While I’m staring, he glances in my direction, his eyes immediately finding me. I wait, watching his face for hints of emotion. He doesn’t blink, his smile doesn’t slip, not a single muscle in his jaw tightens. Then, like he never saw me in the first place, he turns back to the nondescript dude in front of him and rejoins the conversation.
It’s abnormal behavior. Reassuringly abnormal. If I had shown up to Ethan’s party uninvited on any other day, he never would’ve passed up the opportunity to make a snide comment. Ethan glories in making a scene at my expense. The fact that he didn’t has me thinking he’s feeling as weird as I am. Either that, or he’s taken his mind games up an obsessive notch.
I’m distracted from the quandary by Dylan reappearing at my side. She tugs my arm, pulling me into the living room. “Let’s dance,” she pleads.
I don’t know the song playing, and I can’t think of the last time I danced in public, but for Dylan, I’ll give it my best shot.
Immediately, I’m rewarded. Dylan is a hilarious dancer. She exaggerates everything, throwing her hips in wide arcs, then switching dramatically to subtle head bobs. It’s intentionally ridiculous. She’d never behave like this with Olivia, I find myself thinking. Even if she was having fun, she’d never let herself look funny, wacky, uncool. Not while Olivia is obviously judging her. It’s nice, watching her feeling free to have fun.
I copy her movements conservatively, stiffly bouncing my knees and shoulders in time with the music. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Ethan walking languidly onto the dance floor, Isabel following him. They dance, close together but not close enough to be overtly romantic.
Ethan looks confident, swaying in sync with the rhythm. He’s not touching Isabel, but I keep watching, waiting for their hips to connect, for his hand to find the small of her back, for their fingers to intertwine while the song shifts into a faster tempo.
I’m not jealous. Not at all. In fact, it would be ideal if he were to date Isabel. There’s one semester of grades left in high school, one semester in which Ethan, distracted with a new girlfriend, could get an A-minus. I would get valedictorian, Ethan would get to second base if he’s lucky, and high school would end exactly as it should.
“Hey.” Dylan’s voice pulls me into the present.
“What?” I shout in reply.
“Chips.” She points, and I follow her off the dance floor, losing sight of Ethan. While I walk with her into the kitchen, past portraits of Ethan’s family and minimalist paintings of the ocean in crisp black frames, I find myself fighting the feeling that I’m going through the motions. It’s in jarring contrast to my goal-oriented days. But this isn’t one of my goals. This is a party. For the next half hour, I watch with forced enthusiasm while Dylan eats Cheetos and chats with inebriated classmates.
It’s hard to believe Ethan really enjoys this. But when I next catch sight of him, it’s hard to imagine he doesn’t. He’s doubled over laughing, his eyes watering, one hand clasping the shoulder of the dude next to him.
It doesn’t look fake. I wonder with Ethan from time to time, whether his popularity and partygoing are just him playing the persona he’s intuited people want. It’s irrefutable watching him now. He’s loving this.
The questions I’ve wrestled with today—this week, this month—come rushing back. With the memory of his lips lingering on mine, I’m even more eager now to unravel what’s real with him and what’s a game. It’s overwhelmingly convincing that the kiss was a tactic at best and a game at worst, so why can’t I just accept that realization and move on?
It comes to me paralyzingly swiftly. I know who Ethan is. I know what our competition is to him. It’s me I’m puzzled by. When I wonder what Ethan wants, really I’m wondering what I want. It bothers me to think this is a game to Ethan, not because it’s not a game to me, but because it might be. I’ve always told myself I compete with Ethan to prove my capability, but time and time again, our rivalry has made me appear less capable. And yet, I do it anyway.
I don’t know how to make my peace with that, to accept that Ethan and I might be more similar than I’d thought possible. I don’t know where that leaves this kiss. Did I do that because I enjoyed it? Did he?
The questions spiral, not helped by this party. Needing a minute to myself, I retreat upstairs while Dylan is sitting on one of the couches talking to a guy in a Cal sweatshirt. The party hasn’t overflowed to the second floor yet, and I find an unoccupied bathroom at the top of the stairs. I notice the glass in the shower is damp, the barest trace of Ethan’s shampoo still in the air. The smell calls to mind zero periods, Ethan’s hair lightly wet as he takes a seat beside me. An empty locker hall, my fingers clutching his neck—
I shut down the thought. I need to find Dylan and hope she’s ready to leave.
After using the bathroom, I exit and find myself faced with an open bedroom door. There’s a desk clearly visible through the doorframe. It’s cluttered with books and binders, pens and loose papers. A very familiar leather shoulder bag is slung over the chair. This is Ethan’s room, I realize in a hot jolt.
I can’t help it. I should leave, but curiosity gets the better of me. It’s only fair, I rationalize. He came into my room without my permission when I was sick. I step in.
The room is nondescript. No posters or photos or battle strategies. It’s even somewhat messy. The bed’s unmade, and the corners of clothes stick out the top of his dresser drawer. There’s something disorganized about it, like he’s not committed to anything enough to decorate.
“Why did you come to my party?” I hear his voice behind me and turn around, my cheeks red. “I specifically remember not inviting you.” Ethan’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. He’s watching me, his expression hard.
“You put it on social media, dumbass.”
His eyes flatten. “I didn’t know you followed me.”
“I . . . don’t.” I don’t care to elaborate, so I change the subject. “You avoided me downstairs.” I will my posture to be casual, confident, and not like he just caught me snooping.
“I was busy.”
“You’ve never been too busy to confront me before.” I keep my voice even, not betraying how much I want him to respond.
He shifts, a challenge entering his eye. “You’re implying something, but I’m not sure what.”
He thinks he has me cornered. Neither of us wants to voice what happened, and Ethan’s trying to trap me into being the one to bring it up first. Fine. I adjust my strategy, opting for directness. “Did kissing me affect you that much?” I ask, like the topic is not at all terrifying. “That you’re afraid to speak to me?”