“Wow. What was that like?”
“Other than a waste of two hundred dollars? Pointless. My mom cries the whole time. My dad talks about how sorry he is. But it doesn’t count if he’s only sorry after he got caught.” Brett paused, drank half the water bottle. “I sit there and wait for the hour to pass by.”
I grabbed the last corner slice of pizza. “My mom never tried the therapy route. I did see her reading one of those self-help books once. It was called Children and Divorce or something like that.”
“And? Did it work?”
“Apparently the bookworm trait is not genetic. She turned to baking instead. But we got jelly bells out of it, so not complaining.”
Brett’s face took on this dreamy look, like he too was thinking about those magnificent doughnuts. I should have brought him some. It would have been a way better icebreaker than me shoving textbooks in his face. Speaking of his face, it was so close. And his eyes were kind of hypnotic. I always thought I liked his smile the most. But his eyes were something else.
“You’re staring at me.”
“I’m looking at your eyes,” I said quickly. “Before I knew you, that was the one thing girls always talked about. Your eyes.”
He looked genuinely surprised. “My eyes? Not my amazing football talents or hot bod?”
I stifled a laugh. “Nope. Just the eyes.”
“Well, tell me, Becca. What do they say about my eyes?”
“That they’re nice. Dreamy. Swoon-worthy.”
“Do they?” he said, wiggling his eyebrows. “And what do you think about my eyes?”
I swallowed this weird lump that rose in my throat and said, “Your eyes are nice. They’re like the ocean. Calm.”
“Oceans can be deadly.”
I was starting to think Brett was too. Or at least the way he made me feel was. Like I was standing on the edge of a cliff. Or riding a roller coaster that only went up.
“Hey,” he said suddenly, “do you wanna get out of here?”
“But we have to finish your essay.”
“We can finish it later. This will only take an hour.”
It was kind of ridiculous that he expected me to say no. It had been so long since I’d seen him like this, somewhat happy, that I would have said yes to anything just to make him stay like that a little longer.
So when Brett held out his hand, I took it.
We ended up at Finch’s, the only bookstore in town. Brett paused in front of the door and spread his arms out like ta-da!, with this larger-than-life smile on his face.
“You . . . brought me to a bookstore?” I asked, looking between him and the doors, not really catching on. “Do you need another book for your essay?”
“Noooo,” he said, stretching the word out and taking a step closer. “I thought I should repay you, Becca. You helped me study, you came to my football games and to the arcade. We’ve done so many things for me. It’s time we do something that you like. Don’t you think?”
I mean, I couldn’t argue with that.
And I wanted to go inside. Badly.
“I’m having trouble deciding whether or not you like this,” Brett said.
I couldn’t help it anymore. I threw my arms around him and pressed my face to his chest. “I love it, Brett. Thank you.” And what I loved the most was how the space that had opened up between us seemed to be almost entirely gone.
We stood there for a second before Brett said, “You’re dying to go inside and run through the aisles. Aren’t you?”
“Very much. Yes.”
He held open the door and gave me a little nudge. “Go crazy.”
I ran inside. The store was empty aside from Mr. Finch, who was standing behind the counter, half asleep. He gave me a little wave—I was a regular here, to say the least—and then I set off for the aisles with Brett hot on my trail. We spent an hour huddled between rows and rows of books. It was dreamy, really. Totally swoon-worthy, sort of like Brett’s eyes. I read the summary of every book aloud, waiting for his approval. If he nodded, I added it to our bag. If he scrunched his nose up (which he usually did) I put it back on the shelf before trying another.
Apparently Brett was very picky. More so than me. I couldn’t be too picky now. I needed new books to read after the mass paper-murder I committed on the bridge. Which, looking back, may have been a smidge uncalled for.
“What’s the last book you read?” I asked Brett.
He plucked a book off the shelf, rolled his eyes, then placed it back. “Romeo and Juliet,” he said.
“We were forced to read that for class, Brett.”
“So? Still counts.”
It definitely did not!
I walked over to the counter with a total of four books in my bag. “How long will it take you to read all these? A few weeks? A month?” Brett asked while Mr. Finch scanned everything.
I scoffed. He had so much to learn. “Try a week.”
“Thirty-five dollars and twenty-one cents,” Mr. Finch said.
I started reaching for my wallet when Brett stopped me. “I got this,” he said. “My treat. Remember?”
“Thank you.”
He just smiled, saying nothing while kind of saying everything.
When we walked outside, I headed toward the car but Brett grabbed my hand, pulling me over to a bench on the side of the street. He sat down and tapped the empty spot beside him. I took a seat, placing the book bag in my lap. It was a little cold out now that the sun had set and the wind picked up. It was blowing my hair around my shoulders, fanning it into my face while I scrambled to pull it back. Brett laughed beside me and the sound seemed to carry into the air, playing like a symphony being strummed by the stars.
“You’re wearing the ring,” Brett said, startling me.
“What? Oh.” I held up my hand, staring at the rose ring on my finger. It was the prize we won at the arcade. “I like it,” I said.
There were many things I liked. Many of those I wanted to share with Brett. With the quiet settling around us, I could have. But now that we were together again, it was like all the words my mind had planned out were gone. And all I really wanted was to kiss him. This time, I didn’t want it to be fake. I wanted it to be as real as this moment felt.
The scariest part was, I still didn’t know if this was real to him.
I jumped when Brett tapped his finger against my forehead. He was watching me, smiling. “What’s on your mind?” he asked.
“I was thinking about what you said that night at the hotel. That you couldn’t decide if what you felt for me was real.”
The memory still felt a little raw. From the way Brett winced at the mention of it, it was like that for him too. But we had spent a week avoiding each other and dodging the subject. Normally, that would be fine with me. After all, I was a master in burying my emotions. But there was something about Brett that made me want to grab a shovel and dig them all up. Everything I felt for him was good and light and warm. Not dark like I was used to. Why would I want to ignore that?
“I was wondering,” I continued, “if you figured that out yet. . . .”
“Oh,” he said. “That.”
“Yeah. That.”
Then Brett scooted across the bench, moved a little closer. It was only an inch or so, but enough for my heart to start playing Ping-Pong against my rib cage.