he did. He chose to hurt me.
I think back at all those times he told me he dreamt about me every night, all those times he said he missed me, and how I believed him.
I feel stupid and angry at myself for being so naive. Because I knew from the beginning who he was. Since that moment Maya told me he’d kissed Tatiana at a party because he was drunk and horny. I should’ve known then that, no matter what he said, he hadn’t changed one bit.
That’s not true, a voice says, in the back of my head. He did change.
And I think of all his beautiful words, I think of his arms around me as we stood in the High Line. I think of his voice as he told me how talented I was, I think of my favorite song playing during prom, at his request.
How can such a wonderful person do such horrible things?
I wipe my face, trying to erase any trace of the tears I’ve been shedding for the past week, but it’s no use. I can’t stop crying, no matter how hard I try to, even after the pizza arrives, even after Lore pours me a cup of steaming hot chocolate, even after she wraps me in her arms and tells me everything is going to be okay.
I can’t stop the tears from streaming down my face and the memories from flooding my brain.
I know I won’t die from this pain. I believe Lore when she tells me in a few months, this wound will only be a dull ache in my chest.
But I also know that I will always miss him. I know that, despite all the shitty things he did to me, there’s a part of me who will always love him, who will always want him back.
Who will always wait for him.

Chapter Text

“Is this too much?” Ela asks, dumping another bag of chips onto the cart.
Sydney shakes her head, rummaging through the things already there.
“No,” she mumbles. “I think we need more decorations.”
“No, we don’t. It’s just a party,” I say, pushing the cart forward. The line is already pretty long and I do not want to wait anymore. Plus, it’s not like we have to feed the people coming to the party. All they’ll really want is alcohol and I can’t buy that legally. Ela assured me she’s going to steal wine from her dad and Sydney claims she can steal beer from her parents’ store. Even Andrew offered to get his older brother to buy some alcohol.
I told everyone this isn’t necessary but then throwing a huge party to celebrate my birthday wasn’t strictly necessary either. Inviting every single person wasn’t necessary either. In fact, if it had been up to me, I wouldn’t have invited anyone other than my three best friends. But Ela insisted I needed to show everyone (and by everyone, she means Daniel Torres’ little gang) that I am doing a-okay. That no matter what might have happened during the summer, I am unbothered. Life goes on and so do I.
Except, of course, that’s a lie. And anyone who’s been paying any attention knows it.
I spend most of my time in school avoiding people and looking out the window, even when I’m trying hard to concentrate. Lore told me this is okay. I don’t need to be working at 100% capacity. I am allowed a little break. Especially given the number of times I’ve nearly started crying in the middle of class.
I want to believe it’s okay, too, but I can feel the anxiety making its way up my throat whenever the bell rings, and I realize that I’m not able to remember a single word the teacher said during the entire class.
But everyone lets me be. So far, not a single teacher has called my attention or asked what’s wrong with me. I suppose they hear rumors too. I suppose they know what it’s like to be a broken heart.
“But it’s a birthday party,” Ela rolls her eyes at me. “You have to have balloons, at least.”
I open my mouth to argue but I suppose there’s really no point. She’s determined to make this a “huge” thing and I’m not really in any capacity to stop her.
“Fine,” I say, dropping my bag into the cart. “I’ll go get them. Don’t move!”
“You can’t get your own birthday balloons!” Sydney protests.
“Look, I’m being forced to have a birthday party. I, at least, would like to choose pretty balloons.”
And, before either of them can stop me, I turn around and walk away.
As I’m looking for the balloons, I start to wonder if Ela really has invited that many people. She’s mentioned names I don’t even recognize a couple of times. Which makes me feel a little panicky. Because, how am I supposed to be the hostess if I don’t even know half the people there? And, okay, it’s not like people don’t go to parties for no reason other than to get wasted. I just would like to know the people who are trashing my house.
The only reason I agreed to it was that I thought it would be a small affair. But it certainly doesn’t sound like it now.
I pick lovely purple balloons and make my way back, still wondering how I’m going to kick everyone out when I get tired of being around people. Can I just go up to my room and leave my house at the mercy of drunk teenagers?
And what’s the point of throwing a birthday party to prove to everyone that you’re not heartbroken if you disappear an hour in?
I suppose the only people who have to see me having fun are Daniel’s friends, I think to myself as I’m turning a corner. That’s not…
I catch a glimpse of dark curls and stop dead in my tracks. My breath gets caught in my chest.
I find the boy standing in the middle of the line almost at once. I can’t see his face. All I can see is a gray T-shirt.
I can feel panic starting to bubble in my chest.
But then the line moves and the boy comes into view and it’s not him.
It’s just a boy. Wearing an Iron Maiden T-shirt. Definitely not him.
I let out an exhale, my body relaxing almost immediately.
I don’t know why I’m so afraid of ghosts.
I mean, it’s not like he’s not everywhere. At school, walking through the halls, talking to his friends in the parking lot.
It’s just that I panic every time.
I force myself to keep walking.
I can’t be afraid of ghosts. I really can’t.
How will I survive senior year if it always feels this raw?
The worst part of it all is that sometimes, I wish he would see me and walk to me, wrap me in his arms, and tell me he didn’t mean it.
And I know that that’s stupid.
He’s the one who hurt me. I shouldn’t need him to be the one to put me back together.
But I just need him so much. I need his warmth. I need him to hold me whole.
That’s my biggest, darkest secret.
Because I know that I should hate him. I know that I have to leave. I know that love shouldn’t feel like this.
And I can’t help but wonder if some mistakes can be forgiven, sometimes. Under the right circumstances. When it’s the right people.
Of course, Ela and Sydney probably wouldn’t agree with that. Hell, half the time I don’t agree with it myself.
And still.
Sometimes I wonder what my birthday would’ve looked like with him by my side. I probably wouldn’t have had a big party. I probably would’ve hung out with my friends, maybe gone to the movies or something. And then, I would’ve gone to Bushnell Park with him.
I had it all planned.
I wanted to read him this poem I wrote halfway through the summer, about the High Line and his heartbeat on my fingertips. The poem where I could finally tell him just how much he means to me. Just how unafraid I was to believe we’d have more birthdays together. In New York. Or wherever he went.
But of course, that will never happen.
Because, even if I am unafraid to have faith, even if his smile could heal all my wounds, even if I believe mistakes can be forgiven, I just can’t bring myself to talk to him. I just don’t know how to start again.
“Oh, cute color,” Sydney says, when I drop the balloons on the cart.
“Have you thought about what you’re wearing?” Ela asks, as the line moves forward. “You need to look hot in front of everyone!”
“When you say everyone,” I ask, because I would rather not disclose the fact that I intend to wear the same thing I always wear, jeans and a cardigan, “do you mean everyone we know or everyone at school or…?
“Everyone,” Ela says, like it was obvious. “Even Andrew’s new ‘girlfriend’ is coming,” she actually draws the air quotes with her hands.
“Don’t be mean,” Sydney intervenes, distracted. “They make a cute couple.”
I nod, because it’s true. When Andrew told us he was going out with a girl he met during the summer who was younger than him, I was a bit weary. Not because I was jealous or anything like that, but because “younger” could mean anything and I was not going to let him go out with a girl younger than 14 without first having a long conversation with him about predatory behavior.
But then we met Ana, who is 16, very smart, and obviously likes him very much. They’re always laughing and flirting with each other and it would be cuter if I wasn’t so damn sad (and envious of them) all the time.
“I guess,” Ela answers, pushing the cart forward. “I am surprised he didn’t ask you out as soon as James was out of his way.”
My heart skips a beat. We almost never speak of him and, even though it’s been almost a month since it happened, hearing his name still feels like a shock to the heart.
“Maybe you were wrong about Andrew’s feelings for me,” I say, trying to sound casual and not like I almost stopped breathing simply from hearing a name out loud.
“Doubtful,” Ela answers with a scoff. “Maybe he knew he never stood a chance, anyway.”
“Or maybe,” Sydney intervenes, frowning at Ela, “Andrew didn’t want to make things harder for Betty by asking her out.”
“How would that make things harder for her?” Ela asks, confused, just as we reach the cashier.
Sydney starts to answer, but I’m no longer paying attention.
I’ve never talked to Andrew about his feelings for me (it seems pointless now that he’s going out with Ana), and, although I am still not convinced that Ela was right, I suddenly remember us walking down the hall on the first day back to school.
I had been so afraid to run into a ghost, that I had taken refuge with my friends whenever I could, which is why I was walking with Andrew at the end of the school day. I think he was telling me about a fantasy book he’d read, but to be completely honest, I was too anxious to be paying any attention.
The fact that I hadn’t seen him at all that day had left me on edge. I knew an encounter was unavoidable, but I wasn’t ever going to be prepared for it. So, instead, what I did was worry.
And, almost like I had summoned him, when we turned around the corner, there he was. Standing by his locker, frowning, Daniel Jeong standing next to him, saying something I couldn’t hear amid all the bustle.
The first thing I thought was “his hair is shorter,” and then, “he is so beautiful.”
And then, of course, I felt like crying.
I stopped and it took a few seconds before Andrew realized that I was no longer at his side. He turned to look at me, confused, and then he must’ve seen something on my face because he walked back, to meet me.
“Are you okay?” he asked and, at that exact moment, he looked up and his eyes found me.
It was like all the pain I’ve been trying to survive burned anew in my chest, eating me alive.
And I couldn’t look away,
I was breathless and senseless and all I wanted was for him to kiss me. To mend me.
And I knew that he could tell.
He stood still, looking at me.
And that’s when I knew that, despite all the things I’d said to my friends, the thing that pained me most wasn’t all those lies he told me, but the fact that I had lost him. That he was no longer mine.
I knew then that the only person who could put me back together was him.
“Let’s just go,” Andrew said, just as he took a step forward, toward us.
I nodded, because I knew I wasn’t ready. I would dissolve into tears if he said a word to me and I couldn’t do that, not there, for everyone to see.
So we turned around and walked away.
But perhaps Andrew knew it at that moment too.
Perhaps he didn’t ask me out after what happened because he knew I wouldn’t say yes.
Because he knew, despite all the pain he’s caused me, I have only ever loved one person.
Because he knew what I’ve known ever since, clear as water.
That lust and love are not the same things.
That people do stupid, selfish, mean things, but that doesn’t always make them bad people.
That sometimes, they are worthy of forgiveness.
That first loves never really go away.
That when I felt at my worst, lonely and ugly and lost, the way he looked at me, the way he said my name and called me all those wonderful things, made me feel beautiful and alive and whole.
That I may never forget him and how much I loved him.
How much I still love him.
How much I still love James.

Chapter Text

James Wolfe stood on the porch of Betty Green’s house with a book wrapped clumsily in his hands.
He took a deep breath, forcing himself to take the next step and knock on the door.
But, once again, he couldn’t do it.
“Fuck,” he said, under his breath, passing a hand through his hair and watching the door.
He knew he needed to move. He needed to just do what he’d come here to do.
Someone was bound to notice him lurking outside eventually. He could see people moving inside, could hear the quick notes of the song playing somewhere in the house.
He had to move.
But he couldn’t. He could feel his heartbeat wild against his throat. He knew his palms were sweaty. He was afraid someone would open the door at any moment and he would throw up on the steps of the house and that was absolutely not what he should do.
He knew what he had to do.
He’d been planning this for a few weeks now. Or, a version of this. He had a speech prepared since he saw Dan’s text on his phone that Saturday morning.
The speech had changed as the weeks passed by, but the idea remained the same.
Please, forgive me. I fucked up. Please.
As soon as he’d heard about Betty throwing a party for her 17th birthday, he knew this was his opportunity. This was his chance to set everything right.
So he’d planned and planned and planned some more. He’d practically learned the speech by heart. He had dreams about it, too. The words kept repeating again and again in his head.
I made a mistake. But it didn’t mean anything. And I miss you so much.
He had prepared for every outcome imaginable. At least, he thought he had.
But now that he was here, he could feel his fear bubbling up his throat.
Because, what if he couldn’t fix it? What if there was no going back? What if Betty didn’t want to hear a single word he had to say?
What was he going to do then?
He couldn’t imagine it. He really couldn’t. He swallowed, trying to quell the acrid feeling in his stomach.
He’d never really been heartbroken before.
Of course he’d been sad when he’d broken up with Sam, sophomore year. It made him sad to lose her even if he knew he was making the right choice. He’d felt grief. But he’d been prepared. He’d known he’d made the right choice and he couldn’t bring himself to regret it, even when he saw Sam’s pain clear on her face.
But this. This was completely different.
Because he wasn’t prepared. He’d wanted to believe that he was. Back when he’d first arrived in Montauk. He’d wanted to believe he could survive losing Betty.
But he couldn’t. That was the reason he’d kissed Augustine in the first place. (Well, one of the reasons). Because he figured he might be able to soften the crash if he had someone who could hold him, who could prevent him from coming undone.
That had been a mistake. A huge mistake.
Everything had unraveled after that.
And he knew, now, that he’d hurt Augustine too, even if he had pretended not to notice it back then. Back when she would hold onto him like her life depended on it.
Maybe it did.
He’d been careless, he knew. He didn’t want to think about it. For a long time, he hadn’t. He couldn’t bring himself to face the shame of what he’d done. Not just to Betty but to Augustine. He’d broken both their hearts and he’d broken his own heart as a consequence.
And now, he was alone.
Standing on the front porch of Betty’s house.
Holding the book he’d been working on for months now.
He had found this particular edition of “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” at a yard sale one weekend, after Betty had told him that she was planning on attending prom as Andrew’s date. He’d been moping for the past few days and seeing the book there, amidst all those other old books, he felt a sharp stab of pain in his chest. He’d looked at it out of curiosity, only to find that the book had wide, blank margins that were perfect for doodling. He wasn’t sure where the idea came from, but, for some reason, perhaps because he was determined to prove to everyone (and by everyone, he meant Andrew, who kept wondering aloud what Betty saw in James) that he and his girlfriend did actually have many things in common, their love for this particular book chief among them, but he had bought the book.
He was determined to illustrate it. For her. To gift to her on her birthday.
Looking back, the hope that he would be able to fix their stupid fight with a book seemed childish. The argument had been stupid. He should’ve never let it escalate. He should’ve dealt with the disappointment and moved on, should’ve been there when her favorite song started playing.
Of course, there was no use in dwelling on what he should and shouldn’t have done anymore.
He’d done what he’d done.
And, even as he was doing it, he kept working on the illustrations for the book.
He wasn’t sure why, if he was so convinced that Betty was going to break up with him, he hadn’t given up on the prospect of handing it to her and seeing the surprise on her face as she looked at the illustrations, which contained drawings of her and her friends and her cat (who James loved even though the animal always ignored him), intertwined with the mermaids of the poem. Maybe he’d hoped that he’d be able to erase his mistakes while he worked on the gift.
Maybe it was some sort of atonement for what he’d done.
He didn’t know.
But he’d kept working on it, even after that hated Saturday morning, more fervently than ever before. Obsessing day and night over the illustrations, trying to ensure that it was perfect.
He was convinced that if she saw it, if she allowed him to give it to her, she would know everything he couldn’t say out loud. She would know that despite the horrible thing he’d done, he hadn’t meant to cause her so much pain. He’d been careless, and stupid, and incredibly selfish, but he had never stopped missing her. He only hoped that she would see all of that in the small, silly illustrations on the margins of the book and that she would forgive him.
And, even if she didn’t, he knew he had to try.
He knew he had to fight for her. He had to know if there was a chance. Even the slightest fucking minuscule chance that she might forgive him.
He had to know.
But now that he was here he was afraid again.
Because he wouldn’t be able to daydream anymore, after this. He wouldn’t be able to hold on to hope. To hold onto those moments when he caught her looking at him at school.
It had only happened a couple of times and, as soon as James had turned to look at her, Betty had turned the other way and disappeared in the crowd of students.
He had tried to talk to her in those moments but her stupid friends were always there. (God, he hated her friends) (Well, one of them, in particular). And he knew it would be best to stay away. He couldn’t bring himself to face Betty, let alone Ela, who everyone claimed would absolutely go berserk if she ran into him.
So, he’d stayed away, biding his time, daydreaming about this very moment. Daydreaming about Betty, a smile cracking her face in half as soon as she opened the door. Betty, walking into his arms, allowing him to kiss her. Betty, leading him to the garden at the back of her house, willing to listen to him.
He knew, of course, that there were other possibilities, but he didn’t like to dwell on them, even if he’d tried to imagine them, just to be prepared.
Betty, telling him to fuck off as soon as she opened the door. Betty, refusing to meet him at all. Betty, telling him it was over, asking him to leave her alone.
He knew those were just as possible.
He swallowed again, forcing himself to focus on the moment, but he still couldn’t do it.
He’d never felt so weak in his entire life.
He remembered the first time he’d realized Betty Green was beautiful. Not just pretty. He’d known she was pretty even before they’d started working together on the assignment. He’d seen her around the halls enough times.
But it wasn’t until she had talked about things that didn’t matter that mattered that he’d known she was beautiful.
He’d been thinking about her a lot before that. The day he found himself in the library, looking for The Illustrated Man amongst the shelves, he’d known he was treading dangerous territory. He’d known he had to be careful. But then he couldn’t stop thinking of her face when he asked if she didn’t trust him. She hadn’t lied. She frowned and, after a second, she shook her head. “No.”
Just like that.
Betty never lied. She said things how she felt them, how she saw them, how she lived them. And she always felt so much.
And, still, there were moments when James was convinced she couldn’t possibly feel as much as he felt for her. No way. Because what he felt was all-consuming. What he felt was dangerous.
And then, another memory flooded him. Lately, he’d been consumed by the memories of her nearly as much as his own regrets. This one in particular had come back to him almost every day since he’d talked to her on the phone, that night in Montauk.
Because it had been the first time he’d realized he loved her.
They’d been driving home and Betty was telling him about how exhausting her expectations of the future could be, sometimes.
“It gets very tiring,” she’d said, as they stopped at a streetlight and James looked at her. “I mean, I am excited about the future, but sometimes I worry, it will never amount to anything.”
James had wanted to say that that was not possible, that all of her dreams would come true. They had to come true. But Betty had plowed on, looking out the window and frowning, like she wasn’t aware of his presence next to her.
“Whenever it happens, I get so sad, I want to curl up in bed and never wake up. Take a nap that will last for the rest of my life.”
Her words had reminded him of Noah, and how James’ father always claimed his brother was lazy, because he spent so much of his day curled up in bed, or otherwise hidden from the world.
He’d felt alarmed at hearing Betty, who was so determined to become who she already was, confessing to this. It meant that she wasn’t safe from the kind of sadness that could drive someone over the edge.
And, perhaps she’d seen some of this worry on his face, because she continued, looking at him for the first time since she’d started speaking.
“But then I’ll read a book or listen to a really good song and it’s like, I’m reminded of how beautiful the world is, how alive everyone else is, and it feels worth it. All those doubts and all the pain. I think it’s worth living, despite how hard it can be, just to read a good book or listen to a song, or be around people you love.”
Betty didn’t know it then, because James hadn’t been brave enough to tell her about Noah, but her words echoed his uncle’s words, told to him a few years before his death. James couldn’t remember exactly what he’d said, but he remembered the gist and it was pretty much the same: that life is worth living, no matter how painful, if only to be around the people you love, if only to be alive and to feel.
He hadn’t known what to say to that. He’d felt like crying and he didn’t want her to hear it in his voice so, instead, he leaned forward and kissed her.
And as she returned the kiss, and he felt the warmth of her skin against the palm of his hand, he knew that he was in love with her.
That what he felt for her wasn’t the same he had felt for Sam, or Tatiana, or Augustine, or any of the pretty girls he had kissed carelessly.
That wasn’t to say that he hadn’t felt real things for other girls. But rather, that it had all been in preparation for that moment, for her.
Because the emotions on his chest at that moment were too big, too real, too much.
He couldn’t look away. Even as he’d come to the realization that he wouldn’t be able to survive it, he couldn’t just stop.
He didn’t want to.
He hoped to God he didn’t have to.
Even if he’d made the worst mistake of his life.
Please, forgive me. Please. Please.
He’d been listening to the same song on repeat for the last few days and he could still hear the words, like a hopeful echo around his head, a hope that he’d find a way out.
It’s an unforgiving world
She’s not an unforgiving girl
Betty.
He hadn’t dared to say the words out loud before but if he could, if she gave him a chance, he would, now. He would tell her how he felt. Just how much he felt. He would tell her how much he missed her. Like he was missing himself. Like he’d lost the only version of himself he’d ever liked.
Because being next to her, it was so much easier to like himself, to forgive himself for all the stupid shit he’d done in the past. For all the time wasted and all the opportunities gone. Being next to her it was easy to believe there could be more. It was easy to believe he could find a way out of Hartford, that he could find a way to his dream life.
His dream life next to her.
Betty.
He sighed.
He had to do it.
No more daydreaming. This was it. This was all he’d ever wanted. A chance to do it again.
And if she didn’t want him anymore… Fuck. If she didn’t want him anymore. He might not survive it. But he was willing to try anyway.
Please, forgive me. Please.
James took a deep breath, clutching the package tighter in his hands.
He took a step forward and knocked on the door.