Part 2

The Way I Am Now (The Way I Used to Be, #2)

JOSH

I’m sitting behind the front desk at the athletic center, scanning in a student ID every few minutes, making sure the picture in the database matches the person entering the building. The afternoon sun is streaming in through floor-to-ceiling windows, making me tired.

Fridays are always dead here, especially during summer sessions, so I finally have a chance to study. I’m wading my way through the chapter on research methods for my psych class, when I hear Coach’s telltale key chain jingling down the hall. I straighten up, take a sip of coffee, try to look more alert than I am.

As he walks up to the desk, he says, “Bright and early Monday morning, yes?”

“Yes,” I agree, “see you Monday.” “Tell your father hello for me,” he adds.

“Will do, thanks, Coach. Have a good weekend.”

I’ve almost earned my way back into my coach’s good graces. He got me this work-study position for the summer, I think, mostly to keep tabs on me. He’s tried hard to make sure there’s been no time for study, no time for anything, except working my ass off to prove myself. Which has meant basically being errand boy for the whole department. Someone needs lunch, I go get it. A visiting bigwig donor or VIP needs to be picked up at the airport, I’m their chauffeur. Gym equipment needs cleaning, I’m the janitor. Struggling athlete requires tutor—that’s me too. He did at least let me take the weekend to go home; I told him it was a family thing, and I was thankful he didn’t press me for details.

I guess I deserve the punishment, considering what I did.

But every morning when my alarm goes off at the crack of dawn for practice, I have this tug-of-war in my head. Between the part of me that

I’m aware I’m fortunate to have this opportunity and I want to honor my commitment. I accepted the scholarship and joined this team, and I know it makes my dad proud. But part of me just wants to sleep in sometimes, to experience college as a regular student focused on education rather than a game I rarely enjoy.

Most guys on the team only take three classes each semester because there aren’t enough hours in the day, but I’ve pushed myself to take four this year, despite my adviser’s advice. This summer, I’m aiming to squeeze in at least two more classes; otherwise, I risk extending my time in college, and I really don’t want to keep playing longer than necessary.

I knew there would be sacrifices and pressure, but feeling so burned out after two years, with still more to go, makes me want to walk away from it all—basketball, school, everything. This morning, though, my psychology professor asked me something that stuck with me: she wanted to know if I’d consider declaring a minor this fall.

“A minor?” I echoed, surprised—I’ve barely declared a major. Sports medicine was Bella’s idea during freshman year, and it seemed like a logical choice at the time since she was pre-med and made a strong case.

“A minor in psychology,” Dr. Gupta clarified when she noticed my confusion. “You’ve already completed all the prerequisites.” I realized I had taken two of her classes and another psychology course last semester to meet my social science requirement. With my AP Psychology credits from high school, I didn’t need any introductory courses to start in psych. I’ve always been interested in the subject, but it wasn’t part of a bigger plan—it just kind of happened. So, I didn’t know how to respond.

“Think about it,” she told me. “Let me know if you have questions.”

But now that I’m sitting here, really thinking about it all, Bella’s argument was mainly that I played a sport and she was studying medicine, so we would be able to take some classes together.

I take my phone out—she texted me at the beginning of the week. The first time I’ve heard from her since we broke up in December. She wrote:

Are you on campus for the summer? Want to get a drink sometime, catch up?

I’ve been putting off responding because I’d feel bad if I said no, but if I said yes, I can foresee what would happen. She’d take me back even though I hurt her, and I’d let myself go along with it because we made sense on paper. And that rational part of me, the one that keeps my commitments even when I don’t want to, does sometimes wonder if I threw away a good thing with her. It wonders what would’ve happened if I hadn’t answered Eden’s call that night. I’m 99 percent sure Bella and I would still be together and I wouldn’t have found out about what happened to Eden and I’d be blissfully ignorant about my dad’s relapse and I never would’ve screwed up basketball last winter, and these last seven months would’ve been smooth sailing, everything going as planned.

But even as I reread her text now, I’m reminded of the things off paper that didn’t work.

She asked if I wanted to get a drink because she doesn’t even know I don’t like to drink. Because I’d never told her. And I never told her because then she’d ask why and I’d also have to tell her about my dad and how the handful of times I’ve been drinking in my life, I’ve drunk way too much and ended up massively regretting it and being terrified that I’m more like my dad in that way than I want to admit. Because even though we lived together and we got along and I genuinely liked her—loved her, I thought— there still were things I could never say to her. Not like Eden.

I leave Bella’s text sitting there and switch over to Eden’s text from this morning, the one that made me literally laugh out loud in the locker room.

At work rn, perfecting the art of latte foam design

She sent a picture of a wide-rimmed mug with the Bean logo from back home—she’d mentioned a couple of weeks ago she got a job there.

I know, I know. a lot of baristas go for the obvious heart or rosette, but my signature shape is . . . the blob.

It’s very blobby (sp?). Starbucks has nothin on the Bean

thank you.

i’ll make you my special vanilla blob latte next time you’re here

I keep debating whether I should tell her I’ll be home this weekend. We never did see each other again over spring break. She called, left me a voice mail, which I listened to way too many times over the last few months. She told me she wanted to see me. I gave her excuses—lost phone, broke phone, got sick, had to get a new phone, got busy, had to leave early—none of which were lies, exactly, even if I felt like they were.

She’s been texting pretty regularly, but it’s all light and airy surface stuff like our communication is suddenly quantity over quality. It’s never been this way with her before. I feel like something has changed but I don’t know what or why, and I’m too scared to ask her about it. Thankfully, she doesn’t talk about Steve, at least. I don’t think I could handle that yet . . . or ever.

I leave for home the next morning, stop for gas at the gas station I always stop at, twenty miles into the five-hour drive. I look up at the number on the pump. Two. The exact one I used the last time I was driving home, back in December.

It was snowing that afternoon when she called the first time and hung up. I was on my way to practice. She called and hung up four times in a row. I

deleted her number from my phone years ago, but I could tell it was her from one breath.

I tried to put it out of my mind as best as I could, but then later that night, we were sitting at our kitchen table, books all spread out, studying for finals, when her next call interrupted us. I answered, but she hung up again, three times.

“What the hell?” Bella said, telling me on the fourth call, “Just ignore it.” But I couldn’t. “Eden, is this you?” I answered.

And then she hung up on me again.

“Eden, as in your ex-girlfriend Eden?” Bella asked, setting her highlighter down in the binding of her textbook. “What does she want?”

I shook my head and stood from the table. I called her back. I was getting so mad while I waited for her to answer and I didn’t even really know why

—because Bella was getting upset or because I was starting to care whether I heard her voice or not.

She answered but still wouldn’t say anything, and Bella was right there listening, so I told her not to call back. But then I was immediately relieved when she called a second later anyway.

“Is she stalking you or something?” Bella hissed, sounding meaner than I’d ever heard her before. “Do not answer that, Josh— she’s messing with you.”

But I did. And when she finally spoke, her voice nearly crushed me. She didn’t sound right at all. She kept saying “I cared.” I didn’t know what she meant, but then she repeated it. “I cared about you. I always cared about you.”

She’d never said that to me before, and hearing it now, this way, it scared me.

“Did you know?” she asked. “Did you know I cared?”

I didn’t know what to say, so I told her the truth. “Sometimes.”

She went off about all these random things she’d lied to me about and what a horrible person she was and how much she hated herself and how I should hate her too. She was being so cryptic and erratic and I was really hoping it was just that she’d been drinking or something, but when I asked her that, she laughed and said no, and I could tell she was starting to cry.

Something was wrong. I didn’t know what, but I knew she wasn’t messing around. I tried to keep her on the phone, but I could feel her getting

farther and farther away with every word I said to her. I asked her what she needed, how I could help.

“You can’t,” she cried.

I started getting more than scared because she was winding down, or maybe winding up; either way, I was losing her, quickly. She was saying things like “I’m sorry” and “I shouldn’t have called,” and I tried to tell her it was okay but it was like she couldn’t even hear me anymore.

“I just miss you so much sometimes, and I wanted you to know that I cared. I really did,” she said so quietly I had to cover my other ear just so I could hear her. “And there wasn’t anyone else. Ever. I hope you’ll believe me.”

“Wait, Eden,” I yelled, because I knew—she was done. “Don’t hang up,” I said, even though it was too late.

Bella was watching me as I paced our tiny apartment, frantically trying to call Eden back, leaving message after message. We’d been together for over a year—I was planning on taking her home with me over winter break to meet my parents—but she’d never seen me like this.

“Calm down,” she kept saying. “You’re really overreacting right now.” But I couldn’t calm down. And I wasn’t overreacting.

“You don’t still love her,” she said at first, suppressing a laugh. She didn’t say it like a question, though; she was telling me. Of course, you’re not still in love with a girl in high school who was never really your girlfriend in the first place. I was trying to tell myself that same thing. I could go months without having her even cross my mind. I was over her. But if that were really true, then how was it that she could call out of the blue after years, and I just crumble at the sound of her voice?

“You’re not,” she repeated when I didn’t answer. “Josh?”

“What, God?” I snapped at her, another thing she’d never seen me do before.

“Hey, don’t yell at me,” she said, standing from the table. She walked over and stood directly in the path of my pacing, studying me. “Why are you freaking out over this?”

“Bella, just give me some space. You don’t understand. Something is seriously wrong, okay?”

“Well, help me understand, then.” So practical, she waited, standing there in front of me, like I could explain Eden to her. Like this was one of our

Advanced Calculus problems we could figure out if we just put our minds together. But I could never explain Eden to anyone, not even myself.

“Okay,” Bella said, crossing her arms as I stood there, silent. “I can’t believe I have to ask you this, but is there something going on with you and her?”

“Bella, come on” was the best defense I could muster. Because of course there was something going on with us, there always had been. We never ended. We barely began.

“It’s not a trick question, Josh, just tell me the truth,” she demanded.

The truth was too complicated, though, to be able to tell Bella, who, I was just realizing at that moment, didn’t understand that I was complicated too.

But the truth about us was also simple. Eden was angry and I was sad, and we shouldn’t have worked but we did. We worked like we weren’t too damaged to work. Maybe only sometimes, when other things weren’t getting in the way. Like all that sadness, all that anger. And other people and bad timing and petty teenager shit. Of course, there were also her lies. The secrets I always knew she was keeping from me.

But in spite of all that, I called her back anyway. I left my girlfriend in our new apartment in the middle of the night—in the middle of a fight— anyway. I remember thinking, even at the moment, I shouldn’t be willing to throw everything away for her. I shouldn’t be able to not listen when my girlfriend cries actual tears, pleading with me to stay. To feel her pulling my arm and to keep going anyway. To hear her, and believe her, when she gives me the first and last ultimatum of our relationship: “Don’t you dare go to her, not if you want to come back here.” And to not even be able to say I’m sorry and mean it. To close the door on her and get in my car anyway.

All because she called me. All because I was scared. Scared because it had suddenly occurred to me that maybe I was now the one who was angry and she’d turned sad—too sad, maybe.

I left her a voice mail while I stood here at the gas station, in this spot, freezing, in the middle of the night. I told her I was coming and then I prayed to all the gods in all the universes that by the time the tank was full, she’d have called me back and told me to turn around. I wanted her to be lying. I wanted her to call me back and tell me she was fine. She didn’t need me. She didn’t care. She never did.

I wanted to believe that her phone call was not her saying goodbye—in a permanent way. Because, of the many things I was not sure about when it came to her, I was sure about that. She was capable of it. I don’t know why I knew that, but I just did. And even though I’d gone without her for so long, I didn’t know if I could go on without her in the world.

“Please, Eden,” I whispered, the words coming out in a white cloud of cold. “Just fucking call.”

The gas lever pops, and I’m suddenly thrust back into the daylight, into the heat, the sun beating down on my neck and shoulders. I look down at my arms, goose bumps rising on my flesh, a shiver running down my spine.

I transfer the pump back into the cradle and watch as the numbers on the screen flash and reset to zero. I take a breath and try to shake off the cold I didn’t realize was still lingering in my bones from that night.

I get in the car and pull out my phone to text Bella back:

I don’t think meeting up would be a good idea for me. But I hope you’re doing well, Bella. I’m sorry.

EDEN

The applications were garbage, I knew that. I submitted identical materials to every school, complete with a stupid boilerplate cookie-cutter essay my guidance counselor practically wrote for me, checking all the boxes, she said, of what these schools are looking for. I remember thinking, fleetingly, What about what I’m looking for?

All except for the one application I didn’t think would matter.

For that one, I wrote something that probably should’ve been locked in a journal somewhere away from the world. It was part apology to myself, part love letter to Josh, part victim impact statement to anyone who would listen

. . . all in the form of my essay to the admissions office at Tucker Hill University. It was overly precious and overly honest and dripping with metaphor and too many shiny words, but I was proud of it. All about second chances and lost time and regrets and feeling hopeful about the future. And I believed, I wrote with such confidence, that my future was there.

I meant it when I wrote it. It was a shot in the dark, a wish that was unlikely to come true. And the improbability of it actually happening made me feel brave enough to try.

It was the very end of January, and I was flying high off the knowledge that Kevin had been arrested and people seemed to believe me and I still thought that counted for something. I thought he’d soon be locked up and out of my life—out of all our lives— for good. I felt free. Josh and I had been talking again, before I left school, before Steve, before things got so much harder. And so I cranked out that essay in the eleventh hour. I had no idea that months later, still nothing would’ve happened to move anything forward with the trial or that I’d be feeling less free, less hopeful, with every day that passed.

I had no idea how any of this legal stuff worked, so when DA Silverman and our court-appointed advocate, Lane, explained that it wasn’t going to just be a trial that consisted of me, alone, against him, that it was the state against him and I was just one piece of something bigger, I felt so relieved. Almost powerful. Protected even. Because it was three against one—me and Amanda and Gennifer—finally the odds felt fair. Strength in numbers. I imagined the three of us walking into some fancy courtroom like a gang or something from a movie poster: the ex-girlfriend, the little sister, and the girl next door, all tough and strong, arms locked in solidarity.

It was a nice dream.

But that feeling didn’t last. Because, as DA Silverman and Lane made abundantly clear when they explained the whole evidence collecting, hearing, and trial process: under no circumstances were we allowed to talk to each other about anything related to the case, Kevin, or what happened to any of us. Because we could be accused of . . . I’m not sure what, lying, I guess, creating some mastermind narrative. Didn’t they realize Kevin was the real mastermind behind it all in the first place?

I barely remember the person I was when I wrote that essay. I thought about it twenty-four-seven, for weeks, until the cold, blissful realization washed over me: I could stop hoping. One look at my transcripts would ensure no one would ever read it.

Which is why I’m having trouble processing the email I’m staring at on my phone. It says I’ve been taken off the wait list and am being offered admission. I read the words ten times, but I still don’t understand them. This has to be some kind of mix-up.

I frantically search for their previous email.

I’d barely read it the first time. My eyes scanned for the word “unfortunately,” and then I immediately closed it—never even looked at it again. But it wasn’t a rejection. They told me I was waitlisted. I go back to today’s email. Yes, it clearly states: We are pleased to offer you admission for the fall semester.

“Oh my God,” I whisper.

“What?” my brother, Caelin, says as he shuffles into the kitchen, where I’m standing frozen, with the microwave door still open, my burrito getting cold, still in my polo shirt and visor from the Bean, the scent of coffee clinging to my hair and my skin.

“I—I got in,” I stammer, looking up at him. “To Tucker Hill University.”

“Holy shit, Eeds.” He smiles as I hand him my phone, and I realize how long it’s been since I’ve seen him smile. “Seriously, this is amazing. I didn’t even know you applied there. Tucker Hill is a really decent school.”

“I know. Which is why I thought I’d never get in in a million years.”

“Congratulations,” he says, and he holds his arms out like he might lean in to hug me, but then he stops short.

“Well, but it’s not like I can really go, can I? I mean, it’s expensive and far away—”

“Eden, you have to go,” he interrupts. “It’s really not that far away; it’s not even out of state. It’s gotta be four or five hours, max.”

“Okay, but it is expensive.”

“Oh, fuck money,” he says, dismissively waving his hand through the air. “There’s financial aid and scholarships, grants . . . loans.”

“It’s so soon, though. I don’t have enough time to get ready, and with everything else going on.” The trial is supposed to start in the fall, which we haven’t discussed, the two of us. What it’ll be like for him to see his former best friend like that . . . his sister.

“Yeah, that’s all the more reason you should get out of here— you can come back when you need to,” he says, conveniently not saying for the trial. “And you have over a month. That’s plenty of time.”

“Mom and Dad won’t think this is a good idea at all. Me, being on my own—they don’t even trust me to borrow a car to get to work. And that’s another thing . . . I don’t have a car.”

“Stop, stop, okay?” He brings his hands together like he’s praying. “First, since when do you give a shit what they think . . . or what I think, for that matter?” He laughs, and so do I, because, of course, that’s true. “And you can find a car. Hell, I’ll give you my car!” he shouts. “Stop making excuses.”

“You need your car.”

“What do I need a car for? I’m taking the semester off,” he reminds me. “You’re doing this.”

I’m trying to picture how any of it could work, how any of this is not crazy. I let out a laugh and cover my mouth, shaking my head as I look down at my phone again. I suddenly feel giddy and nauseated with the overwhelming sense of possibility blooming in my chest.

“Tucker Hill,” Caelin says. “Isn’t that where Josh Miller goes?” I nod slowly.

“So, does this mean you and him are like a thing again or . . . ?” he asks awkwardly.

“He has a girlfriend,” I hear myself automatically reply. It’s the sentence that has been constantly running through my mind for months, even if that’s not exactly what he asked. “I mean, we’re just friends,” I conclude.

I bring my lukewarm burrito into my bedroom and close the door, open my laptop. I want a cigarette so badly, because I’m feeling all these emotions bubbling up, fear and excitement and joy and dread, all fighting for top billing.

But I take a breath, slowly in, slowly out, and I open my email, double- checking, as if the message would’ve changed from my phone to my computer. It didn’t. I follow the link to the English department grants and scholarships. English, I’d said my intended major was English. I try to picture myself there, as one of the people in these idyllic pictures online. Maybe I could be that girl there, sitting under a tree with a blanket and a book, reading. Or that kid smiling in the lecture hall. I could be in that group of people walking together, talking, laughing—friends. I close my eyes and try to dream it: big buildings and vast libraries, living in a real city.

And then there’s the other part. I close my laptop. The Josh part. The whole Josh . . . thing, as Mara said the night of the concert.

I’m picking at the salad on my dinner plate that evening, trying to find the right time to bring it up. Caelin keeps looking over at me, waiting for me to say something. Mom is reading on her phone. Dad, who barely speaks to me these days, is hunched over his chicken, eating in silence, as usual.

“So,” Caelin announces, “Eden got some really good news today.”

Mom looks up from her phone and brings her napkin to the corner of her mouth. “Good news? We could use some good news around here.”

“Uh, yeah. So, it turns out I got into Tucker Hill University for the fall.” “What?” Dad says, setting down his fork, looking back and forth between

me and Caelin like we’ve been keeping some sort of secret. “I just found out today,” I add.

“And you . . . want . . . to go?” Mom asks, her words coming out slow and uncertain.

“I mean . . . ,” I begin, but just the way she said it makes me feel like I shouldn’t want to go, like I don’t have a right to want it.

Caelin interrupts. “Of course she wants to go.”

“Right, of course you do,” Mom says, and I can feel a but coming next.

“This is a good thing,” Caelin says in my defense, bolstering my resolve just a little bit.

“Yeah,” I agree. “Why do I feel like I’m breaking bad news to you guys?”

“No, it’s great news. Really,” Mom says. “Just somewhat unexpected.” “Okay,” I scoff. “Are you even happy for me at all?”

“Of course!” Mom says. “Yes, of course we are. Sorry, I’m just thinking of everything you have going on. You know, it finally seems like things are settling here for you, with your appointments and your job and . . . and you have a routine. I just worry that a big change isn’t what you need right now.”

“Or it’s exactly what I need. I already called my therapist’s office and I can keep meeting with her over the phone. I can definitely find another part-time job making overpriced coffee. And I can come back for the hearing, if it even happens—I mean, it could get postponed again. Why am I putting my whole life on hold?”

Dad sighs loudly, shaking his head.

“What?” Caelin asks our dad, and even I hear the challenge in his voice. Dad narrows his eyes at Caelin. “Excuse me?”

“I said the word ‘therapist,’” I mutter under my breath. “I mentioned the hearing—I know we’re supposed to be acting like none of this is happening.”

“Eden,” Mom says. “No one is—”

But Dad interrupts her. “She’s gonna do what she wants to do. Why even ask us?”

“Who, me?” I say loudly, Caelin’s boldness catching, because I’m so sick of Dad not talking to me ever since this all came out, like I did something wrong. “So, you mean to say you actually want me here? Because you barely say two words to me.”

“This is . . . ,” Dad starts, pushing away from the table, looking at Mom. “She’s too young, Vanessa. She’s too young to go away. This is,” he repeats, “this is not happening.”

“You won’t even look at me, seriously?” I shout.

“Eden,” my mom says. “Calm down.” “Oh my God,” Caelin mumbles.

“What do you want me to do here?” I ask, and I’m not even trying to control the volume of my voice now. “What, work at the Bean for the rest of my life, take a community college class every once in a while. I am capable of doing things, you know. This is something I want. I don’t know why you’re being this way.”

Dad stands from the table now, he’s walking toward the door, grabbing his car keys.

And I finally say the thing I’ve been holding back for the last seven months. “You think this is all my fault, don’t you?”

He turns around, actually looks at me for the first time in months.

“Well, I didn’t ask for any of this to be happening. What Kevin did is not my fault, and I’m sick of you blaming me every single day!” I shout.

“Your father does not blame you.” Mom stands up now too. “Conner, say it,” she demands.

Caelin stands up too, looking at my dad, then at me, as he says, “No, he blames me, Eden.” He pushes his chair in calmly and then goes to his room.

Dad turns back around, opens the door, and leaves.

“For God’s sake,” my mom hisses. “Eden, I’ll be right back. We’ll figure it out—let me just . . .” And then she follows after my dad. I’m left alone, sitting at the table with four half-eaten plates of food.

“I’m going,” I say to no one.

It takes me all night to work up the courage to text him. Ever since that conversation I had with his dad on their front porch, I’ve been trying so hard not to dump all my shit on him. Been trying so hard to be there in case he needed me for a change. I’ve tried to ask him so many times how he’s doing, but he hasn’t opened up to me at all. I’ve started to worry maybe our time has just come to an end. That we’ve missed too many chances and have finally run out of them.

I lie on my back, staring at the blur of my ceiling fan, letting it lull me into some kind of weird meditative state. I have to drag my eyes away. I roll to my side, sit up, and take a deep breath, pulling up our texts for the millionth time. If I wait any longer, it’s going to be too late and I’ll have to do this all over again tomorrow.

I know it’s late . . . but can I call?

My phone immediately vibrates in my hand.

JOSH

It rings too many times before she answers, my head already swirling with all kinds of terrible scenarios, too much adrenaline racing through my body.

“Hey,” she says quietly. “Hi. What’s wrong?”

She laughs, saying, “Okay, why is ‘what’s wrong’ the first thing you say to me?”

I try to analyze her voice. “Sorry. It’s just in all the years I’ve known you, you’ve only ever called me when something’s wrong.”

“Is that true?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I mumble, not wanting her to feel bad, not wanting to think about that phone call again.

“Well, nothing’s wrong, I just”—she inhales deeply and breathes out slowly—“wanted to talk to you. Is that okay?”

“Of course. I told you, call me anytime.”

“I know you said that, but—okay, thank you.” She pauses. “Um, is your girlfriend there?”

I never did get around to telling her that we’d broken up. There never seemed to be a time when it wouldn’t come out like I don’t have some ulterior motive of trying to get her to be with me.

“Will she get upset that I’m calling so late?”

“Well, I called you, so . . .” I switch the phone to my other ear, like that might help me think better. “Why, would your boyfriend be upset?” I ask her instead.

“Yeah, probably.” She laughs that perfect laugh of hers—her real one. “If he were still my boyfriend.”

“Oh,” I breathe.

She laughs again, waiting for me to join her, but I can’t.

“Wait, is that true?” I ask before my heart gets too carried away. “You’re not together anymore?”

“Yeah,” she answers. “I mean, yes, it’s true. No, we’re not together anymore.”

“Oh,” I repeat.

“Josh?”

“Sorry. Um, no, the only one who’d be upset we’re talking right now is Harley.” Now it’s my turn to wait for her to laugh, but she doesn’t. “You know, my cat . . . Harley Quinn? Never mind. I’m, uh, actually home right now.”

“Home like at your parents’?” she asks. “Yeah, just for the weekend.”

“You weren’t gonna tell me?” “Oh, it’s just a short trip.”

“But . . . were you going to tell me?”

“Well, I wasn’t sure I’d have the time to see you, so . . .” I drift off, hoping she’ll say something, because how am I supposed to tell her the truth? I’m not sure I trust myself to be around you.

“Eden?”

“Yeah, no, I’m here,” she says gently. “What if . . . ?”

“What if what?”

“What if we talked in person instead?” I ask her. “Could I come over?”

I hold my breath through the silence on the other end of the line. She’s never let me come over before. I don’t know why I even asked. I should’ve just invited her here.

“It’s okay if you don’t—” I start, but she interrupts. “Come over.”

I changed my T-shirt and brushed my teeth, and less than ten minutes later, I’m pulling up outside her house. In all the time I’ve known her, I never once picked her up or dropped her off here, never went inside. Her house is really dark, but as I’m pocketing my car keys and walking up the driveway, the front porch light turns on.

She opens the door as I approach, stepping outside in bare feet. She smiles and steps down to meet me just as I’m stepping up, and we kind of

awkwardly hug on the stairs, both of us falling into each other and wobbling.

“Hi,” she murmurs as she pulls away and steps aside. “Sorry, I went in for that hug a little too ambitiously, I guess.”

“I don’t mind ambitious hugs if they’re from you.”

That was literally one of the stupidest things I’ve ever said in my life, but she’s wearing shorts again—this time soft pajama-type shorts, and I can see there’s a matching tank top, which she’s wearing underneath an oversize hoodie and I’m having a hard time thinking of anything but that. I follow her inside, trying to conjure up some modicum of chill.

There are shoes lined up in the entryway, so I take the cue and remove mine.

“Thanks,” she says quietly as she stands there shifting her weight from foot to foot, scratching her thigh, looking over her shoulder. She seems oddly, tangibly uncomfortable in her own house. Or maybe she can tell that I’m nervous, and it’s making her nervous too. “My parents are upstairs,” she adds, not quite whispering but letting me know we need to be relatively quiet.

“Oh, okay,” I say, nodding.

“I’m this way.” She leads me into the living room and down a hallway where I can hear muffled TV sounds coming from one of the rooms, a thin line of light under the door. “My brother,” she explains. I momentarily flash back to the New Year’s party my senior year. Rumors had been flying about Eden, and I was trying, unsuccessfully, since I was drunk—the first time in my life I ever drank—to explain that those rumors were just lies. Looking back, I’m sure I only made it worse. So then, when her brother confronted me later that night, I tried to tell him that she wasn’t just some hookup to me, but before I could fully explain that I really loved her, he’d already knocked me to the ground. My first fight. My first black eye. My first hangover.

She closes the door behind us, and I try to take a quick look around without being too obvious. Everything’s very minimal and sparse, more like a showroom than a real room. “So, this is it, my bedroom.”

“It’s different than I thought it would be, somehow.”

She looks around like she’s seeing it for the first time as well. “I mean, it’s nice,” I backpedal.

“No,” she says. “I know it’s weird. There’s not much of me in here anymore.”

I’m not sure what that means, and I guess it shows on my face because she explains.

“My mom, like, went on this IKEA spree and just totally got rid of everything that had been here before. Repainted and made everything very .

. . gray. I guess I haven’t really spent much time putting my own touches back in. Except for my lamp,” she says, moving toward her desk to turn on this small stained-glass lamp, which is the only source of color in the entire room. “I found this at a thrift store. I’m very proud of it. But I’m rambling. Sorry. I guess I’m nervous.”

“It’s okay, I might be a little nervous too.” I pause. “Being here for the first time makes me feel like I’m in high school again.”

She releases a short laugh. Then she reaches around me to turn off the light switch at the wall. The overhead light goes out, and her desk lamp casts a kind of yellow glow around the room. “There, that’s better,” she says. “Not so bright.”

“Yeah,” I agree, watching her as she stands in front of me in the dim light now, looking even more . . . captivating, is the word that keeps flashing through my mind.

“I’ve never had anyone in here. I mean, Mara, obviously. But I’ve never had a boy,” she whispers through cupped hands, “in my room like this. Before.” She inhales deeply and says, “Sorry, that was supposed to be cute or funny or something.”

“No, it was,” I tell her, but really, I’m thinking about Steve. Was he really never here, and what does that mean?

“Um. Do you wanna sit or, oh, do you want something to drink?” “I’m fine,” I tell her. “It’s okay.”

She says, “Okay,” but she’s still twirling her fingers around the drawstrings of her hoodie, which she clearly threw on over her pajamas right before I got here. And something about that sends my mind off in the wrong direction again. I have to look away.

“Should we start over?” I ask. “Proper hug?” She nods.

“Yeah? Okay. Come here.” I hold my hands out, and she takes them, moves toward me, and clasps her arms around my waist. I let my arms fold around her and rest my chin on top of her hair, which smells amazing as

usual. She presses her face against my chest and holds on so tight. She keeps taking these slow, deliberately deep breaths like she’s trying to calm down. Part of me wants to ask if she’s okay, but it’s pretty clear she isn’t, so I try to breathe with her, try to calm myself down too. Gradually, her grip loosens, and we back away from each other.

“Sorry, I’ve just been—it’s just been a lot lately, but I’m glad you’re here.

I always like talking to you in person better.”

She hadn’t mentioned anything in our texts being a lot lately, but I guess I haven’t exactly been forthcoming about my stuff either. We sit on her bed, facing each other, the same way we’d sat on that picnic table.

“So, what did you want to talk about?” I’m asking, just as she’s saying, “Why are you home?” As usual, we talk over each other.

“Sorry, you first,” I tell her.

“Okay, so why are you home right now?” she repeats.

“It’s my dad. He’s six months sober this weekend. There’s a ceremony, and then we’re doing a family celebration sort of thing.”

“Oh. Wow, six months. That’s a big deal, right?”

I nod. “Yeah. I mean, I’ve seen him get his six-month chip quite a few times before, but . . .”

“But what?”

“I’ll probably regret saying this, but something does feel a little different with him this time.”

“Good,” she says, with this slow blink, like she really means it. “I don’t know, I’m being cautiously optimistic, I guess.”

“I’m really glad, Josh. You deserve that.” “I do?” I ask.

“Yeah, you deserve to have your dad healthy and . . . and there for you. I mean, I know how much this has hurt you over the years.” She reaches out and takes my hand, inching closer to me, and I catch this sheen falling over her eyes. “I just”—she pauses to close her eyes for a moment—“I want it to be different for you this time too.”

I reach out and take her other hand now, thinking I may finally understand something important about her that I’m not sure I’ve fully realized before. She spent so much of our relationship hiding her emotions because this is how she feels things—deeply, completely. That and this: she really has always cared.

“Eden,” I begin, but I don’t have anything else to say, so I settle on “thank you.”

“I’m sorry about the phone call,” she says. “I was just surprised that you didn’t mention you’d be here. It’s not like you have to tell me every time you’re going to be in town.”

“No, I wanted to tell you.” I move a little closer to her now too. “But things have felt . . .” I try to find the right word. “Strained. Since last time. Or maybe it’s just me, I don’t know.”

“It’s not just you.”

There’s a silence that I feel it’s my turn to fill.

“I’ve gotta be honest, it was hard to see you with another guy. But more than that—I just felt like maybe I should try to leave you alone.”

“No,” she says, squeezing my hands in hers. “I would never want you to leave me alone.”

“Well, I thought, if you’ve moved on, I should try to do the same, and maybe that would make things easier or—”

“If I’ve moved on,” she repeats, her voice turning harder now as she lets go of my hands. “You’re the one who has a serious girlfriend.”

I shake my head as she speaks. “No, I don’t. That’s not—it’s been over for a while.”

“What?”

“It’s over,” I repeat. “Since when?”

“Since I came to see you that night. In December. She wasn’t actually okay with it.”

“You lied to me?”

“Yes,” I admit. She nods slowly, and I watch as she pulls her bottom lip between her teeth and then looks at her hands in her lap, her hair hanging down over her face. I angle my head to try to see her expression, but she brings her hand up to her forehead like she’s shielding her eyes from the sun. “Eden?” I reach out and raise her chin until I can see her face . . . smiling.

“Oh, don’t look so broken up about it,” I joke.

She looks up now and covers her mouth. “No, I’m sorry. I’m not smiling,” she says, but she’s losing her voice as she muffles a laugh.

“No, you’re laughing!” Which only makes me start laughing too because it’s so absurd. “What’s so funny?”

“No, nothing—I’m sorry!” She bats her hand at my arm. “Stop it,” she demands, but then she cracks up all over again.

“You stop.” Her laugh is a drug. “You’re the one laughing at me.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m laughing. I’m sorry,” she repeats. “I’m not laughing at you, I promise.”

“No, don’t worry. It’s okay,” I tease. “It’s just my heart.”

“Oh my God,” she sighs, pulling herself together. “I’m the worst.”

I nod, pretending to agree, stopping myself from saying, No, you’re the best.

When we finally stop laughing, we’ve somehow drawn even closer to each other. “It’s just that I’ve been obsessing about you and this, like, dream girl, and now . . .” She shakes her head for a moment and then looks at me so intensely, her cheeks flushed.

“What?” I ask her.

“I do care about your heart, you know.” She reaches out and lets her hand hover over the center of my chest, her fingers barely touching my shirt. “A lot, actually.”

I cover her hand with mine, pressing it flat against my chest. We’re so close now, and I wonder if she can feel my heart pounding through my shirt. She inches toward me and touches my face with her other hand, the way she had the night of the concert, so softly. I turn my head and kiss her palm, and as her hand moves down to my neck, she pulls herself closer to me. She leans in and presses her lips to my cheek for a moment before pulling back to look at me. Her other hand tightens around the fabric of my shirt, and her eyes dip down to focus on my mouth. I watch as she takes this tiny sip of air—God, I don’t know how I could’ve forgotten this detail. It used to get me every time, the way she’d always take that little breath right before she kissed me. I close my eyes, and I can feel the warmth of her mouth, our lips nearly touching.

I can barely catch my breath—because this is happening— but then, as I wait for her to close this impossibly small distance between us, her hand loosens its grip on my shirt and presses against my chest now. I open my eyes to see her backing away.

EDEN

I am two people right now. The first one wants to throw herself into this, into him. Her tunnel vision is focused only on how good it will feel, how right, how pure and honest. But the second girl? She doesn’t see him at all, really. She has X-ray vision. For her, the room is so cluttered with all the things that have happened here, he’s barely even there. She sees beyond the freshly painted walls and the new furniture and the clean linens and everything in perfect monochrome order, all the scars hiding underneath.

One of us pulls him closer, the other one pushes him away, and I hate them both because neither of them feels like me.

“I’m sorry,” I breathe.

“No, I am. Did I just really misread this?”

I don’t know what words to say to explain. I barely understand what’s going through my head right now, but I take his hands and hold them tightly because that’s all I can do. “You didn’t misread anything. It’s just . . . not here. I can’t. Not here,” I repeat, glancing around the room as if the walls are watching us. I feel like they can do that sometimes.

“That’s okay,” he says, so gently, though he must be even more confused than me.

“It happened here,” I try to explain. “You . . . you know what I’m talking about, right?”

I see the wave of recognition pass over his eyes. He squeezes my hands and nods. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Right. Of course.”

“That’s sort of what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Oh,” he breathes, straightening his posture. “Okay.” “No, not that. Don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried, you know you can talk to me about it.”

I close my eyes and shake my head. “No. I mean, thank you. But no. What I meant is I wanted to talk to you about the . . . the here part of everything.”

“The here part?” he repeats as if he might understand what that means if he says it out loud. “All right.”

“I know I’m not making any fucking sense and I’m all over the place.” “It’s okay, I’m following,” he says with a cautious smile. “Mostly.”

“I’m not trying to ignore what just happened. Or almost happened. I don’t want to forget about that. I’m not forgetting about it, believe me, but

—” I pull his hands toward me and lean over to kiss the backs of each of them. “Can we just put a pin in that for a minute? Or whatever that saying is. Because I really did want to talk to you about something.”

“Sure, we can do that. Yeah.”

“Okay.” I inhale and exhale, trying to get some of this tension out of me. In with the good, out with the bad, I tell myself, just like my therapist taught me. “You know I’ve been trying really hard to make things work here.”

He nods.

“But it’s just not,” I finally admit out loud. “And the more I think about it, the more I’m pretty sure it’s not going to. Like, I try to imagine myself here a year from now and I just don’t even see anything.” I pause to clear the thickness those words leave behind in my throat. “I can’t be here anymore. In this house, in this town. Too much has happened. I don’t fit anymore. I haven’t in a long time.”

“Mm-hmm,” he murmurs, nodding encouragingly. “I can understand why you’d feel that way.”

“So, I’ve been thinking about leaving.”

“Leaving?” His eyebrows pull together, and he shakes his head slightly. “What do you mean? Where would you go?”

“Well, what would you think if I applied to your school? Would that be weird for you or—”

“To Tucker?” he interrupts. “Are you kidding? No, that would be . . .” He pauses, searching for a word. “Perfect.”

“Yeah?” I exhale. “Really, you mean that?”

“Really, I mean it. Hundred percent—a thousand percent.”

I try to stop myself from smiling like this, but it’s hard not to when he’s smiling at me like that. “Okay, I’m really glad you said that because I did.”

“You did?” “And I got in.”

“Wait, you got in?” he says, too loudly for almost midnight. “And I think I really, really want to go.”

“You got in,” he repeats. “Seriously, Eden?” I nod.

“That’s amazing!” He throws his arms around me, and I suddenly feel freer already. “I’m so happy,” he whispers into my hair. “I’m so fucking happy for you.”

“You are?” I ask, hating how small and stupid my voice sounds.

As we pull apart, he tucks my hair behind both ears and holds my face in his hands for a moment, still smiling as he looks me in the eye. “Don’t ask me that; you know I am.” He kisses my forehead quickly, a peck, sweet and chaste. He holds my gaze for a moment longer and then scoots away from me, this time with his back against the wall. I sit directly next to him now, my back to the wall, my arm against his arm, my leg against his leg.

He’s suddenly so quiet.

“What are you thinking?” I ask him.

He shakes his head and says, “I don’t know, a lot of things.” “Like what?”

“Like I’m really proud of you—is that weird to say?”

“No,” I tell him. But I watch as he swallows hard and looks around my room, differently than he had before. “What else are you thinking?”

He turns his head to look at me, and he squints just a bit. “Honestly? I’m mostly trying not to think about you . . . in this room . . . him,” he adds, his speech halting.

“Sorry,” I say. Because maybe it wasn’t fair to put those thoughts in his head.

“Why are you sorry? I didn’t mean that like you shouldn’t have said anything about it; I’m glad you did. You have nothing to be sorry about.”

“Looks like such a nice room, doesn’t it?” I say, and I don’t know if I’m trying to make light or if I’m genuinely asking. I wanted him to understand how much I need to leave, but it’s hard to watch him actively seeing my life the way it really is, the way no one else seems to get.

“No, it doesn’t,” he says immediately. “Sorry, I just don’t know how you do it.”

“Do what?”

“Live in here . . . after everything.”

“I don’t. Not really. I mean, I can’t sleep in here very well. It’s a brand- new bed, but I still end up on the couch most nights. It’s better than before. All through high school, I literally slept on my floor in a sleeping bag. I— I’ve never told anyone that.”

He exhales a long stream of air and puts his arm around me. I let myself lean into his side. “The only time I slept in a real bed was at Mara’s house or—”

“Or what?” he asks.

“Or when I was with you,” I finish, stealing a quick glance up at him, and he’s watching me with the most devastated look on his face. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“I don’t know why I’m saying all this right now. I’m really tired.” I sigh. “I know I’m rambling and making this all weird and negative, aren’t I?”

“No, you’re not. Please don’t say that, okay?”

Before I can answer, he’s shifting away from me, and I think for a second that maybe I really have messed this up, but then he’s lying down, his head on my pillow, and he’s holding his arm open to the side. “Come here, I’ll stay till you fall asleep.”

“Really?”

“If that’s okay, yeah.”

I nod and crawl into the space next to him. “Comfortable?” he asks.

I sit back up because my hoodie is making me too hot. I only put it on because I was in pajamas and not wearing a bra, but that seems so silly now, so I unzip it, and he helps me pull my arms out of the sleeves. I lie back down, resting my head in that perfect spot I’ve tried to find on so many other people but has never felt quite like this.

“Want me to turn the light off?” he asks, reaching toward my desk for the stained-glass lamp.

“No, don’t.” It comes out too fast, and he draws his hand back, almost startled. “I mean, do you mind if we leave it on?”

“That’s fine,” he says softly. “Is that a thing you do? Keeping the light on?”

“I’m not, like, scared of the dark,” I try to explain, raising my head to look at him. “I just sort of am in here, that’s all. Yet another thing I’ve never told anyone.”

He doesn’t speak, just nods. I lay my head back down, let my arm rest across his stomach while his fingers trail up and down my bare skin like a lullaby.

“Eden?” he says so quietly I can barely hear him. “Can I ask you something?”

“Okay.”

His chest rises as he fills his lungs with air, and I can feel his heart beating faster beneath me. “When we were together, did I ever . . . ?” He pauses, and I wait. “I mean, I realize our relationship moved really fast and it started out very, um—”

“Sexual?” I offer, since this is clearly difficult for him.

“I was going to say physical, but yeah.” He pauses again and swallows before continuing. “And you were younger than I thought you were.”

“Because I lied to you.”

He ignores that, continues as if I hadn’t said anything. “Did I ever do anything that wasn’t okay with you or that made you feel . . . ? I mean, did I ever not listen or pressure you to—”

I see where he’s going with this, so I cut him off. “Josh, no.”

“No, don’t—” he says, and the way his voice is trembling, I have to look at him. “Don’t just say what you think I want to hear. I really need to know the truth. It’s killing me,” he adds, his words punching me in the heart.

“I am telling you the truth.”

“Sometimes I think back and I’m not sure anymore how well I treated you. It’s just, I knew something was wrong. Even the first time we were together. I knew, but I didn’t do any—”

“What were you supposed to do? You tried to ask me about it, and I basically told you to fuck off.”

“But I—”

“Stop. You never ever did anything wrong; I promise.” When I reach to touch his face, he takes my hand and holds it there against his cheek, looking into my eyes.

“You promise,” he repeats. “Really?”

“I do.” He lets go of my hand, and I lie back down against him. “Please, don’t even think that for a second, Josh. If anything, it was the opposite.”

“Okay,” he whispers, stroking my hair with one hand and holding my arm with the other. “I’ll let you sleep, I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right.”

He doesn’t think I hear it when he whispers, a few minutes later, “Thank you.”

JOSH

I stare at her ceiling for I don’t know how long. I should feel better, finally having my answer, but her words keep replaying in my head.

“The opposite,” I hear myself say out loud. “What’s the opposite?” “Hmm?” she mumbles.

“You said ‘if anything, it was the opposite,’ but what does that mean?”

“Oh,” she breathes, her voice already heavy with sleep. “I don’t know. You always made me feel . . . safe. Too safe, maybe.” She lets out the tiniest laugh. “Kind of ruined me for anyone else.”

“I don’t know how to take that,” I whisper, but I cling to that small laugh. “It’s just—you know, no one else is like you.”

Within seconds her breathing turns slower, deeper, as she drifts to sleep. “No one else is like you, either,” I say, even though I know she won’t

hear me.

The next thing I know, I’m opening my eyes, and I can tell I’ve been out for a while. Eden’s still asleep, her leg draped over mine now. I move slowly, reaching into my back pocket for my phone. It’s almost four o’clock. I shift her leg first, then, as carefully as I can, slip my arm out from behind her neck. I don’t want to wake her, but I don’t want to just leave, either. On her desk, near the lamp, there’s a stack of sticky notes and a jar of markers and pens.

To be continued . . . Sleep well, J

I cover her with the knit blanket that’s folded over the back of her chair and place the note on the pillow next to her.

I tiptoe through her house in the dark, barely even breathing. I don’t know who would be worse to run into in the middle of the night: one of her parents, who have no idea who I am and might think I’m some kind of intruder, or her brother. I make it to the entryway, where I scoop my shoes up and carry them the rest of the way. It’s not until I close the door behind me that I finally let myself exhale. I lean against the railing and try to balance myself while I slide my sneakers back on.

“Hey, Miller.”

“Jesus fuck!” I nearly fall down the steps when I look up and see her brother sitting there in the dark.

“Sorry,” he says. “I was trying to not scare you, actually.”

“No, it’s fine,” I say, struggling to get my other shoe on quickly, just in case I need to make a break for it. “Um, I know what this probably looks like, but I’m not sneaking out or anything like that.”

He laughs slowly. “Yeah, this is a little awkward, huh?” he mutters as he lights up a cigarette, illuminating his face, and that’s when I realize he’s got a whole collection of bottles next to him.

“You all right, man?” I ask him, because he looks rough as fuck. Nothing like the MVP, voted-most-likely-to-be-an-NBA-all-star-by-the-age-of- twenty guy I used to play with in high school; he barely even resembles that guy who beat me up at the New Year’s party.

He shrugs. “You want one?” he asks, nearly dropping the bottle of beer he’s trying to hand me. If I ever needed motivation to not drink again, this might just be it.

“No, I’m good. It’s late; I should probably get home.” He nods and opens the bottle for himself instead.

“Good seeing you, though,” I tell him, even though it’s actually sort of horrible seeing him. Like this, anyway.

“Miller?” he says, as I take one step off the porch. “Did you know?”

I don’t need to ask him what he’s talking about. “No, I didn’t know. I wish I had, honestly.”

“Is she okay, do you think?”

I’m not sure what to say, but I try to answer anyway. “I think she’s . . . doing her best. You should ask her yourself,” I add.

He nods but doesn’t say anything. I raise my hand to wave and take a step away from him. “Hey, for the record, Josh . . . ,” he calls after me. “I’m sorry for punching you in the face that time.”

“It’s all right,” I tell him. I take another step but stop and turn around again. “You know, I really do care about her. I always have. It was never what you thought.”

Caelin nods again and stands, taking a couple of unsteady steps toward me, extending his hand. And as I take it, he reaches around me to pat my back, much like we’d have done after a game back in the day. “I’m glad she has you . . . as a friend, or whatever,” he says.

“Yeah, well, I’m glad I have her too,” I tell him, hoping he’ll remember this conversation in the morning. “Take care, all right?”

“Yep. Later.”

By the time I’m pulling away from the house, he’s already inside.

EDEN

We stand in my driveway. All of us. Like the farewell scene in The Wizard of Oz. Except instead of ruby slippers, my magical transport is a borrowed beige Toyota. And, of course, I’m not going home; I’m leaving it.

It’s amazing how fast time passes when you’re trying to get your entire mess of a life in order. I had to quit my job at the Bean, register for classes, find a place to live, get a new job, and cram in as many appointments with my therapist as I could. I’m beyond exhausted.

But I did it. And now we’re here. Mara’s ugly crying, and, to everyone’s surprise, so is my dad, and it’s harder to hold it together than I thought it would be, even after taking an extra pill. But I do it.

“Eden, are you sure we can’t follow behind you?” my mom asks again. “Just to get you settled in.”

“No, it’s okay. Really, I have plenty of help there. And I’ll be home again next month for the . . .” I pause, meeting Caelin’s eye before he looks down at his feet. “Hearing,” I finish.

“Are you sure you didn’t forget anything?” she asks, looking back toward the house.

“Probably, but I can always get it next time.”

“Wish we at least knew this Joshua person you’re going to be living with,” my dad mutters.

“I’m not living with him, Dad,” I correct, not wanting to be too harsh, as these are probably the most words he’s said to me, or near me, since the dinner table fight. “We’ll just be in the same building.”

“I know him,” Caelin says. “He’s a decent guy.”

That seems to put my dad at ease, which sparks a tiny flame in my chest. Because why isn’t me knowing him, vouching for him, trusting him, good enough? My stomach clenches at that thought, extinguishing the fire before

it makes its way to my brain and I say something I’ll feel guilty for later. That’s not the way I want this to end. Or begin.

We all look at each other, then at Caelin’s car, filled to the brim with boxes and bags and my still-newish mattress wrapped in plastic and strapped to the top with bungee cords.

“Well,” Mom says, pressing her fingers to the corners of her eyes. “I hate this.”

“So do I,” Mara sobs.

I go to each of them—Mom, Dad, and Caelin. I hug them and tell them I love them. Mara, my scarecrow, I save for last. “I think I’ll miss you most of all,” I whisper in her ear.

“Stop,” she laughs, even as she whimpers, “I can’t believe you’re leaving.”

“You better visit me,” I say through her hair in my face and her arms clasped around my neck, her whole body shaking with sobs as I hug her back.

“Let us know when you get there,” my mom calls to me as I’m pulling out of the driveway.

I’m almost at the highway when I realize I don’t know where I’m going. I pull down a side street and park. I see a text from Amanda from fifteen minutes earlier.

All it says is: ur really coming back right

I wonder if she was watching us in my driveway. I can feel the panic coming off those words. She means coming back for the hearing. When I asked the DA if I had to, she said they could make me. Though she used the word “compel.” I guess Mandy doesn’t know that. I can’t deal with her right now. I shake the chills out and copy the address from Josh’s text and paste it into my navigator.

Take a breath. Begin again.

Twenty minutes into the drive, I almost die when I swerve into the left lane while trying to check my directions. The truck driver I nearly collided with honks twice and gives me the finger. But after I make it past the city limits, I’m feeling pretty good. The road is clear, and I’m driving fast with the window rolled down, radio on, the playlist Mara made for me blasting all the songs I know by heart. I start thinking maybe this wasn’t such a crazy idea, maybe this could actually be a good thing. The sky is gray, but it seems just right. Like the perfect day to try to change.

I text Josh my ETA at the halfway point, when I stop for gas and a bathroom break. I keep the radio off for the second leg of the trip. I hadn’t actually gotten this far in my plan. I mean, I know classes start in one week and that Monday morning I have new student orientation and a campus tour with a group of incoming freshmen like me. And that my roommate’s name is Parker Kim, a second-year undergrad on the women’s swim team, who lives in Josh’s building.

I slow down to the exact speed limit, try to prepare myself.

All our talks and texts have been strictly logistics. About the colossal shortage of student housing on campus and how all the apartment listings I sent him to check out for me were apparently in terrible neighborhoods and far from campus. About the vacancy in his friend’s apartment—her former roommate just moved in with their girlfriend and she needed a new roommate fast, almost as much as I did. “It’s perfect, right?” Josh had said. And I took it at face value, trying not to read too little or too much into him wanting me to be so close.

But for the past six weeks, throughout all the planning and preparing and back-and-forth, that almost-kiss has stayed pinned securely in place, not budging. The closest he’s come to giving me any kind of sign about what he’s thinking was when he sent me a link to a work-study job in the library, accompanied by some confusingly suggestive emojis.

You should apply for this. I remember you used to volunteer in the school library back when you were hiding from me . . .

And your

book club thing

I reread that text so many times, even had Mara analyze it. She was pretty sure he was flirting with me, but I’m still not convinced. I did, however, apply for the job, and after a five-minute phone interview, I got it. Twelve hours per week. I’d still have to find something else, but this would be a good start.

GPS says I’m only two minutes away now. I pull over several blocks from the building, swish some lukewarm bottled water around my mouth, and pop a breath mint. I am rummaging in my purse when my hand makes

contact with one of my now three prescription bottles. One for depression, one for sleeping, and one for when I’m actively having a panic attack. I consider taking another one, just to take the edge off. But instead, I apply a little lip gloss, pulling my windblown nest of hair back into a slightly less messy bun. Just in case. Of what exactly, I don’t know.

JOSH

I could barely sleep last night. I’m sitting with Parker on the roof of our building, drinking coffee, even though I’ve already had way too much caffeine today.

“Your leg bouncing is about to drive me crazy,” Parker tells me. “Do I need to cut you off?” she asks, gesturing to the mug trembling in my hand. I set it down, and the coffee sloshes over the side onto the table. I check my phone. Again.

“She should be here any minute.”

“Can I just ask,” Parker says, peering over the rim of her coffee mug at me, “is this weird nervous thing you’re doing anxiety or excitement?”

I’m not sure what to say because I really can’t distinguish between those two emotions right now.

“Because I’m getting some red flag vibes off you,” Parker continues, but I’m too busy staring at Eden’s last message, and Parker’s voice drifts to the background of my thoughts.

“Josh!” she shouts, snapping her fingers in my face. “Sorry, what?”

“She’s, like, cool, right?” she finally asks. “I’m gonna be living with this person, and your weirdness is giving me doubts!”

“No, she’s great, really. It’s me. I’m just not . . .” “Cool?”

“Funny.” I force a smile. “No, it’s just that we kinda left things unclear. About what we are. The lines between friendship and something more are just very blurred right now, and I don’t know what to expect.”

“Well, what do you want it to be?”

I shrug, wishing I could say with certainty that friendship would be enough. “I mean, I’ll take whatever she gives me.”

“Great, that sounds healthy. No drama there at all.” “Okay, obviously, I want more.”

She just keeps staring at me, a smirk stretching across her face. “You” is all she says.

“Me, what?”

“You . . .” She stands up and points her finger at me. “Better not cause drama with my roommate. Because then that means there’s drama with me.” Now she points at herself. “And I don’t do drama.”

“I don’t either.”

“Uh-huh.” She does not sound convinced. My phone dings. “She’s here.”

I jog down the first flight of stairs, Parker calling behind me, “Run, Josh- wah, run!” Quoting the movie we watched in our American History course, where we were randomly paired to work on a presentation together. It took me a full year before I understood that she didn’t actually hate me. She likes to tease and poke and jab.

And as I knock on my door, stick my head in—“D, she’s here!”—I wonder if I’ve made the best call in setting her up with Parker. Underneath, I know she’s a nice person, but she can have such a gruff exterior sometimes.

“Yeah, I’m coming,” Dominic yells as I close the door. I stop and wait for Parker to catch up.

“What?” she says.

“It’s just—you’re gonna be nice to her, right?” I try to ask as gently as possible.

“I’m always nice, you dick.”

“Okay, but she’s got a lot going on and—”

“Most girls do,” she says, cutting me off. “Josh, listen. I can read between the lines. I get it. I’ll be nice to her.” And for the first time maybe ever, there’s no hint of sarcasm in her voice, no shadow of a grin on her face. “Just don’t try to control so much.”

“All right,” Dominic says, appearing in the hallway between us, clapping his hands. “I’m ready. Let’s do this.”

“Okay,” I say—to both of them.

I walk down the next flight of stairs, forcing a slower pace, because Parker’s right, I can’t try to control what happens next. Outside, I see Eden’s brother’s car parked on the street in front of our building; it’s easy to

spot, overflowing with a mattress strapped to the top of the car. But I don’t see Eden. I bend down to look through the passenger-side window. Her phone’s sitting there in the cupholder, the lamp from her bedroom sticking out of the top of a bag on the floor.

“Relax,” Parker sings from behind me. “Besides, I think that’s her over there, isn’t it?”

I follow the direction Parker is looking, across the street, at a girl standing at the crosswalk. She has her hair pulled back and is wearing sunglasses, the strap of her bag pulled across her body, and she’s carrying a tray of drinks from the café on the corner. At first I don’t recognize her. I don’t know why exactly. I guess I was expecting her to seem out of place here, expecting to have to help her get acclimated, protect her, even. But she already looks like she belongs, like she’s always been here. The traffic light changes, and she starts walking toward us, waving when she spots me.

“Hi!” she says as she approaches us. “I come bearing frozen cappuccinos.”

Parker steps forward and says, “Oh, this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship, I can tell already.”

“You must be Parker,” Eden says, raising her sunglasses with her free hand.

“And you must be Eden.” Parker moves in with open arms but stops. “Are you a hugger?”

“Um, sure,” Eden says, her eyes flashing to mine just for a moment. “Yeah.”

“I’ve heard so much about you,” Parker says, giving Eden a hug— something I’ve never seen Parker do with anyone before. “Welcome to the building, to Tuck Hill, you’re gonna like it here, I promise.”

“Thank you,” Eden says. “I’m glad to be here.”

“Hello again, dear,” Dominic adds, not even hinting at any of his many misgivings he hasn’t been shy about sharing with me, as he pulls Eden into a brief one-armed hug. “I’ll gladly take one of those off your hands.”

“Good to see you again,” she tells him as she hands him one of the drinks she’s carrying, giving one to Parker as well.

And then her eyes meet mine. She smiles so brightly, I literally cannot find any words to say except “Hey, you.”

We step toward each other on the sidewalk, and as I put my arms around her, Parker takes the drink tray from Eden. And now I feel both her hands

pressed against my back, pulling me in. I allow myself to savor it for a moment, but because I would stay like this all day if we could, I let go first.

EDEN

I follow Parker up the stairs into my new life. She’s talking without any trouble the whole two flights, while I’m struggling to catch my breath. I guess it must be her swimming lungs. Or maybe I’ve been holding my breath so long, I don’t know what it’s like to breathe easily anymore.

“Laundry room is in the basement. Josh and D stay on the floor above us,” she’s saying as she leads me down a long narrow hallway. “Oh, and after this, remind one of us to show you our spot up on the roof.”

“Okay,” I manage to get out.

At the very end of the hall, she says, “Here we are, 2C. Home sweet home.”

Part of me also wonders if my racing heart is me not being used to stairs or my anxiety meds wearing off or if it might just have something to do with Josh and the rush of finally being able to hug him, touch him, in the daylight, in public, without fear of who might see us and what they might think or if I’m doing anything wrong or pretending it’s something it’s not.

She pushes the door open and holds her arm out, gesturing for me to walk in first. It’s a large, bright, open room. With windows on two walls. A well- worn formerly vibrant red couch sits in the middle. A small table with mismatched chairs in the corner. A tiny kitchen with old white appliances and a narrow bar that separates the space.

“I know it’s not much,” Parker says as I look around. “It’s small, and we share a bathroom, but it’s still way better than campus housing.”

“No, this is . . .” It’s neat and clean and nothing like home. As I take a step, the old hardwood floors creak under my feet. “I love it.”

“Your room’s this way,” she says, smiling as she leads me to a wooden door on the opposite side of the apartment. “My old roommate left a few

things. Just a dresser, bookcase, desk, and chair. We can get rid of them if you want, but I thought I’d leave it and see if you need any of them first.”

My room.

The wooden floors continue, and as I cross the threshold, it feels like the room is drawing me in. It’s smaller than my bedroom back home. But there’s a large window with a tree outside it, and the old, chipped furniture is warm and inviting. I run my hand along the top of the desk and feel the grooves of pen marks crisscrossed along the surface.

“What do you think?” Josh’s voice says behind me.

When I turn back around, Parker is gone and Josh is standing in the doorway with two of my bags at his feet, cradling my little stained-glass lamp in one arm like it’s a baby.

Our fingers touch as I take it from him, the brass body of the lamp warm from his hands. I bring my lamp over to the desk— my desk—plug it in at the wall socket, and turn the little key-shaped knob to switch it on.

“Perfect,” I say, turning back around to face him. He leans against the doorframe and smiles the way he always does. That perfectly imperfect smile of his. But this time it sparks something in me, like that key-shaped switch. Like I’m seeing him in full color for the very first time. My feet are frozen in place. But in my mind, I’m walking over to him. Because all I want to do is pull him inside the room, my room, close the door, take his hands in mine, and put them on me. I want to kiss him everywhere, feel his mouth on my skin. I want to—

“You okay?” he asks, picking up the bags and walking toward me like he’s definitely not thinking any of the things I am right now.

I swallow, watching his arms working so easily, so smoothly, as he sets the bags down next to the closet door. “Yeah. I’m just . . .” I bring the backs of my hands to my cheeks. They’re flaming. I’ve always been attracted to him, but this is different—this churning inside me is like a gnawing hunger but deeper. I usually have so many firewalls up when I start thinking about him, the sudden vividness of this fantasy catches me off guard. “Just hot. Warm,” I correct.

I don’t know what is happening to me. Is this just how I feel about him when I’m not filtering my emotions and censoring my every thought?

He walks past me, his arm just grazing mine, as he goes to the window. “Let me see if I can get this open. All these old windows stick really bad in the summer.” He unlocks the metal latch at the top and gives the wooden

frame a sharp jab before it squeals open, ushering in a fresh breeze, which hits my skin, cooling me down just enough to stop me from rushing over to him and acting out the things that won’t stop playing in my head.

“Thanks,” I tell him, reaching out as he passes me. My fingers catch the sleeve of his shirt, my hand grasping his forearm as he stops. I want to pull him in, want him to reach for me too, but he stands there and covers my hand with his for only a moment before letting go.

“No problem,” he says, all nonchalant, and goes to the doorway as if I were really only thanking him for opening the window.

I make my way downstairs, feeling slightly dizzy as my senses attune to him, just steps behind me. All day long we’re in such close contact, passing in the hallway, squeezing by each other on the stairs. Every single time I want to reach out to touch him. But he doesn’t seem to be having the same problem at all, and I don’t know what to make of that.

The day is only getting hotter and more humid when I find myself alone outside. I take one last sip of my now melted frozen cappuccino and decide I can at least try to undo the bungee cords holding the mattress and box spring in place.

Standing up on the inside of the car door, stretching on my tiptoes, I reach under the mattress, trying to feel the spot where the two hooks connect. I can’t see it, but I can feel it right at the edge of my fingertips.

“Don’t be a hero, Eden!” Parker calls out, suddenly behind me. “Let the guys get that one. It’s not anti-feminist, I promise. Or if it is, whatever, I won’t tell anyone.”

“I got it,” I say, even though I can feel my grip slipping.

“Here,” Josh says as he comes up behind me. I feel his leg next to mine, his hand resting on my back for a moment as he reaches his other arm around me, his body pressed up against mine now. “You almost had it,” he says with his hand moving along my arm to the place where my fingers almost reach the hook. He pulls the cords closer and says, his mouth painfully close to me, “Hold this side.” He slips the hook into my hand and then reaches farther, pressing tighter against me, to unclasp the two.

My heart stutters at the feeling of his body on me like this. He has to be feeling it too.

As he steps down, I lose my balance. “Oh, ya good?” he says, normal as anything, as he places his hands on my waist to stabilize me. If I turn

around, I’m afraid I won’t be able to look him in the eye without kissing him.

And because I don’t think I should do that here, in the middle of the street, I just mutter, “Yeah, all good.” I keep my back to him as I slip under his arms. I go stand at a safe distance on the sidewalk with Parker while we watch the two of them maneuver my mattress off the car.

I run up the steps to hold the front door open for them, and as Josh passes, he says, “Thanks.”

I let myself look up for only a split second, and I can tell he has all these questions in his eyes as if I’m the one being weird.

As the door swings closed behind them, Parker snorts a laugh.

“Well, then.” She breathes out an exaggerated sigh, almost a whistle. “You could cut that with a knife.”

“What?” I ask, even though, of course, I know. She tilts her head and smiles.

I press my hands to my cheeks again, feeling the blood simmering under the surface of my skin. “Um. So, food?” I say, instead of acknowledging what is apparently obvious to everyone around us. “I’m gonna order us some food. What’s good around here?”

Thirty minutes later, we’re all on the roof with a large pizza and a two-liter of soda. Dominic brought up paper plates and plastic cups and hands them to each of us.

Parker says, “You’re destroying the planet with these—you know that, right?”

Dominic doesn’t skip a beat. “No, the energy companies and big-ass corporations are destroying the planet. I am being thoughtful and making our hard-earned dinner a little more civilized.”

Josh scoots over on the wicker love seat, making room for me to sit down next to him. “You’ll get used to their bickering,” he says, smiling as he meets my eyes. It feels like the first time he’s even looked at me all day.

“No, it’s nice,” I say. And it is. My house has felt so dead these past months, with no one talking to each other. No one joking around. No one laughing. “This whole place is nice,” I add, taking in this little patch of space on the roof, filled with mismatched outdoor furniture, a patio table and chairs, potted plants.

With the sun finally retreating behind the taller buildings in the distance, a comfortable quiet washes over us as we sit with our slices of pizza. Until Dominic sees me trying to blot my oily fingers on a clean spot on my grease-stained paper plate.

“Oh shit, forgot . . .” He pulls a wad of napkins he’d had bunched up in his pocket and hands me one. ”Here you go.”

“More paper products?” Parker shouts through her last bite. “Well, you can just use your pants as a napkin if you prefer!”

Parker holds both hands up in the air and then brings them down against her thighs, smearing them all over her jeans. Dominic stands abruptly, commanding everyone’s attention, holds up one finger like he’s about to launch into some kind of serious monologue, but then his only response is “Ew.”

I can’t help but laugh, even though I’m not entirely sure how much they’re joking with each other. Next to me Josh exhales a short snicker but restrains himself.

Parker stands up with a satisfied grin on her face. “All right, kids. I’m gonna try to get in a swim before it gets too late.”

“And I have a hot date I need to get ready for,” Dominic says. “And by hot date, I mean a video call in my room.” My confusion must show on my face because he continues. “Me and Luke—you know him, I think, Lucas Ramirez from school?”

“Oh yeah,” I say. “He was a year ahead of me.”

“We’re doing the long-distance thing for now. Trying to convince him to come out here like you did, but—” He stops talking suddenly, and Josh sort of squirms next to me. “Well, I mean, not that it’s the same thing. I’m not saying you came here just to be with—”

“Oh-kay,” Josh interrupts. “Don’t wanna be late, do you?”

Parker puts both of her hands on Dominic’s back, steering him toward the door. “We’re leaving, but you two enjoy this totally unromantic sunset. Later, roomie.”

“Wow,” Josh breathes as they clamor for the door, their laughter echoing after it closes. “I’m sorry about them. They’re being weird and immature.”

“They’re fine.” What I really want to say is he’s the one who’s being weird and immature. “I like them.”

I set my paper plate on top of the empty pizza box and lean back into the cushions, feeling all the tension in my muscles coming to the surface. But

the view is beautiful as the light hits the buildings that make up the small city of the university and then a landscape of rolling green hills just beyond. So much nicer than the flat monotony of back home.

The breeze flows over us and rattles the leaves of the nearby trees, cooling my hot skin and sweat of the day. This would be the perfect moment for him to kiss me, talk to me, do literally anything to me.

JOSH

I’ve been waiting to be alone with her all day, trying so hard to play it cool and not force anything or make it awkward, but now we’re finally here and I’m not sure what to do.

“Well,” Eden says. “She wasn’t wrong about the sunset.”

I turn to look at her, how she’s watching the sky, the way it’s casting this golden creamsicle light over her, but the only thing I can think of as a response is “Yeah.”

She sighs and leans back, bringing her legs up onto the seat and crossing them beneath her. Turning her head from side to side, she sits up straight, then curves her back and starts kneading her shoulders with her hands. “God, I’m really out of shape,” she says with a small laugh.

There’s nothing I can think to say about her shape that will not incriminate me in some way, so I just sit here, trying not to look at her.

“I guess I’m not used to all the lifting and carrying,” she continues, rolling her shoulders forward and back.

“Oh, right,” I manage. “Josh?”

When I look up, she’s stopped moving around and is now staring at me. “Are you okay?”

“Me?” I ask. “Yes, why?”

“I don’t know. You’ve been really quiet all day.” She pauses. “Did I do something? Are you not happy I’m here?”

“No.” So my playing it cool has completely backfired. “Oh my God, no.

I’m happy you’re here; I’m just trying to give you space.” “Why, do you want me to give you space?”

“No,” I almost shout. “It’s not that at all. You just got here, and I don’t want you to feel like there’s any big rush to figure out what we’re doing.”

“Oh.” She nods, seeming to think about this for a few seconds. “Yeah, I didn’t get that at all.”

“Sorry,” I mumble. “I probably should’ve just come out and said that, huh?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be the good communicator in this relationship?” she says with a short laugh, but then quickly adds, “I mean, not relationship- relationship—you know what I mean.” She reaches around to the back of her neck again, squeezing the muscles while turning her head.

“Guess I’m slipping.” I feel slightly more relaxed after getting that out in the open . . . and seeing her fumble through the word relationship. “Do you need a hand?”

“Yes, please.” She pivots on the seat so her back is facing me. “I thought you’d never ask. It’s like, right here”—she runs her hand from her neck to her shoulder—“where it hurts.”

Her skin is warm as my hands dip under the collar of her T-shirt, and I have to exercise such restraint to not lean down and kiss that spot. I feel her whole body exhale and start to sway and melt under my hands. She makes these small moans every time I press down. I’m glad I’m sitting behind her so she can’t see how much her noises are affecting me. If I didn’t know her better, part of me would wonder if she was doing it on purpose to turn me on, but she doesn’t think like that. She doesn’t even know what she’s doing to me. She never did.

“All right,” I say, stopping abruptly because I want this too much right now.

“Oh, don’t stop,” she groans, glancing over her shoulder at me. “That felt so good.”

“Yeah, it was feeling a little too good to me too,” I mumble.

“What?” she asks, and I don’t know if she didn’t hear me or if she just doesn’t know what I mean.

I clear my throat, trying to decide if I should tell her or not. “N-nothing.” “No, what? Tell me.” She twists around so that she’s facing me now. “Eden, you—” I start, but I can’t help laughing. “You were . . .”

“What?” she repeats.

“You were making . . . sex noises.”

Her mouth opens and she gasps, and I watch as her face flushes right before my eyes. But I can tell she’s trying not to laugh too. “Oh my God, Josh!”

“What, you were!”

“I was not!” she shrieks, swatting at me before covering her face with her hands.

“You were too—I would know.”

Her laughter fades as she keeps gazing back and forth between me and the last remnants of color left over from the sunset.

“Sorry,” I tell her, trying to keep the lighthearted mood going a little longer. “I could only take so much.”

She sits back again and looks out at the darkening sky, shaking her head and letting out a little burst of laughter every so often. “Sex noises,” she scoffs. And then she turns toward me again. “Um, okay. So, speaking of . . . that,” she begins. “Is it time to take the pin out, you think?”

“It’s honestly your call.” I’m trying to keep the ball in her court, but it’s so hard to know when I’m giving her too much space or not enough. “For me, it’ll hold. I mean, if you want to wait or need more time, we can talk about it when we’re not totally exhausted.”

“Right.” She sighs and then immediately yawns. “It has been a big day.” “Yeah,” I agree. “I guess we should probably go in, huh? I’m sure you

have a lot of unpacking and stuff.”

She nods as she stands, then holds her hand out to help me up. I take it, and we sort of loosely hold hands as we walk across the roof deck.

We reach my floor first.

“So, this is me,” I tell her. “Want me to walk you down to yours?” “No, it’s all right.”

We stand in front of my door, and she moves in to hug me first, reaching up to wrap her arms around my neck. “I’m really glad you’re here,” I tell her one more time.

“So am I,” she whispers, her mouth close to my ear. “I’ve missed you.” She gives the side of my neck the smallest, faintest kiss before pulling away, leaving me with these shock waves radiating from my heart.

“Okay,” I say for absolutely no reason, probably blushing and grinning like an idiot. “Well, you know where to find me if you need me.”

She catches my hand as she moves away, giving it a tiny pulse before she lets me drift out of her grasp. “You too,” she adds, and there’s something in her tone, in her smile—is she flirting with me? God, don’t tempt me.

“Good night,” I call after her. She turns around when she reaches the end of the hall at the staircase and waves.

Inside, I can hear Dominic talking with Luke behind his bedroom door. I can still feel the press of her lips against my neck. I look at the time on my phone. It’s only eight thirty. What the fuck am I doing here? Why didn’t I just tell her that I can’t stop thinking about her, that the only thing I want to know in the world is what she’s thinking about us? For me, it’ll hold—is that what I actually said? I mean, it will. It has. For months, years.

I realize I’m pacing. I force my feet to stop. I go to the door, but my hand refuses to turn the knob. I should wait. I can wait. No, I can’t. I open the door and jog down the hallway, down the stairs, all the way to her door. I raise my hand to knock, but I don’t follow through. I start to head back the way I came but stop again. Go back. And now I’m essentially pacing again, but in her hallway this time.

She’s right there, I tell myself.

I go back to her door. I’m doing this.

I raise my hand and knock, too loud and fast.

There’s some shuffling on the other side of the door, and when she opens it, she looks surprised to see me standing there. Her hair is down now, sort of messy, and it just makes her look even more beautiful to me somehow.

“Hi,” she says.

I take a breath, bypass a greeting, and blurt out, “Eden, would you please go on a date with me tomorrow night?”

“A date?” she asks.

“Uh-huh. A date. With me. Tomorrow. Please.”

She looks down at her feet and smiles, and it takes everything to keep my hands in my pockets and not reach out to move her hair out of her face.

“Okay,” she agrees, finally lifting her head to look at me again. “Okay?” I repeat.

“Okay,” she says again, and lets out this small laugh.

“Okay.” I start to back away and nearly trip over my own feet like I’m a twelve-year-old and this is the first time I’ve ever asked a girl out.

“Good night,” she says. “Again.” “Good night again.”

She closes the door, and I’m halfway down the hall, feeling completely reenergized after this utterly exhausting day of trying to watch my every move and word and thought. But I could run a marathon right now. I pick up my pace, preparing to take the stairs two at a time, burn off some of this excitement, when I hear a door click and snap behind me.

“Josh, wait!”

I turn to see her skipping after me. When she reaches me, she stops quickly and takes a few fast, shallow breaths and stands so close, pausing for a moment before she reaches for my hands. “I just . . . um,” she starts but doesn’t finish. Instead, she lets her hands trail up the length of my arms, to my shoulders to my neck to my face, where I can feel her fingers trembling slightly against my cheek, her thumb grazing my bottom lip.

She opens her mouth and it looks like she’s going to say something else, but then she takes that tiny breath I love so much and tilts her head up to me. Her eyes search mine for my answer. I don’t think I could speak if I tried, but I nod because whatever the question, whatever she wants, my answer is always going to be yes.

Her lips are so soft as they part mine, her mouth warm, and as my tongue tastes hers, she kisses me harder. We breathe each other in, heavier and deeper and she’s making those sounds from the roof again, and I can’t even believe how good it feels to be kissing her. To only be kissing her.

My hands want her face and hair and arms and hips all at the same time. She holds on to my waist and pushes against me as I pull her closer, until we’re backing up into the wall, where my elbow lands with a thud. “Oh,” Eden breathes into my mouth as she places her hand between my elbow and the wall. And I have no idea why such a simple gesture should make my heart start pounding uncontrollably like this, but it does, and I want her to bring me back to her room so badly it hurts.

Someone opens their door, and we pull apart just in time to see the older man who lives in 2E poke his head out and mumble, “Get a goddamn room” before shutting the door again.

We look back at each other, and as much as I want to keep kissing her here, like this, for at least another few hours, we both bust out laughing.

“Sorry!” Eden calls in the direction of the closed door. “Not sorry,” she whispers to me.

I shake my head. “Definitely not.”

She brings both hands up to my shoulders and pulls me down just enough for her to kiss me one more time, softly, slowly. Resting her head against my chest, she sighs, and I can feel the warmth of her breath through my shirt. She looks up at me, placing her hand over my heart. “To be continued?” she asks.

I nod, but I can’t speak, can’t move. Even as she backs away and takes her hand from me, I replace it with mine, exactly where hers was, not wanting the feeling of her touching me to be gone. She drifts down the hall, turning around once to smile. She covers her mouth as she lets out the briefest giggle and jogs back to her door. I stand there for at least a full minute, just in case she comes back. But as I make my way up the stairs, slowly, one at a time, all I can think is: this is how it always should’ve been, how it should’ve started between us.

EDEN

I spent all day sending Mara pics of every outfit combination I have in my current wardrobe, which is not that much. She kept saying I should wear the one dress I brought with me, but a dress felt like too much pressure for our very first real date. There’s enough pressure after waiting for this for almost three years, I don’t need to add any more.

So, I opt for the jean shorts I wore the night of the concert. They’re newish and I know I caught him checking out my legs in them that night. A simple T-shirt with tiny yellow flowers. Pretty but not sexy. Sandals. I shave my legs and armpits. Because, just in case. I try to follow this video Mara sent me on cute styles for shoulder-length hair. I manage something with a twist and bobby pins that looks decent enough—from the front anyway. Lip gloss, mascara, bracelet, necklace, earrings.

He picks me up at eight o’clock on the dot, just like he said he would, and he looks and smells so good, I almost don’t want to go anywhere with him except back inside. But then he leans down and kisses me on the cheek, which makes me laugh for some reason. And when we get outside onto the sidewalk, he takes my hand, except it’s so tender and unexpected and honest that it makes me almost want to cry.

We hold hands as we take our time walking, smiling, and glancing over at each other for the entire three blocks it takes to get to the restaurant.

Nonna’s Little Italy is the name of the place. It’s small and dark and cozy, and I could smell the herbs and baking cheese and garlic and oil from the street. If comfort food could be an entire environment, this would be it. The woman who seats us does so with not many words, but she smiles warmly at us both when she hands us our menus. A second, younger man, comes by to leave a basket of freshly baked bread wrapped in the same kind of cloth napkin our silverware is tucked inside.

After we place our orders, Josh says, “So?” neatly pulling back the towel from the bread, like he’s trying not to rip wrapping paper on a gift. “How’s the date going for you so far? And don’t let the fact that I’ve been trying to plan this basically as long as we’ve known each other influence your answer in any way at all.”

“Well, for starters, you showed up on time. Looking very handsome, I might add.” I pause because, did I just say handsome out loud? I feel like I should be embarrassed, showing my hand so easily, but then . . . we’ve waited too long for games. That’s something old Eden would do. So, I force myself to add, “The kiss on the cheek was also a nice touch.”

“Oh, I’m glad,” he says, blushing. “I wasn’t sure that went over like I’d hoped.”

“No, it did,” I assure him. “And this place. You might as well have read my mind. Nonna’s Little Italy might be my new favorite restaurant, and I haven’t even tried the bread yet.”

He pushes the basket toward me, and I tear off a piece, still almost too hot to touch. But the butter melts into it perfectly. He waits for me to take a bite.

“And now that you’ve tried the bread?” he asks.

I take my time chewing and swallowing and open my mouth like I’m going to answer him but then take another bite, which makes him laugh, which makes me all warm and inexplicably soft inside. “Best date I’ve ever been on,” I answer.

“Wow. That’s better than I thought,” he says.

“Well, full disclosure. This is also kind of the only date I’ve ever been on.”

“Steve didn’t take you on dates?”

I had sort of forgotten Josh knew about Steve. In my mind, I was thinking more about the plethora of random guys I’d hooked up with after Josh—the ones I met at parties or other sordid drunk and high encounters. Faceless, mostly. Nameless. People I never saw again, let alone went out on dates with. “Not really,” I finally answer. “But not for lack of trying on his part,” I add, in Steve’s defense.

Josh looks down at his plate, and when he looks back up at me, he’s sort of grimacing. “Okay, that’s gotta be like first date rule number one, right? Don’t mention the other person’s ex. Jesus, maybe this is my first date too,” he tries to joke, taking a sip of water.

“No, it’s okay.” But now that it’s out there, I feel obligated to say something. “Steve was a pretty good person. We just should’ve only been friends, that’s all.”

Josh is nodding, and right as he’s about to say something, our food comes. We start eating in silence, and I worry I’ve somehow messed this up, but then Josh finally speaks. “So, does that mean you’re still friends with him?”

“You mean like you and I are still friends?” I ask. “Sort of,” he admits.

“No. We’re friends. But we’re not friends like you and I are friends. If you know what I mean?”

He smiles, both bright and bold, yet a little shy, all at the same time. “I think I know what you mean, yeah.”

“Good.” I twirl a bite of my pasta around my fork and stuff it in my mouth so I stop talking.

“And just so you know,” he says, “I’m not friends with anyone else right now either.”

“Noted.” And even I have to laugh at how nerdy and awkward we’re being. “Thank you for the information,” I add.

“You’re very welcome.”

Full of pasta and sauce and bread and cheese, we leave Nonna’s, but when we get outside, Josh starts walking in the opposite direction from which we came.

“Not this way?” I ask.

“The date’s not over yet,” he says. “There’s more?”

“Yeah, there’s sort of a whole theme.”

“I get a themed date?” I ask, genuinely impressed, flattered even. “What is it, the theme?”

“It’s more of a loose theme or . . . or a theme within a theme,” he says, motioning with his hands as he tries to explain.

We walk about half a block, past some apartment buildings that look a lot like ours, with storefronts at the ground level that are closed already. Old trees line the streets here, their roots pushing up the cement of the sidewalk into tiny mountains that make the ground uneven. Josh reaches for my hand

again and I let him. But he keeps holding on even after we pass the broken parts of the sidewalk.

“We’ve never done this,” he points out, interlacing his fingers with mine. “You always used to pull away when I’d try to hold your hand.”

I nod. “I like it now. It’s nice.” But it’s more than nice. And I more than like it. I just don’t know exactly how to say that.

He smiles at the ground, and I squeeze his hand once. He squeezes back. Like some kind of private Morse code between the two of us. We turn on a dark corner and the wind suddenly picks up, blowing our clothes and hair. I have the distinct thought that I wouldn’t want to be walking here alone at night without him.

“We’re close,” he says as if he can tell what I’m thinking.

We stop in front of a little shop I think is a coffeehouse at first, because the neon sign in the window says GREATER THAN > GROUNDS. As we walk in, a bell dings. There’s no one in sight, and when we step up to the counter, I see there are at least twenty different flavors of gelato lined up in the freezer case. The hand-lettered sign at the register says: COME FOR THE COFFEE, STAY FOR THE GELATO.

“Mm, gelato for dessert?” I ask.

“I took a chance,” he says, half squinting, half side-eyeing me like he’s holding his breath. “You do like gelato, then?”

“Well, yeah. I like ice cream, so . . .”

A girl pops up from behind the counter, proclaiming, as she straightens her glasses, “Gelato is not ice cream. Ice cream is not gelato. Gelato is a thousand times better than ice cream. It’s just a fact.”

“I agree,” Josh says, but he barely glances at her, this girl who kind of reminds me of myself in a weird way. Maybe it’s just the glasses and the similar hair and height, but I find myself imagining her as an alternate- universe version of myself.

She puts on a fresh pair of plastic gloves and says, “My name is Chelsea. I’ll be your barista today.” And then she sighs, like saying her name is the worst part of her job. “Let me know if you want to sample any flavors.”

“Thanks,” Josh tells her as we peruse the selections.

I can’t help glancing over at her. She’s looking at Josh—of course, I understand why—and when she sees me noticing, she pushes her glasses up, just like I always used to do when I was nervous.

“Um, can I try the pistachio mint?” I ask her.

She shovels a tiny plastic spoonful and hands it to me across the counter. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see that Josh is watching me put it in my mouth. “What?”

“Nothing. It’s just, pistachio mint? What are you, a senior citizen?” “It’s good! Here, try,” I tell him, hovering the spoon in front of his face.

“Gross, keep your old-person pistachio mint.” The barista, Chelsea, sighs again, thoroughly unamused. Part of me wonders if she’s looking at me and looking at Josh and wondering how— why—he’s here with me and not giving her a second glance when we’re so similar.

“Can I try the chocolate peanut butter?” Josh says, either not picking up on the barista’s annoyance or just not caring. She gives Josh his sample, and we both watch him as he presses the spoon onto his tongue and closes his eyes.

“Chocolate peanut butter, really? That’s what does it for you?”

“What’s wrong with chocolate peanut butter? It’s a classic flavor combination.”

“I know I’m in the minority, but there are just some things that don’t go together.”

The barista says, completely monotone, “Oh my God, take it back.”

Josh looks at the barista, then at me, and for a second I wonder if he sees it too. But then he says, “Okay, I’m sorry, but this isn’t gonna work out after all.” He turns like he’s going for the door, and I try to laugh because I know he’s joking, but then, out of nowhere, I collide into this wall of panic that rushes into me at the thought of him saying that for real someday.

I reach for him, but he floats through my fingers because they’re going all tingly. Time seems to expand in the second he takes to stop and turn back around and pull me into his arms.

“Just kidding,” he whispers into my hair. He looks down at me and kisses my lips, quickly. Time resets. And I’m here, I tell myself, I’m okay. I can keep myself here.

I see: Josh. I feel: Josh. I hear: Josh. I smell: Josh. I taste: Josh.

He brings his hand to my neck and tilts my face toward him. “You know I’m just kidding, right?” he says quietly, sweeping his thumb across my cheek.

“Yeah,” I breathe, finding my voice again. Not disappearing. Not tonight.

Not with him.

The barista clears her throat and says loudly, “So, one pistachio mint and one chocolate peanut butter?”

I look at her again, and maybe I don’t see as much of a resemblance anymore. She is just a girl named Chelsea who has her own life and will probably never think about us again after we walk out of here. “Yes, please,” I answer, stepping away from Josh and feeling my feet and hands and legs and arms regaining their strength as I walk up to the register.

“I can get it, Eden,” Josh says.

“No, I insist,” I tell him. “You got dinner; I’m getting dessert.” “Okay,” he agrees. “Thank you.”

Chelsea slides our cups of gelato across the counter and says, “Have a good night,” adding, under her breath, “I’m sure you will.”

We take our little paper cups of gelato and tiny flat spoons to go, eating as Josh leads us down the street. “So, I sorta got the feeling that girl didn’t like us very much,” he says with a laugh.

“Well, in her defense we were being a tad . . . cute.”

“You mean you were.” He nudges me in the arm, but I sidestep the sweet comment because even though I’m trying here, I’m still me, and I still can’t seem to acknowledge even the most innocent compliment.

“So, I’d like to guess at the theme of the evening.”

“Okay,” he says, scraping the sides of his dish and licking his mini spoon.

“Something Italian, obviously,” I say, tapping my chin with my finger and pretending to give this my serious and undivided attention. “Delicious Italian foods?”

“Clo-ose,” he says, drawing the word out. “Remember, though, it’s more of a theme within a theme. We do still have one more stop.”

“Are you taking me to Italy next?”

“Yeah.” He smiles as he tosses his cup into a garbage can. “I wish.”

“I have one more bite of my pistachio mint. You sure you don’t wanna try? It’s really good, I promise. I wouldn’t steer you wrong.”

He studies the contents of my cup and then says, “Okay, I’ll try.”

I gather a spoonful and then can’t decide if I should hand it to him or feed it to him. He laughs at my awkwardness and ducks his head to meet the spoon, holding my hand in his as he brings it to his mouth. He watches me while he tastes it. And there’s something almost unbearably intimate about

this moment, standing on the sidewalk on an empty street, the wind picking up all around us, my hand still in his while we pause, taste, savor.

Slowly, he begins to nod. “Hmm.” “Hmm . . . good?”

“Different,” he says, licking his lips. “It’s different than I thought it would be, but I kinda like it. Actually, I really like it.”

“See?”

He takes my empty cup and spoon and tosses them into the garbage can a few steps away, and when he comes back, he stands in front of me and touches my cheek again, the way he had in the shop. He presses his lips to mine so softly, not rushed like before, and as I kiss him back, I can taste all the flavors.

“I wanted to make up for that weird little spur-of-the-moment kiss back there and couldn’t wait until the end of the night.” He holds his hand out for me to take again and adds, “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. I liked them both.” I squeeze his hand again, and he squeezes back as we keep walking in the direction of campus.

We enter a parklike setting right off the street. I read the sign out loud. “Tucker Hill Memorial Garden. Is this part of the school?”

“It is, yeah. I used to live over here my first year,” he says, pointing farther down the street. “And this is how I would get on campus every day.” “It’s really pretty here,” I tell him. We continue down this little pathway through the garden. There are different types of plants and flowers, with benches parked under trees every so often, small lights that shine along the

way, plaques engraved with people’s names adorning everything in sight.

“Confession,” Josh says, giving my hand a squeeze. “I actually used to think about you all the time when I came through here.”

“You did?” I ask, feeling my heart racing at the thought of him here, thinking of me.

He nods. “Why?”

He shrugs. “It’s always quiet here and beautiful—every season has different things in bloom. It’s also a little sad, but peaceful. I guess I kind of thought this might be your sort of thing.”

I let his words sink in as I catch a long sweeping branch of a young willow tree and let it fall through my hand as we walk. When I turn my

head to look back at him, he’s already watching me. I let go of his hand and loop my arm with his instead, wanting him closer.

“What are you thinking?” he asks. “Am I talking too much?”

“No, I love when you talk to me.” He pulls me in closer, and our feet kind of stumble into each other. “It just catches me off guard every time you do that.”

“Do what?”

“Just . . . get me. So right, so often.”

“Well, I can’t take all the credit,” he says, seeming to sidestep my compliment this time. “There’s one more part up here that deserves most of it.”

I can’t imagine what he means by that, but as we continue down the foliage-lined pathway, I see there’s a light ahead, a clearing that opens up into a larger space. As we get closer, I can hear water running, splashing.

“Wow,” I say, letting go of Josh’s arm to get a better look. It’s a fountain in the shape of an apple, made of stone and metal and sitting on a giant circle of granite, no barrier to prevent anyone from walking right up to it. And so I do. But when I get too close, water spouts begin spraying all around it, like a challenge to try to walk through and remain dry. The exterior of the apple is shiny red like a fire engine, and the water sprays out of the top where the stem curves up and over the side of the apple, a metal leaf dangling in the wind, held there by a wire or chain of some sort.

But as I walk around to get the full view, I see the other side of the apple is carved out, meant to look like there have been giant bites taken out of the fruit, leaving the hourglass shape of the core behind, and the seeds, made of a dark metal, all overflowing with water. Inside the round part of the apple, there’s a bench with two sculpted seats in the shape of leaves, just like the metal leaf from the stem, shielded from the waterfalls. It reminds me of the pumpkin carriage from Cinderella, except grittier, less elegant . . . more dangerous and even sensual, somehow.

Josh stands in place, waiting for me to come back around—I guess he’s seen it enough times. “This is really . . . ,” I begin as I make my way back to him. “I’ve never seen anything like this. It’s strangely . . . beautiful.”

He’s smiling as he watches me, and then he points to something on the ground in front of him. I come to stand next to him and look down. There’s a plaque there that reads:

FONTANA DELL’EDEN / FOUNTAIN OF EDEN.

“Oh my God,” I say.

“See, I can’t take all the credit,” he repeats.

“The apple thing makes more sense now,” I say, looking at the fountain again.

“I’m glad you like it.”

“I’m surprised you like it—it’s so edgy and weird.”

“I like edgy and weird,” he says as he moves the strand of hair that’s fallen out of my half-assed attempt at an updo. “My favorite person in the world is a little edgy and weird, herself.”

“Josh,” I begin, but I don’t really know what to say.

He stares into the water, lights shining up from underneath, casting reflections of movement all around us.

“Every day, when I would pass by, seeing your name there, I would sort of daydream about you being here. Or me bringing you here.”

“You know I thought about you too, right?” He nods, taking both of my hands.

But I need him to really know. “It’s not that I just thought about you, though. I . . .” Ached is the word I’m having trouble getting out.

“I know,” he says softly, but I wonder if he really does. “You know, I always thought if we got a second chance, I wanted to do it right this time,” he continues, drawing his eyebrows together. “Do you know what I mean?”

This time I nod.

“Because I want this with you,” he says, eyes fastened to mine. “I really do.”

“I do too,” I tell him. “More than anything.”

He smiles now, and I can see his whole body relax, his grip on my hands loosening. “So, then . . . we’re doing this for real this time?”

JOSH

My words hang there in the space between us, my heart racing while I wait. I keep imagining that I’m missing her answer in the sound of the falling water. But then she starts nodding.

“Yes,” she finally answers.

We stand there holding hands, smiling at each other. I lean down and try to kiss her, but she backs up a couple of steps. I’m confused. She doesn’t let go of my hands and doesn’t stop smiling either. Is she . . . playing with me? She’s changed—it’s not the first time I’ve thought it over the last few months, but it’s the first time I know for sure it’s true.

“No?” I ask her.

She shakes her head.

“No kiss, not even after my big speech?” I joke with her, trying my best to play along.

“You’ll get your kiss, don’t worry,” she says, pulling me by the arm as she moves closer to the fountain. “Come with me.”

She walks me around to the opposite side of the fountain, our footsteps setting off the series of what must be motion-activated streams of water shooting out from the platform and arching over the walkway.

“See that little bench inside?” She points to the metal bench of vines and leaves on the other side of the cascading water. “Let’s go,” she says, holding my hand tighter.

“Go?”

“Yeah, we can make it.”

I look around. There’s no one here and probably no one nearby on a Sunday night when the semester isn’t even in session yet. “I don’t think we’re supposed to—” But before I even finish my sentence, she drops my

hand and is racing forward under the tunnel of water. “Wait, what are you doing?” I shout after her.

She outran it, though. She turns and makes this adorable whoop sound from underneath the apple, still dry. “Come on!” she calls, motioning me forward with her hands.

I laugh to myself because I’m going to have to do this now. “Ready?” she yells. “Go!”

I start but stop.

“Josh, come on! You have to just do it. Run. Now!”

So, I do. I run, either too fast or too slow, and end up getting hit full-on by every single stream of water. By the time I reach her, I am soaked all the way through my clothes.

She’s covering her mouth, laughing. “Oops,” she mumbles through her hand. “Or maybe you should’ve waited.”

“Oh, that’s funny?” I wrap her in my arms, and she lets out this gasp- shriek as my cold wet clothes press against her, my hair dripping down onto her face as she looks up at me.

“Okay, okay,” she shouts. Then she pushes my hair back and slides her hands down my neck, letting them rest on my shoulders. And like always, she takes that small breath of air, slowly letting it out as she kisses me, deeper, more fully.

My hands follow down the curve of her back to her waist, fitting perfectly over her hips. She lets me pull her even closer, raising herself onto her toes to reach my mouth. I tighten my arms around her and lift her just enough for our mouths to find each other. Our kiss deepens, and as I feel the full weight of her body against me now, I just want more of her.

“Hold on to me,” I whisper, and she folds her arms around the back of my neck. I reach down and place my hands under her thighs and hoist them up around my waist. She inhales sharply and lets out this soft breathy cry.

“Okay,” she says, her lips moving against mine. I can feel the muscles in her arms and legs contract all around me. “I’m not laughing anymore.”

“Me neither,” I tell her between kisses, my breathing growing faster, with hers. I feel her lungs expand against my chest as she opens her mouth to take a deep breath. I kiss her neck, damp with the spray of water bouncing off the walls.

“God,” she exhales.

I look up at her, and her eyes are so bright, even in the dark, and I don’t think I have ever wanted anything or anyone, even her, more than I do right now.

She looks at me like she’s going to say something else but kisses me instead. I take a few steps to move us to the wall, so I can get a better grip on her, but as her back presses against the dome shape of the apple, she lets out a short scream. Her whole body tenses and jerks, and I realize I’ve just walked her right into a stream of water, as it now cascades over her.

I pull back and set her down on the ground, and she stands there frozen for a moment, mouth open. “I’m so sorry,” I tell her.

“Cold,” she says, drenched head to toe. “That was really cold.” She gasps as she looks at me. “Did you do that on purpose?”

“I swear, I would not have purposely interrupted what was just happening.” But now I’m the one covering my mouth to laugh.

“Oh, I see,” she says, taking my hands. “You were just seducing me so you could have your revenge.”

“No—” I start to say, but then she pulls me forward into her arms, so that we’re both directly under the water. “Oh!” I shudder. “Holy shit, that is fucking freezing.”

“I know, it is!” She laughs and kisses me once more. “Can you take me home now?”

“Yes,” I tell her, and I hold out my arm. “Will you stay with me tonight?”

We’re trying to be quiet as we enter our building, but by the time we get to her door, leaving puddles in our wake, our shoes squeaking and squelching, we’re both laughing hysterically.

“Oh my God,” Eden groans, as she wipes under her eye and pulls her hand away with a black smear left on it. “What do I even look like right now?”

“Beautiful,” I answer.

But she just sort of rolls her eyes dismissively and starts taking her hair down. “Will you give me a few minutes?” she asks. “I’m just going to take care of . . . this situation here,” she says, floating her hand in a circle in front of her face.

“You look beautiful,” I try again.

She doesn’t acknowledge what I’ve said, but she does kiss me.

“Okay, I’m gonna run upstairs and take care of this”—I look down at my drenched clothing—“situation too.”

She laughs silently but then says, more seriously, “You’re coming back though, right?”

“Of course.”

“If I’m not out of the bathroom, just come in and wait in my room, okay?” she whispers. “I’ll leave this unlocked.”

Dominic is standing in the kitchen eating cereal when I walk in. “What the hell?” he says, turning to look out the window. “Is it raining?”

“Nope,” I tell him, rushing past without explaining.

I brush my teeth and take the world’s quickest shower to wash the chlorine smell off my skin. I hang my wet clothes on the back of my door and get into clean ones. T-shirt, boxer briefs, because they’re comfortable and I also read somewhere that women find them the sexiest, a statistic I didn’t think I cared about or even remembered before, well, this very moment. I go back and forth about jeans versus shorts—Dominic’s voice in my head telling me cargoes should be outlawed—but if we’re just in her room, sleeping, it can be casual. I decide to go with one of my newer pairs of athletic shorts. I hesitate at my nightstand, not sure if I should bring them. Is it presumptuous or just being prepared? I open the drawer and decide to take one, just in case.

In the kitchen, Dominic is watching me rush around. “Do I look all right?”

“All right for . . . what?” he asks, this horrified yet baffled expression twisting his face.

“Sleeping over,” I admit.

“Do you really want to have this conversation?”

“No, actually.” I grab a bottle of water from our fridge. “Thank you.

Gotta go.”

“Have fun, stud,” he calls after me. “Remember, practice in the morning

—don’t overexert yourself!”

I’m back at her door within ten minutes. I knock quietly before I open it and tiptoe through their kitchen, past the straight line of light from under the bathroom door.

I let myself into her room. I would sit, but she has a bunch of clothes spread out on her bed and chair. So I stand in the center of her tiny room

instead. It’s dark except for the dim light coming from the small lamp on her desk, and it reminds me of when I was in her room back home. How oppressive it felt in there.

But this room feels like Eden already. I admire her things spread out all haphazardly. She has her laptop open on her desk with a music app on pause and a copy of this year’s course catalog and some other books and papers teetering dangerously close to the edge. But that’s when something else on her desk catches my eye. Three prescription bottles, tucked in behind a tube of lotion and some hair products.

It’s none of my business, God, how I know that.

But, my brain insists.

Because all my stupid brain can think of is my dad and his problems, all the times he would hide pills and bottles—all the times we’d have to hide them from him. She’s not my dad, though. She told me all that stuff was in the past, and I believe her.

The sound of the shower turning off carries through the quiet of the apartment.

“All right,” I say out loud, taking a deep breath and forcing myself to look at something else. Her bookcase. Perfect. I go over, but I can’t seem to focus enough to read a single title. I walk back over to her desk and glance at the closed door once more.

I don’t need to know what they are; I just need to know that they’re hers. Carefully, I reach for the first one, memorizing their exact positions. Her name’s on the label. And the second one. And the third. All prescribed to her. By a doctor in our hometown. Nothing wrong with any of this. It’s absolutely none of my business.

But, again.

Now I do kind of need to know, at least, what they’re not. And I still hear the fan going in the bathroom.

God, I hate myself.

I go back to her desk. The labels don’t say what they’re for, but I also don’t recognize the names, which is a good thing. The only drug names I’m familiar with—because of my dad, of course— are the dangerous pain- related controlled substances. And at least these aren’t that. The first one says to take once a day, the second is one tablet at night, and the third says as needed. All have refills. I set them back down in their spots.

There is no reason for me to fixate on this. It’s not even surprising that she would be on some kind of medication after everything she’s been through. Fuck, I should probably be medicated too.

Just then, the fan shuts off, and I hear the bathroom door creak open. Quickly, I park myself in front of her bookcase, bending down to slide one of the books out, as if I’d been standing here reading the jacket this whole time.

“Hey,” she whispers. “You’re here.”

And as I turn around to see her face, the glorious fruit and flower scents following along behind her, I can almost forget about the things that are none of my business. “Of course I’m here,” I tell her, setting the book down as she starts walking toward me.

But then she stops short, looking at her desk, and my heart starts racing like she might be able to tell I’ve handled the bottles. “I’m sorry it’s so messy in here.” She turns around and gathers up all the clothes from her bed and tosses them on top of the desk, covering all the stuff I am now pretty certain she didn’t want me to see.

“No, I—I don’t mind. I mean, it’s really not messy,” I lie.

She comes to me now and wraps her arms around my waist. “It is messy, but that’s only because I was super nervous getting ready for an important date with this guy I really like.”

And now I genuinely fucking hate myself. But coming clean wouldn’t make me feel any less guilty and would only make her think I don’t trust her or she can’t trust me. There’s no reason to ruin what has been an amazing night because I’m paranoid that everyone I love is going to turn into an addict.

I clear my throat, breathe her in, and say, “Oh?” As she looks up at me, I lean down to kiss her. “Think you’ll see him again?”

She smiles and lets out a small laugh as she presses her cheek against my chest, her wet hair leaving a damp spot on my shirt.

“Tonight was the most fun I’ve had in a really long time,” I tell her, a different truth, instead. And it was fun, but it was also equally sexy and romantic and meaningful, but I’m not sure how to say all that.

“Hmm, me too,” she sings. “But—”

“But what?” I ask, starting to get worried. Is she already having second thoughts?

“You have to tell me the theme.”

“Oh.” I exhale too forcefully, but she doesn’t seem to notice.

“I mean, Italian restaurant. Italian dessert. Italian fountain. That’s the theme within the theme part, right?”

“Right.”

“So, what’s the bigger theme? I still don’t think I got it.”

“You. Being here. Me. Being so beyond happy about you being here. I guess that’s the real theme I was going for.”

“Oh.” She pauses. “Well, then, I guess I did get it, after all.”

“Good.” I touch her cheeks where they’re blushing. “You know, I feel like I’m getting to see this whole other side of you here,” I tell her, moving my hands through her wet hair.

“Really?” She brings her hands up around my neck and looks at me with this easy smile. “You didn’t know I could be fun before?”

“I did, but I’m realizing you’re also kind of . . . wild.” “Me?” she gasps. “What about you?”

“What about me? I assure you no one has ever once accused me of being wild. Responsible, dependable, sensible?” I count them on my fingers as I list the words. “Yes. Wild? Never.”

“Do I need to replay the footage from that whole steamy fountain kissing scene?” she asks, and her fingers are so light as they dance up and down my arms that I feel momentarily dizzy. “Because that seems to be playing on a loop in my head right now. The part before you walked me into a freezing waterfall, I mean.” She pauses to let her grin disappear before she continues, more serious. “The part right before that was . . . intense.”

I lean to kiss her neck just so she doesn’t see my face turning red, but I pull myself together and look at her again, so she knows. “I never would’ve done that with anyone else.”

“Me neither.”

My hands go to her bare arms. She’s wearing only a thin tank top and shorts, and as I lean down to kiss the other side of her neck, I can’t help but notice that she’s not wearing a bra. She touches my face and brings my mouth to hers while her fingers trail up my stomach, under my shirt.

“Can we take this off?” she asks me as her hands start to push my shirt up. Something in me melts a little at the way she said “we.”

So we do. We pull my shirt off over my head together and let it fall to the floor, but before I can start kissing her again, I feel her mouth planting these

soft, warm kisses across my chest and stomach, sending chills through my whole body.

“Oh God,” I breathe. “That feels so good.”

She takes my hands from where I lost my train of thought and left them perched lazily in her hair and presses them against her over the front of her shirt. I raise her shirt just enough to touch her skin, and then her hands are there too, moving my hands up under the fabric, over the gentle curve of her stomach.

“This is okay?” I ask, even though she’s the one who placed my hands there. “Can we . . . ?” I begin, suddenly unable to finish the sentence. “Can we take this off too?”

“Mm-hmm,” she murmurs, her voice muffled as she pulls the shirt off over her head. She brings her arms in front of her chest and moves in close to me before I can really look at her. The feeling of her bare skin, her body pressed against mine, has my heart going so fast. Even though I’ve seen every naked inch of her so many times before, this feels brand-new. Because it’s not only her attitude that’s changed in all this time apart, but it’s her body too—every part of her fuller, stronger, softer, from the arch of her back to the shape of her shoulders, her thighs and hips and waist—I need this minute to prepare myself. I take a deep breath as her fingers work under the band of my shorts, hands roaming gently over my carefully selected underwear, gradually edging the athletic shorts down over my hips.

“Can I?” she asks as she pulls away to let space in between us.

I finally look down at her, and she is so much more magnificent than I remember, all I can manage to do is nod. She slides my shorts down my legs and onto the floor, then quickly slides hers off too, and I hold her hands as she steps out of them. And we stand in front of each other, in only underwear, for the first time in years.

“You are so beautiful,” I tell her, squeezing her hands in mine like we’d been doing all night. “I know you’re gonna keep ignoring me when I say that, but I wish you wouldn’t because I really mean it.”

“Sorry.” She shakes her head but smiles in that rare shy way she does sometimes, only for a moment. “I’m nervous,” she whispers.

“It’s okay, I am too,” I assure her. I’ve had sex with five people in my life

—two casual, three relationships, including her—and I feel as nervous as if this were my first time.

“I didn’t think I would be so nervous,” she says.

“We don’t have to do anything tonight.” She pauses, studying my face.

It’s almost like she’s trying to determine if I really mean that or not—she should know I do, but in case she doesn’t, I add, “Have I ever told you what an amazing kisser you are?”

She grins. “No, you’ve never mentioned that.”

“Well, you are the best kisser in the world—hey, you’re laughing, but I’m completely serious,” I tell her. “And I would seriously be more than happy to just lie down with you here and keep kissing you. We really don’t have to do anything else.”

“I know. Thank you for that.” She inhales deeply and exhales before continuing. “But I want to. I mean, if you do.”

“Oh, I do.” I look down, feeling like I should somehow apologize for not having more control over myself. “Obviously, I do. There’s no rush, though.”

She nods, placing my hands on her hips like she knows how much I love the way they feel. And as she reaches out, running her hands along my face and down my chest and stomach, she’s not even trying to hide the fact that she’s looking at my body. Staring. Gazing. I have the urge to make some kind of stupid joke, like hey lady, my eyes are up here, because standing in front of her like this, under her hands, her eyes on me, it’s intense—that was the word she used earlier—almost too intense to bear.

“You are so gorgeous,” she whispers.

“W-what?” I stutter. There’s literally nothing she could’ve said that would’ve shocked me more. She’s never said anything remotely like that to me before. I almost think she’s joking. But then she lets her hands float down my back and rest on my hips. And it doesn’t feel like a joke at all.

“Do you even know?” she asks, and her eyes meet mine again like she’s expecting an answer.

EDEN

There was a time when I was afraid to look at him too closely. Afraid of how beautiful his body was, afraid of the things he could do, the ways he could hurt me with it.

But not now, not anymore. Right now I’m not afraid of anything. I can’t stop watching his face as I touch him. His eyes are closed like they were earlier, with the bite of gelato melting on his tongue.

“Eden . . . ,” he says, breathless, as he pulls my hand away and places it on his chest instead.

“Sorry, was that not—”

“Oh my God, no.” He smooths my hair back and touches my lips. “That was . . .” He shakes his head almost imperceptibly, and I can feel his heart racing under my hand. “I just need a second. It’s been a while since I’ve done this. And . . . I just need to slow down for a second.”

“Oh,” I say awkwardly, “okay.” I back away from him and try to cover myself with my arms as I sit down on the edge of the bed. But then he’s right there with me a moment later, like it’s a choreographed dance, suddenly kneeling on the floor in front of me so we’re at eye level. He kisses my knees and lets out a long sigh, laying his head on my lap. It feels so strange and sweet and vulnerable, I reach out and run my hands down his back, through his hair, still damp.

He raises his head slowly and kisses my thighs, running his hands up and down my legs, moving forward as I part them, wanting to let him come closer. I lie back on the bed and pull him down on top of me. I can feel my pulse everywhere, all at once. He places his arm behind my back—if he tells me to hold on to him again, I might go into cardiac arrest—but he doesn’t; he somehow manages to gracefully scoot us up on the bed so that my head is resting on the pillow.

“Thanks,” I whisper.

We start this sort of slow kiss, rocking our bodies together, and it feels so good to be this close to him. I’m holding my breath as his hand travels down my body until he’s touching me over my underwear. “Is this okay?” he whispers, kissing my neck right under my ear.

I manage to gather enough air in my lungs to say, “Yes.”

And then his hand, so warm against my stomach, dips down beneath my underwear, and I switch from barely breathing to breathing too fast. My heart races while he takes his time. Moving down my body slowly kissing, kissing everywhere, and when he rakes his teeth along my hip bone, I don’t even know what involuntary sound it is that I make. He gets to my underwear, and I don’t know what more I can possibly take. I have to close my eyes.

“Can I?” he asks, his fingers curling under the elastic band. I nod, and he must be looking at my face because he breathes, “Okay,” and starts sliding my underwear down. I open my eyes again, and he’s there kneeling between my legs, kissing my ankles, then my calves and knees. When he gets to my inner thighs, his mouth trailing closer and closer, I start to lose track of myself. He lowers himself to his stomach and wraps his arms around my legs, hands pressing down on my hips. Every part of me wants this, but the better it feels, the more I’m slipping away.

We’ve done this all before, though, I remind myself. It’s safe with him, safe to let it feel good. It’s safe to stay in this place.

I reach down to find some part of him to hold on to—his hair, the back of his neck, his arms, his wrists—and when his hands meet mine, it’s like an anchor, our fingers interlacing, pulling me back. He’s pushing me right up to the edge, but I can’t let myself go. Because I’m looking up at my ceiling, and it looks too much like too many other unfamiliar ceilings I’ve been under, and even though it’s him, us, it’s different now than it was back then. I’ve had so much practice keeping Kevin out of my head in these moments, and I mostly succeed. It’s the others, though, this time. The nameless, faceless ones, dragging me away from here. I close my eyes again, trying to focus on how good this feels, his mouth, his tongue, the

warmth, the rush of it all, but—

I let go of his hands. “Josh . . . ?”

“Yeah?” He crawls back up to me. “What is it, are you okay?” I nod and try my best to smile. “I’m okay, I just—”

“That was too much, too fast, wasn’t it?” he says. “I’m sorry.”

“No, it wasn’t. It felt so good, really; I was just starting to get in my head a little. It’s, um, been a while since I’ve done this too.”

“Oh,” he breathes, looking at me like he hadn’t considered this. “Okay.

Well, just tell me what you need.”

“Can you just stay here with me, close to me, I mean?”

“Yeah, of course.” He lies down next to me, kisses my shoulder, and says, “I’m staying right here. Do you want to stop? We can. I promise I won’t mind.”

I shake my head and take his hand, sliding it down my body again, guiding him to where I want him. “I don’t want to stop,” I tell him. I want to be here for this—all of it. I want to feel everything. I don’t want to let these fucking ghosts in my head win.

I’d forgotten the way he pays attention, as if nothing exists but us. I pull him close, so I can feel his weight against me. There’s no fear or impatience or self-consciousness in his touch. He holds steady, watching my face, keeping me with him. I feel my breath coming faster, trembling as he tips me over the edge in a way I’ve never known before, feeling it somehow beyond my body, even. And then he’s kissing my lips, my neck, my chest.

“You are amazing,” he’s whispering, breathing heavily now like he’d been holding his breath that whole time. “God, I want you so bad—sorry, can I say that?”

“Yes,” I answer, trying to catch my breath while stopping myself from smiling at his words. I open my eyes, not even realizing I’d closed them. “But you have something, right?”

He looks over at our clothes on the floor. “I do. You want me to get it now?”

I nod.

“I’ll be right back,” he whispers. I watch as he walks over and fishes the condom out of the pocket of his shorts. The way he’s looking at me as he climbs back into bed—like I’m the best thing he’s ever seen—I could just die. “Just tell me if we need to stop at all, okay?”

“I will.”

He’s going slow, being careful. The way he’s watching me so closely, his eyes dark and deep and warm, has me sort of hypnotized. I have a montage running in the background of my mind of all the times he’s looked at me like this—making me feel weak and strong, all at the same time. He moves

gently, his breath even and paced now, and I can tell he’s trying to restrain himself.

“I love you so much,” he says quietly, his mouth against mine. “You know that, right?”

I nod because I do know. But I can’t speak because I feel the walls of my throat suddenly caving in, heavy with too many competing emotions, and words sitting there waiting, trying to figure out how to get out of me. I clutch his shoulders as we move faster, together, breathing each other in.

It’s kind. Delicate. This giving and taking.

I’ve never been so present. Never this connected to anyone, not even him. I’m holding on to him so tight and I have to bury my face in his neck because, I realize, I’m crying. Crying because I’ve never felt this way before. About him, about myself. I don’t even know what it is, but I feel it in my body, my heart, my mind, everywhere—it’s everything.

And then I know, all at once: This feeling is freedom.

Even as he finishes, he’s still being so gentle with me. We pant against each other for a few moments before he tries to raise himself up off my body. But I hold on, keep him close. “No, stay,” I tell him.

“Look at me, Eden,” he whispers, brushing my hair aside. I turn my face away because I don’t know how to explain. “You’re crying.”

“No, I’m not,” I try to say, but I hear my own voice, all wet and raspy.

“Yes, you are.” His hands are on my face now, his eyes searching mine. “Talk to me. Did I . . . ?” He pauses. “Did I hurt you?”

“No,” I gasp, and the tears are coming faster now. “No, I’m crying because I’ve just never felt like this. Ever. I’ve never felt so . . .” So happy, cared for, respected, even. But then I say what all those things really mean: “So loved.”

“Oh,” he exhales, relieved, seeming to understand. “You are. I mean, I do. I love you,” he says again. “And I—I’ve never felt this way before either.”

I let him wipe the tears from my cheeks, and as he looks down at me, even his eyes turn shiny. He smiles and blinks fast. “Jesus, you’re gonna make me cry now.”

“Sorry.” I sniffle, almost laughing at myself.

He releases a breath of a laugh too. “It’s okay.”

We readjust our positions, and when he gets up to throw the condom away, he asks if I want him to leave the lamp on—I don’t, I won’t need it if

he’s here. He climbs into bed and covers us with the sheet, laying his head on my chest while we hold each other.

“Josh?” I hear myself say into the darkness.

“Hmm?” he says, his voice all loose and sleepy. “I love you too.”

He raises his head and looks down at me, squinting slightly like he’s confused or didn’t quite hear me, but then he kisses my lips softly and says, “I know how hard that was for you to say.”

I shake my head. “No, it wasn’t.”