“Okay,” I say, banishing all non-algebra-related thoughts away. “Let’s run through one more sample problem in case Dr. Frievalt throws a pop quiz at you tomorrow.”
Vaughn chuckles. “You enjoy this, don’t you?”
“Studying?” I ask.
He nods.
“Yeah, I guess so.” I’ve never really thought about whether I do or not and how strange that might be. “Is that weird?”
“Nah,” he says, then, “Maybe.”
I shrug both shoulders. “I probably get it from my dad. He loves studying so much he made an entire career out of it.”
Vaughn nods, holding the fork up to his lips. “What about your mom? What was she like?”
“Extroverted like me. My dad says I have her laugh, and she really liked to dance. Not for a studio or anything, just for fun. She played volleyball in high school and was in art club and did one year of band—the clarinet.” I drop my gaze to the pie as I feel a pang of longing to know her better. “I know lots of random things about my mom, but it always feels shallow when I list them out like that.”
“Like a few hobbies and traits can somehow make up for not really knowing her?”
Even though Vaughn grew up without his mom around, for some reason I hadn’t expected him to understand. Hismom is alive and he has a relationship with her, however imperfect. Or maybe it isn’t that simple.
“Exactly. And it’s never-ending. Each thing I learn about her makes me more curious. Like, she wanted to go apple picking, but did she really like apples, or was that just a thing everyone did because the apple farm was so close? Would she have made pie or something else? Maybe there was a boy she liked who worked there and it had nothing to do with apple picking.”
“Not the last.” He shakes his head with a smile.
“Girls have done far more to get a guy’s attention.”
His expression tells me he either doesn’t understand that or thinks it’s silly.
“It’s hard to get a guy’s attention.”
“No.” He shakes his head adamantly.
“Yes, it is,” I protest louder.
Smiling, he continues to shake his head at me.
“What do you do when you want to get someone’s attention?” I ask him instead of arguing my point.
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do.” I cross my arms over my chest. “Tell me.”
“I don’t do anything.” He laughs. “I haven’t gone out with anyone since Claire.”
I guess that much is true. But it just has me wondering other things.
“How come?”
I get a weak shrug in response, but now that we’ve opened this conversation, I want to know. Not because I haven’t stopped thinking about almost kissing him but because we’re friends. Friends share stuff like that. Whatever. I’m not overanalyzing it.
“Didn’t we already establish that I’m a shit boyfriend?”
I roll my eyes. “Lots of people talk or hook up without labeling it.”
“The label isn’t what made me bad at it.”
“Fair point, but come on. Everyone has someone who they’re at least sort of into.”
