When I reach the door, I look back and find Penn leaning against the car, phone pressed to his ear while he watches me.
I shake my head. I can’t stop grinning. He laughs.
My heart feels too big for my chest. I squeeze the charm Penn chose for me, and the explosive feelings I’ve been trying to tamp down catch fire inside me all at once. Every magical, Technicolor memory flickers and flares, along with the girlish hope that led me to the wildest dream of my life. And when I cast one last look at Penn, still standing where I left him, I’m more optimistic than ever that the best parts of it might actually come true.
27
All Aboard
Bridget and Ilie side by side in my new, queen-size bed wearing the matching pink pajama sets I bought especially for girls’ night. We have mashed-up avocado masks covering our faces, and thin cucumber slices rest on our eyelids.
When the timer rings on Bridget’s phone, we pull off the cucumbers and sit up. “Next time,” I say, “we’re eating a salad instead of wearing it. Deal?”
She snorts. “You’ve definitely chilled out lately, but you still suck at relaxing.”
“I can relax without smelling like a salad.”
“Maybe. But your skin won’t be as glowy.”
“Isn’t that what the body glitter’s for?”
Bridget laughs. After we wash our faces, we return to my bed, gossip magazines and a tub full of frosted animal crackers spread out on the striped duvet between us.
I moved into Mrs. Baker’s carriage house last week, and I’ve already started to make it feel like my own. First, I painted the wall behind my bed. Some might argue that “duck green” is a neutralshade, but considering I’ve never moved past the greige spectrum of paint colors, my new accent wall may as well be highlighter-yellow.
Look out: A lava lamp might be next.
Bridget stops flipping throughPeopleto beam at her phone, where one text bubble after another keeps popping up. I nudge her knee with mine. “How’s Eeeethan?” I tease.
Not that I’m one to talk. I keep glancing at my phone, too. Penn and I text nonstop, our conversation never quite ending. We message about our days—what we’re watching, what we’re listening to—and key issues, likeDoes cream of chicken count as meat soup? Or is it not meat-forward enough?
And I can tell he’s triple-guessing all his messages, too. While we were mapping out plans for the PennPals launch party, he texted like a sweet, frantic mess, sending six consecutive messages within three minutes.
Are you free tomorrow?
I can come to you if it’s easier.
Or you’re welcome to come to my place.
But you don’t have to stay over, or anything.
Unless you want to.
I have a couch.
I plan to tease him about “I have a couch” for years.
Meanwhile, in person, we’re moving slowly, carefully, like on some unspoken level we both know we’re walking a thin tightrope. It’s the same reason I haven’t told Bridget how I feel about Penn yet. But it’s becoming much harder to hide the truth from her.
“It’s so good with him,” Bridget gushes. “Ethan just gets me. Not because we’re similar or anything, because in a lot of ways, we’re not. He’s quieter, and introverted, and he didn’t know who Kathleen Kelly was until last week.” She laughs. “He literally thought she was my friend, and not, arguably,themost iconic Meg Ryan character, because of how casually I kept bringing her up in conversation. But still, I swear we speak the same language. The one that matters, anyway. He’s intentional with me, you know? I can’t believe how right it feels already.”
“Bridget!” I feel my smile matching hers, giddy and unavoidable, her excitement contagious. I take her hands like we’re eleven years old, crushing on boys at recess, and almost squeal the words: “I’m so happy for you.”
It’s an understatement. Bridget’s always dreamt of living out the sweeping, cinematic kind of love story I was too afraid to want for myself. Big feelings have never scared her. If anything, they’ve built her. At home, she had so much love poured into her—too much, she sometimes jokes—and it’s like she had to spread it around to keep herself from overflowing. She carried all that affection into every room with her, warm and palpable, and I’ve been so grateful to receive so much of it over the years.
I can’t wait for her to get the kind of love she wants right back.
Bridget scrunches up her nose, entirely unable to play it cool.Then she pulls a face, her cheeks rosy. “I’m sorry. I know. You probably think I sound ridiculous.”
