“I want that too,” he says finally. “I think I always did. I was just too scared to admit it.”
“Well,” I say, lifting my coffee in a mock toast, “here’s to not being scared anymore.”
Ryan picks up his tea and touches his cup to mine. “To not being scared,” he echoes.
Outside, the summer sun beats down on the campus. Inside, a new friendship is forming. A bigger, stronger, better version of the one we had as kids.
Hopefully, this time, it lasts forever.
18
RYAN
My reflection in the mirror is about to commit a felony against fashion, which is ironic, given that I’m dressed the same as always.
I smooth down the front of my white button-down for the seventeenth time, watching the fabric wrinkle right back up, uncaring about my attempts at perfection. The khakis are pressed. The loafers are polished. My hair is combed neatly enough to pass military inspection, which is probably the only thing about me Dad would approve of these days. And yet…my hands won’t stop shaking.
“Dude.” Jackson’s voice floats over from his side of the room, where he’s currently wrestling with what appears to be an entire bottle of hair gel. “You look fine. Better than fine.”
“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
“It’s supposed to be accurate.” Jackson turns from his mirror, and I nearly choke on my tongue.
He’s wearing a white T-shirt, tight enough to showcase every muscle he’s earned on the football field, tucked into high-waisted black jeans that somehow make his legs look even longer. A leather jacket—actual leather, not the fake stuff from the Halloween store—hangs open over his shoulders. Hishair, usually an endearing disaster of brown waves, has been slicked back into a perfect pompadour that would make John Travolta weep with envy.
“You look like Danny Zuko,” I say flatly.
Jackson grins, striking a pose. “That’s the idea, baby. Drew’s going as Kenickie. We’re doing a whole thing.”
“Of course you are.”
My stomach churns. Jackson and Drew have coordinated costumes. They’ll spend the evening being disgustingly adorable together while I stand in the corner trying not to spontaneously combust every time Oliver glances in my direction.
Oliver, who will probably show up looking like James Dean, Montgomery Clift, or Marlon Brando.
Oliver, with whom I had coffee just hours ago.
Oliver, whom I agreed to see again tonight because my self-preservation instincts have completely abandoned me.
I turn back to the mirror and immediately regret it. The reflection staring back at me is terrified. Pale as the man walking toward his own execution.
“Hey.” Jackson appears behind me, his hands landing on my shoulders with the familiar weight of friendship and concern. “You’re spiraling. I can see it in your eyebrows.”
“My eyebrows don’t spiral.”
“They absolutely do. They get all scrunchy and worried, like two caterpillars having an anxiety attack.” He squeezes gently. “Talk to me. What’s going on in that big galaxy brain of yours?”
“What’s going on is that I’m about to spend an entire evening in close proximity to Oliver Jacoby, surrounded by hockey players who exude confidence in spades. What’s going on is that every time Oliver smiles at me, my brain short-circuits and my heart tries to escape through my throat. What’s going on is that I have no idea what I’m doing, have never known what I’m doing, and tonight feels like a test I’m destined to fail. What if I say something stupid? What if I freeze up? What if he realizes I’m boring and awkward and not worth the effort ofreconnecting with?”
“Ryan.” Jackson spins me around and cups my face with his large hands. “Oliver literally told you today that he wants to be real friends again. He asked you to come tonight. He accepted your friend request on Facebook, for Pete’s sake.”
“He was being polite.”
“He was being honest. I’ve been watching you two dance around each other for a while now. The guy lights up when he sees you. His whole face does this thing?—”
“What thing?”
“I don’t know. This soft, happy thing. Like someone just told him all his exams are canceled.” Jackson shrugs. “It’s cute. Disgusting, but cute.”
