“Pretty good, actually.Reallygood.”
“Good.”
We smiled at each other. Just smiled, foolishly, happily. I didn’t have to have something to say to Tyler—though I almost always had something to say—and I could still stare at him, and it didn’t feel awkward or weird; it felt normal and good and easy and right.
“Also,” he said, his gaze running down my red dress, which slipped and slid along my body, “you look stunning.”
“Thank you,” I said, smoothing my hands over the fabric and looking up at him shyly. “So do you.”
“You’re consistently stunning, in fact.”
I laughed. “Too much,” I told him. “Any more flattery and I’ll explode.”
He looped one of my curls around his finger. “We’ll work on that.”
That made it sound like we had a future, didn’t it? If we’d beworking on something together? Or was I reading too much into everything he said?
“Hey,” I said, recalling something from the back corner of my mind, where it had been lurking for almost two weeks. “I have a question.”
“Okay.”
“Did you know I was on the plane? When we both flew here from JFK? Because I wasstunnedto realize you were.”
“Are you serious?” He looked taken aback; his mouth actually parted in surprise. “We sat in the boarding area together for an hour.”
“We did?”
“I kept trying to catch your eye. I thought you were purposefully ignoring me.”
“Really?”I gaped at him. “Wow.”
“I boarded after you. I sat a dozen rows in front, but—you seriously didn’t notice me?” He shook his head when I shook mine. “Guess you really were over me.”
“I’m still over you,” I told him, in my constant quest to keep his ego in check.
“Don’t worry,” he said wryly. “I know.”
I grinned at him. God, Ilikedhim. “But you know,” I said. “You’re not so bad.”
He took my hand, stroking my palm. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
An indefinable joy washed through me. I wouldn’t forget this,the holiday lights and music, the way Tyler looked at me, the glow in my chest. Not if I lived to be a hundred years old. I’d never forget the way Tyler made me feel.
The rest of the party passed in a blur of conversation and Tchaikovsky and the swish of velvet. I sat on the floor of the Phans’ open living room, wedged between Olivia and David, Tyler nearby. I ate too much and laughed until my stomach hurt. At some point, all the teenagers ended up outside, playing an impromptu game of freeze tag, surrounded by the stars and wind and sea.
“I love the stars here,” I told Tyler, looping my arms around his neck. I tilted my head back, drinking in the night. Spots of light lay scattered across the black-velvet heavens. When I glanced at Tyler, I found him with the oddest expression on his face. “What are you thinking?”
“There’s this old Russian fairy tale,” he said slowly. “About two old people who desperately want a daughter, so they build her out of snow and she comes to life. But when spring comes, she melts away.”
“But she returns the next winter,” I said. “Doesn’t she?”
“I guess so,” he agreed.
I tilted my head. “Why were you thinking about it?”
He shrugged. “I guess you remind me of her.”
“That’s weird.” I patted my cheeks with my giant mittens. “Don’t think I’m made of snow.”
