Or maybe it would look like I was being nice? Was this why I was so bad at flirting, because I always tried to not seem like I liked my crush, which meant I was never friendly, only coolly polite?
“Isaac.” I smiled, though it felt forced. “Do you want to light the candles?”
He glanced around the table, finding polite go-ahead expressions on everyone’s faces—even Abby’s, who, by dint of no longerbeing the newest newcomer, felt more like one of us. “Okay.” He lifted a match and, when my grandmother gave the signal, dragged the head against the striking surface.
Four candles tonight. These ones were all alike, red wax at the bottom, blending into orange and finishing with yellow. The flame at the top, though, put everything else to shame. I watched them as we ate, the shammash tilting, the candle on the far right shrinking, the leftmost candle flickering.
I looked up and saw Isaac watching me. Flame licked at my stomach. He waslookingat me. You only looked at people you liked, right? I should smile. I should say something.
But Ethan beat me to the punch, asking about Columbia, and Isaac turned away. I sat back, disappointed in myself for missing the opportunity.
It’s flattering when someone expresses interest in you, Tyler had said. Was he right? Would it be easier to talk to Isaac, to make friends, if I stopped being afraid of being judged? I could reach out to the girls at home, try to strengthen our friendships. Only I didn’t know how. Liking all their photos? That seemed easiest, but also like it might scream desperate.
I could text them. Text Meg, who I liked talking with the most at lunch. Text Lou, the girl in art class whose commentary made me smirk.
I opened up my texts with Meg, but my heartbeat spiked at the mere idea of texting. Pocketing my phone, I took a deep breath.Never mind. I had Olivia and my family. And Iwasfriends with the kids at school. It was fine if we didn’t want to get BFF tattoos.
After dinner, Grandma had the triplets pass around blue-and-white gift bags. One for Abby, too, and even Isaac. At a nod from Grandma, we all unpacked them: hunks of beeswax and coils of wick. I brought the wax to my nose and inhaled. I loved making candles, loved the sense of accomplishment, the smell, the wax on my skin.
Normally, I would turn toward David, but I made myself turn toward Isaac instead. “Have you ever made candles before?”
He shook his head. “Do you do this every year?”
“Maybe every other? It’s fun.”
“Nice.”
Once more, my conversational skills dried up. How was anyone supposed to respond toNice? I fumbled for something else to say. “Do you have any crafty hobbies?”
I winced.Crafty hobbies?What? Why did everything I say sound so awkward?
Isaac, fortunately, was either too oblivious or too polite to notice. “Not really crafting. I used to play the violin in high school.”
“Oh, cool! Do you still?”
“Nah. I don’t really have time anymore.”
“I get it. I used to play the piano.” And I still had the time, just not the motivation.
We followed the crowd back into the great room and set upour candle-making stations. Isaac was into a lot of indie folk music I’d never heard of, but he certainly had plenty to say about them. I asked questions, and after noting a wince at my mention of Taylor Swift, avoided talking about my own favorites. Which, sure, I didn’t want my dream boy to scoff at my taste, but to each their own.
We dropped our hunks of beeswax in old Chock full o’Nuts cans, then set those in pots filled with water to melt into a gleaming mass. I loved this part, loved Miriam’s intensity as she tried to make her candles absolutely perfect, loved Ethan’s laissez-faire attitude, loved the way the triplets made candles as individual as their personalities. I even loved how Abby made Noah laugh, especially after he’d spent the last year being so serious.
“Ow!”
I spun. Isaac had dropped his candle and clutched at his hand, surprised pain on his face.
“Quick!” I pulled him to the faucet and ran cold water over his hand. “Stay right here. I’ll be back with Neosporin.”
I dashed off to the closest bathroom, feeling weirdly on top of the world. I was Florence Nightingale saving my man. I mean, Isaac wasn’t “my man”—gross—and also I wasn’t sure Florence ever married, but whatever.
When I returned, Isaac was still standing by the kitchen sink, and he made an apologetic face. “I’m such an idiot. I wasn’t paying enough attention.”
“Could have happened to anyone.” I handed the Neosporin over.
“Thanks.”
I smiled, trying to conveyAnytimeandI would give my lifeblood for youandYou are my one true loveall at once, in a non-creepy manner. “No problem.”
