“What do youthinkit’s supposed to mean?”
“Okay,” she says, holding up a palm, “now I have to know whatthatis supposed to mean?”
“All of those chefs,” I say, pointing out the window, “are going to be sweating their balls off when they light the grills in fifteen minutes!”
Camila groans. “Just tell me what’s wrong!”
“Nothing’s wrong!”
She leans a hand on the counter, studying me. “Are you mad I invited Will Grant?”
“Mad?” I laugh, sounding unhinged. “I’mthrilledhe’s coming!”
“If you’re really sothrilledhe’s coming,” she articulates, “why aren’t you going to take a fucking shower, babe?”
“Because I need us to stop being attracted to each other!” I scream. Irrevocably.
That’s when a throat clears over by the front door, and we turn to see the man of the hour frozen in the living room.
Will is dressed in a white brewery T-shirt and loose jeans. He’s holding a bouquet of yellow sunflowers in one hand and a six-pack in the other. His wavy brown hair is loose, disheveled. His mouth parts a fraction as his eyes center on the dead space between Cami’s body and mine.
Beside him is Brooks, Will’s friend from high school.
There’s a toddler and a beagle peeking out from under Brooks’s legs.
My face flames in embarrassment as I swear beneath my breath. I dart through the opposite end of the kitchen, sprint down the hall, and shut myself in the guest bedroom.
My friends’ soiled athleticwear is stuffed in their lightweightbackpacks, lined up along the far wall. I go to the bathroom and look at myself in the mirror.
Exactly how I looked last night—and even then, Will and I had been halfway to a date.
I can’tdress upknowing I’d be doing it forhim.Every dab of makeup, every swipe of soap across my skin. It wouldn’t be for anyone else at this party. All for him.
Camila is right, though; I almost never let people see me like this.
My skin is splotchy, red stains patchworked across my face, my neck, my chest. A third from blushing, a third from the bike ride, a third from digging around in the garden. I lift my nails; they’re caked with dirt. When I glance back at my reflection, I can see the oily shine of my hair near my temple. I smell like sweat and soil. A few strands of hair are stuck to my neck.
And even though this was my exact intention, now that I know Will Grant has seen me like this, I start to hyperventilate.
It isn’t based on a desire to be the prettiest person in the room. Only a desire to be the most put together. I’ve always had this meticulous, obsessive compulsion to look fixed up, to appear curated. So when people see me—when they form opinions of me—they never think to themselves,That girl’s life must be on fire.
I push both palms against the countertop, centering my breath before panic sets in. There’s a soft rap on the door.
“Come in,” I say, expecting Camila.
I glance over as Will enters the guest room, my heart rate jackhammering again.
The flowers and beer are gone now. He closes the door behind him, looking at me with sharp eyes. I fight internally with myself. Wanting him to see me. Wishing he wouldn’t look.
After my second online class finished up last night, Will followed me all the way home.For safety,he insisted, and even thoughit was a personal favor, another rule broken, I didn’t argue. Because last night I let myself be selfish with Will. Selfish with his time, with mine. But when I got inside my house and watched him bike away, the spell broke, and I felt mortified I’d gone searching for him at all.
Now he’s cataloging me. His left hand clenches tightly onto the doorknob and his right forms a fist by his side. His chest expands and contracts with even breaths as his eyes mark a path down my body.
I hold still as a statue under the harsh lights of the bathroom.
After twenty seconds of this, Will sighs and walks toward me. He leans a shoulder against the restroom doorframe. “Let the record show I tried,” he rasps.
“You tried?” I repeat.
