This time I can’t help my wide grin or the feeling of champagne bubbles in my chest. I’ve never been precious about my writing—I’ll happily give it to anyone who asks, but not that many people ask.
“Done. Are you sure that’s the scene you want, though? I have better ones.” I’m mentally sorting chapters in my head, weighing the funniest bits of dialogue versus my bestworld-building versus that clever metaphor I spent twenty minutes perfecting in chapter fourteen.
He makes a show of pretending to consider my request before shaking his head. “That scene or no deal.”
West is concentrating.He’s a living, breathing Do Not Disturb sign, from the unbroken eye contact with his phone to the plastic soft serve spoon hanging forgotten from his lips as he slowly scrolls his way through my scene. I reached the end of my ice cream a good ten minutes ago and have nothing to do but hyper-fixate on his facial expressions.
“Did you get to the part where—”
“Shh.”
“I just want to explain why—”
“Shh!”
I bite my lip and try to count to one hundred. At nine, I break. “What’s taking you so long?” This is excruciating. I feel like I’m going to crawl out of my skin.
“It’s too bright out here, and I hate reading on screens.”
“Should I have transcribed it by hand just for you?”
“That would have been helpful, yes. Nowshhhhh!”
I inch closer and strain my neck. “Stop reading over my shoulder,” he says.
“But I—”
His phone beeps with the sound of an incoming text. The nameBethanyflashes across my words. He swipes it to the side without reading it, and I feel like I’ve won a competition I didn’t even know I was in.
“Who was—”
“Mars.” He turns to me, our noses inches apart, and takesthe spoon out of his mouth. His next words are achingly slow. “What can I do to make youstop talking?”
I swallow heavily. “Let me read something of yours.”
Wordlessly, he slides his notebook toward me.
“Which page?” I ask.
“Don’t care.” I open to the first page, and his hand shoots out. “Wait. Not that.” He flips ahead a few chicken-scratched pages and jabs a paragraph with his finger. “That one.”
I snatch the notebook before he can change his mind and roll away from him and onto my side. His paragraph is a description of his hometown in the summer, and I can feel the hot windburn on my cheeks and the dust between my teeth as I read. It’s spare and stark but still evocative; it makes my chest feel hollow for reasons I don’t really understand. I read it three times in a row and wish it were longer. It’sgood(maybe better than the Chia Pet story), and suddenly his opinion becomes even more important. I glance at him in my peripheral and see another incoming text from Bethany. I close my eyes.
“Done,” he says.
My eyes jolt open, my heart pounding.
“Who’s Bethany?” I ask.
My open textbook rests face down on my stomach. We’re looking at shapes in the clouds. A game of Frisbee is happening perilously close to us, but we persist in our laziness. My shoulder blades have sunk into the grass in such a perfect way that it feels like the space was carved for me. The first hints of sunburn sting my forehead, and I don’t even care. I’m completely blissed-out.
“Why’d you say her name like that?” West asks.
I turn to see him gazing at me, one arm bent behind his head. “Like what?”
“With such a heavy emphasis on the first syllable.Beth-any. It felt pointed.”
“I don’t like the name Bethany.”I don’t like the thought of another girl texting youis the surprising subtext underneath my lie.
