I opened my mouth, and I wasn’t sure what I was about to say, but it wassomething—only then a server approached our table, pointedly sliding the check across the laminate.
Jamie glanced at his watch. “It’s almost twoa.m.I guess this is our cue.”
I produced my card, and the waitress reappeared almost instantly to take it and swipe it against the machine. I made sure to leave her a large tip; I knew the staff would probably be stuck here another hour closing because of us.
But I still wished we could stay another hour, or even longer. I wished I had an excuse to lean across this table and delve deeper into Jamie Larson’s mind, figure out what made him tick.
Instead we gathered our stuff and ducked out into the chilly November air, stuffing hands into coats and shuffling feet against the asphalt.
“I’m headed to my dad’s place,” I said. “Tomorrow’s Shabbat dinner.”
“I’m going to the dorms,” he said.
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
The silence dragged out taut between us, quivering like a plucked violin string. Jamie was standing so close to me, close enough I could see the pilling on his jacket and the tiny scar on hischin, probably from some toddler-age accident. The wind caught my hair, pulling a stray lock across my face; it got caught on my lip gloss.
“Here,” Jamie murmured and reached over, tucking my hair gently behind my ear.
My stomach felt like it was full of fluttering moths, my skin suddenly hyperaware of how cold it was out here, tingling everywhere it was exposed to the elements.
“Thanks,” I said. It came out a little husky, raw.
Jamie’s gaze flitted between my eyes and my mouth, then lingered there. His fingertips grazed my shoulder for a long moment before falling.
And then the moment broke as Jamie looked away, toward the sky. “Well,” he said. “I guess I’ll see you, then.”
“Right.”
He stepped back and lifted a hand in an awkward wave. “See you, then. Don’t forget aboutFight Club.”
I took the long way home, walking instead of catching a bus. And every step of the way, I thought about what would have happened if I’d reached across, laced my fingers through Jamie’s hair, and stayed.
Twelve Days
Until Stockholm
10
Jamie
“Wait,” Shrishti says, still breathless from our last round. “Let me get this all straight. You’relivingwithGoldie Gensler?”
She says it like I just told her I’d cut off my own right toe, on purpose. “Yeah. What else was I supposed to do? I can’t just stay in the dorms for weeks and practice on my desk keyboard. I need to get ready for Stockholm. Anyway, her dad was nice!”
“Herdadwasnice? Bruh, it’s like you’re a different person. Blink twice if you need help.”
I roll my eyes instead. “Okay. Her apartment might be fucking ridiculous—did you know they have aprivate chef?—but it is possible that Marigold’s not as bad as I thought.”
“No shit. The level of vitriol you’ve held for this girl for the past, like, three years is on a whole different level. I’ve told you a zillion times you’re just jealous, but you always get angry at me!”
“Because it’snot jealousy!” I find myself insisting, only to immediately deflate when Shrishti raises one brow. “Okay. It’s notentirelyjealousy.” Now both brows are up. “Fine. I’m jealous. But what’s wrong with that? It’s not just professional envy. It’s the way she grew up. It’s all the things I had to do to get to where I am, and she just got it all handed to her.”
Not to mention the ghosting thing. And the shit she talked about me at that party. I can’t believe Shrishti is still expecting me to trot out a list of reasons to resent Marigold Gensler, as if I’m the only one who has been a jerk in this situation.
And I do admit I’ve been a jerk. Just a little.
