I bite my lip, studying him in the dim light from the desk lamp, and I realize with a sinking feeling that I already know what’s going to happen. It’s what always happens with Teddy. It doesn’t matter whether it’s cardboard boats or college applications or even girls.
He gets swept up in the moment, caught up in the idea of something.
And then, just as quickly, he loses interest.
Sitting here, I feel a bitterness rise up into my throat at the thought. Maybe it’s because it’s late now and I’m jetlagged, my head swimming and my eyes burning. Or maybe it’s because we’re sitting here together on a hotel bed in the dark, and the idea of kissing me couldn’t be further from his mind.
Or maybe it’s because I’m one of his abandoned projects too. Because he kissed me like he meant it. And then it turned out he didn’t.
He’s still waiting for me to stay something, and I study my hands, trying to collect my scattered thoughts. “I really do think you’re onto something here,” I say eventually. “And it could be completely amazing. So I hope you’re serious about it. But if you’re not, can you please just tell me now so I don’t get my hopes up?”
My voice wobbles as I say this, and Teddy frowns at me, confused.
“Al,” he says, shaking his head. “C’mon. It’s the middle of the night. Can you maybe cut me a little slack?”
“That’s the thing. Everyone’s always cutting you slack.”
“So let me get this straight: you’ve been annoyed at me for ages because I wasn’t doing enough with the money, and now that I think of something I actually want to do, you don’t think it’s good enough?”
“I told you,” I say more softly. “I think it’s brilliant.”
“Then why are you being so hard on me?”
“Because it could be something really special.”
“So you’re trying to bully me into it?”
“I guess maybe I’m trying tochallengeyou into it.”
“Well, you’re being kind of mean about it.”
“Someone has to be,” I say with a smile, and he rolls his eyes.
“Really nice of you to volunteer.”
“It’s the least I can do. Especially since this is all my fault.”
“What is?”
I shrug. “That you’re in this mess.”
“What mess?” he asks, looking genuinely confused.
“This,” I say, and gesture at the hotel room, with its soft carpeting and heavy drapes, its crystal chandelier and bland oil paintings.
“I wouldn’t exactly call this a mess,” he says, but there’s something forced about his smile.
“Yeah, well, none of this would’ve happened if it hadn’t been for me,” I say, and my tone is unmistakable: we both know I’m not talking about the five-star hotel or the first-class plane ride or even the building he’s buying for his mom. I’m talking about all the rest of it: his dad coming back and the guys at school and the reporters outside his house and the incessant messages on his phone. I’m talking about the blogs and the talk shows and the extra lock on the door to his apartment. I’m talking about the curse.
“Well, you,” he says finally, “and the good folks at the Powerball lottery.”
“Right,” I say. “But those guys are a lot less likely to hassle you about your work ethic in the middle of the night.”
“That’s true,” he says, and his eyes linger on me a moment. “I guess it’s pretty lucky I have you, then.”
I smile. “You have no idea.”
We drive down to Stanford the next morning. It takes a little finagling before we’re able to head off in the small silver sedan—you’re supposed to be at least twenty-five to rent a car here, but it turns out being really, really rich works too.
