“Right.” I felt like I might float right out of my body and into the sky, buoyed by the air I couldn’t seem to let out. “I don’t want to be with Isaac.”
“So you said.”
“I do... want...”
He waited, still and frozen as a statue, the most beautiful boy I had ever met, the first one I had ever wanted and the one I still wanted, and I couldn’t say it—I couldn’t dash my words against the cold stone of him and be shattered once more. “Never mind,” I said, and turned.
He was at my side in an instant, cutting in front of me,grabbing my hands in his. His face was inches away, his skin flushed and eyes bright, feverish and gorgeous in the cold. “What, Shira? What do you want? You have to say it.”
“You,” I whispered.
He closed his eyes, and for a moment he looked like an angel in prayer, like his prayer had been heard and answered. “Okay,” he whispered back, the word a sigh, ringing with relief. But then his eyes flew open. “Is this because you want more... lessons? Training?”
I almost said yes. It would have been the easy answer, to say I didn’t want him but an education, to pretend I saw him as a convenient teacher. But we had been so honest with each other. “No. I want you.”
Our eyes connected. He stared at me, frozen and beautiful and terrifying.
And then, before either of us could say anything else, Tyler’s mom poked her head out the door. “Shira? Is that you? Why don’t you kids come inside, it’s freezing out here!”
Tyler leaned his head back, exhaling a white cloud into the sky.
I gave a tentative wave. “Hi, Mrs. Nelson.”
“We might as well,” Tyler said, speaking sotto voce. “It’ll be more comfortable inside.”
I trailed them both in.
“Would you like a peppermint whoopie pie?” Elena asked. “We made them yesterday and have far too many for ourselves.”
Would I like a peppermint whoopie pie? In general, yes. Would I be able to stomach a peppermint whoopie pie at this particular moment in my life? Unclear.
“They’re very good,” Robin said from the kitchen counter when I entered. “Ten out of ten. The cookie recipe was much better than the one we used last time. More cocoa, less sugar.”
Elena smiled at her wife. “Look at you, you could take over my job as a food critic.”
I accepted the chocolate cookie sandwich on a plate, the pink filling dotted with crushed candy canes. “Thank you.”
“Robin didn’t want to put pink food coloring in the buttercream,” Elena said. “But I think it’s more fun this way.”
“Definitely,” I said. My stomach kept turning over and over.
We sat at the table and chatted about my relatives and the upcoming New Year’s party at Olivia’s and other banal things, and my heart climbed higher in my throat with each second, and I tried to pretend every bite of cookie didn’t scrape against my throat like broken glass. Finally, enough time had passed to politely escape. Tyler stood. “Okay. We’ll see you later.”
“Thanks for the whoopie pie,” I said, following Tyler out of the kitchen.
“Leave your door open!” Robin yelled after us.
I flinched, and darted a look at Tyler. “Are we going to your room?”
“Do you want to?”
I gave a small, nervous shrug. I had suggested—well,something—and where else would said something occur? Or be discussed? “Okay.”
“We’re not actually going to leave it open,” he said, mounting the stairs. “They won’t check immediately.” He glanced back at me mischievously. “Unless you want to go back outside?”
“No. Um. No.”
He threw open his door. Unlike the other night, when his room had been forcibly cleaned, things were strewn everywhere—clothes on all surfaces, bed unmade, jackets and scarves slung over a chair and piled on the desk. The closet door had been flung wide open and revealed a rack of expensive shoes and endless sweaters organized by color.
