I’m contemplating dismal possibilities when, in my peripheral vision, I catch sight of Ethan outside through the window in my office. It’s like I conjured him from the effort of not thinking about him. He walks past the newsroom, then doubles back and hesitates in front of the door. I don’t know what he’s been doing on campus for the past forty-five minutes or why he’s here now. Regardless, I’m certain he knows when the Harvard decision is happening.
Despite myself, I wonder if he’s going to come in. I wonder if I want him to.
Before I have the chance to decide, he pushes the door open. I watch him walk toward my office, his eyes roaming the room purposelessly like he’s just wandered in here, one hand tucked thumb-out in the pocket of his chinos. Finally, he reaches my door and pulls it open. Without knocking, of course.
I look up, pretending I’m lightly irritated instead of on the verge of—I don’t know what. “Is there something you need, Ethan?”
“Harvard decisions come out in thirteen minutes,” he says simply. He drops his bag on the floor, then drops himself into the other chair in my office.
“Nervous?” I ask.
He scoffs. “I just want to see the look on your face when I get in and you don’t.” He props his white sneakers on my desk, which he knows I hate.
I get up and walk to the front of my desk, shoving his legs aside. It was the wrong move. With even the fleeting contact, I’m hit with images of the other night, the party, Ethan’s room upstairs. Sheets and hands and lips parted and—nope. “You can stay if you don’t try to make out with me,” I say, searching for scathing and landing on stilted. I’m prepared for some pompous denial.
Instead, Ethan somehow looks even more relaxed. “Yeah, we should probably discuss that.”
“Now?” My eyes widen. “Twelve minutes before Harvard decisions?”
“Did you have other plans?” He studies his nails, his whole demeanor dismissive, like this is just one more inconvenient edit I’ve given him.
It makes my pulse pound. Not just with heated memories. With jealousy. With competitiveness channeled into an increasingly familiar direction. I want to be the way he is right now. Unmoved. Careless. “There’s nothing to discuss.” I keep my voice lofty, so lofty I’m dizzy from the height.
Ethan pauses, one eyebrow rising in mocking disbelief. “Nothing?” He leans forward, and I swear the mocking shifts into something else. His features become intent, inquisitive.
I don’t trust the way his expression urges my heart to beat faster. “Kissing you—”
He interrupts me. “I’d call it hooking up. Clothing was removed, Sanger.”
Yeah, I’m very aware clothing was removed, Ethan. I furiously fight the flush in my cheeks, trying to act unmoved. “Hooking up with you was merely proof I’m still subject to hormones and reckless decision making. It’s something I hope to mature out of promptly.”
Ethan merely hmms, considering. It unnerves me. It’s very un-Ethan. I wait, in disbelief of how intensely I’m watching him for the slightest hint of what he’s thinking. “It’s irritating,” he finally says, his eyes meeting mine, “how often I find myself thinking about that night. How often I find myself thinking about kissing you again.” He wets his lips. “Worse, it’s distracting me from school. I could hardly get through a practice AP Physics exam last night for how often my thoughts turned to you.”
His words, and their precision and formal deliberateness, light a dangerous fire in my chest. I hope sarcasm will stamp it out. “Maybe we should hook up before the real exam, then. Make sure you’re distracted when it matters.” I lean against the desk facing him, our legs inches apart.
“Maybe we should,” he replies. “I’m confident I could leave you more unfocused than I.”
“Doubtful.”
“I’ve noticed you noticing me in class, Alison,” he says, no longer haughty. His green eyes haven’t wavered from mine. “This isn’t one-way.”
“I’ve been glaring.”
“You’ve been fantasizing.”
I pretend I’m indignant, instead of deeply guilty. “Like you could be the object of my fantasies.” I remember with grating fondness when my only fantasies of Ethan were academic. Watching him see me win valedictorian. Him confusing the War of the Roses with the Hundred Years’ War or fumbling to remember which play Polonius comes from. Good fantasies. Nice fantasies. “We kissed, hooked up, whatever you want to call it. It wasn’t exactly earth-shattering,” I lie.
The remark hits Ethan right where I’d hoped. His whole expression darkens. “Yes it was,” he replies immediately.
“You’re so full of yourself,” I say, pleased to have found a weakness. “You really think you’re that good a kisser.”
“I know I am.” His mouth flattens.
I laugh. Pushing myself off the desk, I put distance between us, unable to face him. “Honestly, Ethan, your skills are average.” It’s not true. Just saying it is forcing me to recollect how not true it is. I’ve kissed enough people to know Ethan’s, well, above average.
“Fine. Redo,” he says. “Right now.” I whirl, incredulous. He’s standing up now, on the other end of the office. The old Chronicle copies and awards I’ve hung up frame his confrontationally crossed arms. I don’t understand until he continues. “Kiss me, and then try to tell me it’s average.”
I open my mouth and find I have no response. He’s actually affronted. What’s more, he’s not joking. He wants to kiss me right here, in my office at school, despite days of avoiding any reference to what’s going on between us. He walks forward, slowly and deliberately coming closer.
“What happened to ‘this won’t happen again’?” I ask, repeating his promise from his bedroom.
He stops, then, like he’s testing something, he carefully runs his hand all the way down my arm, lightly twining his fingers in mine. “I did try,” he says softly. “Every night since, I’ve tried. I don’t—you know this”—his lips curl—“I don’t enjoy failing, Alison.”
I meet his eyes, taking my time trying to parse the emotions in them. There’s disappointment, but larger than that, yearning. I don’t find the satisfaction, the calculated poise that accompanies his tricks. He’s being honest. It terrifies me, electrifies me. My chest is so tight, it hurts to breathe. I don’t step away.
“This is failing,” I whisper, brushing my other hand against his. He catches my fingers, both of our hands clasped together.
“Is it? I’m beginning to wonder. For a little while, it might be . . .” He leans closer, his breath tickling the corner of my mouth. “Fun.”