He reaches out and puts a hand on my waist. I’m surprised to find this sends a shiver through me. “Option one,” he says. “I walk you to the door and say good night.”
I inch closer to him. “What’s option two?”
“Well,” he says, looking bashful. “Option two is…I kiss you now.”
“Interesting,” I say, putting a hand on his chest. “And option three?”
“You kiss—” he begins, but before he has a chance to finish I stand on my tiptoes and press my lips against his, and just like that he’s kissing me back. When we step away again, he smiles at me with such tenderness that I feel a little shaky.
“Good choice,” he says.
It isn’t until afterward, as I walk back toward the house, that the fluttering in the pit of my stomach gives way to something more hollow. When I’m sure Sawyer is out of sight, I pause for a second, pulling in long breaths of cool air, feeling oddly panicky. I know it isn’t because the kiss wasn’t great (it was), and it isn’t because Sawyer’s not wonderful (he is).
It’s because—quite simply—he’s not Teddy.
And suddenly I’m furious with myself. Because what in the world am I doing? What am I waiting for? It’s like Aunt Sofia said: this is supposed to be fun. So why am I so miserable?
And right then I hate Teddy for it too. Because Sawyer is here, and he’s not. Because Sawyer looks at me in a way that I know Teddy never will. Because Sawyer wants me, and Teddy doesn’t. Because he planned a whole night in triplicate and picked me up at my front door, and Teddy—who ditched me to go off to Mexico with his friends, who is probably living the high life on some white-sand beach, sunburned and happy and utterly delighted with himself—would never do any of those things.
My head is spinning as I hurry up the walkway toward the front door, suddenly freezing and anxious to be inside, my eyes on the loose stones of the path, so I’m nearly on top of him before I realize someone is sitting on the porch steps.
I stop short, my heart flying up into my throat, and for a moment I think I must be seeing things.
Because there on the front stoop—impossibly, miraculously—is Teddy.
It’s after midnight, and the first thing I think—however illogical—is that this must be an April Fools’ joke. I’m about to say as much, but then Teddy lifts his head, and his face is so unexpectedly solemn that I drop onto the steps beside him without a word.
This is the first time we’ve seen each other since our fight, and it’s almost physically painful, being this close to him. The silence between us—usually so comfortable—is now prickly and tentative, and it just about breaks my heart.
I’m sitting only a few inches away from him. But it feels like miles.
“So what happened to Mexico?” I ask when he doesn’t say anything.
He shrugs. “It’s still there.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” I say, attempting a smile, but his face remains impassive. There’s a stillness to him right now that’s disconcerting. Teddy is normally all motion and restless energy; there’s this fast-burning spark inside him that always seems to be just barely contained, like at any minute he might combust. Like at any minute there might be fireworks. But not now. “What about everyone else?”
“They’re still there too.”
I wait for more, and when it doesn’t come I ask, “So why aren’t you?”
“Because,” he says, finally looking at me, “my dad’s back.”
I close my eyes for a second, trying not to telegraph my concern at this news. But there can only be one reason Charlie McAvoy is here, and I know Teddy well enough to know he won’t want to believe it.
“My mom called last night to tell me.”
I nod, still absorbing this. “Is she okay?”
“I think so. I mean, it’s not like they haven’t been in touch at all. But I can’t imagine what it must’ve been like for her to open the door and see him there, just totally out of the blue.” He lets out a breath. “He’s coming by again tomorrow morning.”
“To see you?”
He nods. “Is it weird that I’m sort of nervous?”
“Not at all,” I say, wishing there wasn’t so much space between us. “Did she say why he’s here?”
“He’s in town on business. For some meetings, I guess.”
