I grin. “I’ll even let you pick the record.”
Gregory smacks a hand to his chest, like,Whaaaat?and we rise together, grabbing our drinks, and head inside to my room. It’s not lost on me that we’re alone in my house, and no one’s around to interrupt us or tell me to keep the door open. Not that I have any plans for Gregory—of course I don’t—but if something were to happen, it could, and no one would stumble in to stop us.
“You kept my picture, I see,” he notes immediately, grinning.
“You knew I did.” I roll my eyes. “And I keep everything.”
“True,” he allows. “Are you saying I’m not special?”
“No,” I say. “You’re definitely special.”
His smile widens, flashing white teeth. Then he kneels at thebookcase with my record collection. He takes so long to choose that I end up on my back on my bed, on top of the quilt my late grandma made.
“What year will it be?” I wonder aloud.
“What?” Gregory asks, distracted.
“When you finally pick a record. What year will it be? 2036? 2040?”
“Fine, wiseass,” he says, and stands, holding up a square.
“Arcade Fire?” I say. “Bold choice.”
He lifts the needle to put the record in place, then lies down on his back next to me, hands behind his head.
“Is my playlist ready yet?” I ask after the first track plays. “If it even exists. At this point I’m sort of wondering if you made the whole thing up.”
“Are you always this impatient?”
“Impatient?” I cry. “It’s been two months!”
He rolls his head to the side to look at me, one eyebrow arched. “Ms. ‘Don’t Make Me a Playlist’ is suddenly very interested in getting one.”
“Gregory McLoughlin, I swear to God.”
He laughs, then returns his gaze to the ceiling. He opens his mouth as if to speak, but pauses for a long beat. “It’s… done. It’s been done for a while, actually.”
“What? Why haven’t you sent it to me, then?”
“You weren’t ready.”
I shoot up to a sitting position, twisting around to glare at him. “What do you mean, I wasn’t ready? What do I need to be ready for?”
He shrugs, perfectly calm and unbothered by my agitation. Still lying with his head resting in his palms, he’s the picture of ease. His brown-eyed gaze flickers to mine. “I think you might be now, though.”
“Oh,” I say, much quieter this time. There’s something in his voice that makes me shiver. Again, I think about the fact that we’re alone up here. Alone in the house. Maybe even in the entire universe.
That thought and his expression overwhelm me, so I flop back down beside him. I still want to be next to him, but I can’t handle him looking at me. “Good. I’ll expect my link imminently, then.”
I don’t know how long we lie like this. One hour. Two. We listen and we talk. Then we go quiet again. At one point he rolls over and into my side, splaying his fingers across my ribs and burying his face in my neck. My heart stops as he says my name several times in a row, “Amelia, Amelia, Amelia…” But then he adds, “Perfect, amazing Amelia, will you please, pretty please, make me your famous grilled cheese?”
I scold him for buttering me up like that, but I’m hungry too, so we take a break to go downstairs and cook, then bring our sandwiches back to my room so we can listen while we eat. Being here with Gregory fills me with happiness, and I settle into that place where I can let my guard down and be myself.
When, exactly, did this guy become so important to me? Was it the first time he stood in my room after we brought Fiona home, and I felt that spark of heat when his skin was so close to mine? The night I took him to the beach and he told me moreabout his dad? When he stuck up for me in front of Kat at Summerfest? I can’t pinpoint the exact moment, but I do know one thing. I like Gregory a lot, and Kat’s right—it’s more than what’s normal for just a friend. The second I see his face, I smile—like one of those big, giddy, ridiculous ones. When I hear a new song, I wonder if he’s heard it and plan in my head concert road trips we’d take. I don’t feel self-conscious spouting off random shark facts in front of him.
And now, as he sits beside me with his back up against my headboard and looks at my prized culinary creation with pure joy, I wonder what it would be like to kiss him. He’s so solid and warm and smells so familiar. Everything about him is welcoming, but also… sometimes he gives off an intense quality, like there’s a layer of concentration and unrestrained tension beneath the surface just waiting to be let out. What would it be like to have a fervor like that directed at me?
Would it be better than kissing Myles? Or just different?
