“Tori,” I cut in.
I pinch the bridge of my nose beneath my glasses, hoping vainly to banish my burgeoning headache. She’s not wrong to panic. If the computer lost two news pages, it’ll take hours to reconstruct the designs and re-input each story. As the editor in chief, I can’t leave anyway until every page is finished and off to the printer, which means there’s no reason for Tori to stay here and fail her precalc exam. “I’ll handle it. Go home. Get some sleep,” I instruct her.
Tori chews her lip. “No,” she says. “It’s my fault. I have to help.”
“It’s not a two-person job,” I say, gentler. “I don’t have a test I might fail tomorrow.”
My consolation finally reaches her. She nods. “Thanks, Alison,” she gets out, then trudges from my office into the newsroom.
I inhale, collecting my thoughts. Two news pages. We need the pages to the printer by tomorrow morning. While the deadline’s hellishly high-pressure, it’s no pressure I haven’t handled before. First, I’ll have to open each individual story and re-edit them. The changes the editors made were done directly on the formatted pages we lost. Once I’ve revised everything, I’ll figure out reconstructing the layout.
I open my laptop and prepare for the punishing night.
* * *
• • •
In three hours, I’m finished with the below-the-fold piece on the school board meeting, the final story I needed to read over. Ready to start designing the new layout, I exit my office, and I’m caught up short. In my sleep-deprived daze, I wonder if I’m hallucinating.
I’m not. Ethan’s sitting in front of the sports computer, with what looks like a page layout open on the screen. I didn’t know anyone was here—I couldn’t see him from the windows in my office.
“I’ve finished the layout,” he says.
I don’t fully process his words. “You’re still here.”
He faces me, dark circles under his green eyes. His polo’s rumpled, the cuffing of his chinos coming unraveled. My own vision is blurry, and I’m pretty sure I nodded off in my office for ten minutes while editing the city council elections coverage. He shrugs. “I didn’t want you taking full credit for saving the paper,” he replies. Humor fights its way out from under the weariness of his voice.
I nearly smile. For a moment, I just stand, feeling a weight lift from my chest and something warmer and welcome replacing it. My eyes water. I don’t know if it’s from exhaustion or from gratitude I’d never voice out loud.
I sit down next to him, examining his screen. He really did finish the layout. I find every headline and space for stories exactly where they’re supposed to be. He’s left unfilled frames for photos we haven’t yet input. It’s enough I nearly collapse in relief.
“Did you really stay here all night when I pulled my story?” he asks, his voice coyly prodding.
If it wasn’t Ethan talking, I’d think he was playing this game to help keep me awake. “Yes,” I reply. “Thank you for reminding me.”
“No problem. I like to relive it daily.”
I cut him a glance, not nearly as annoyed as I’d ordinarily be. Ethan holds my gaze in amusement, like he’s won something. In the empty newsroom with him, I don’t really care what. I shake my head in feigned consternation. “Okay.” I get up. “Now we just have to input the fart aisles.”
Ethan stares up at me, his face stony with repressed laughter.
I realize what I’ve said. “I mean art files,” I correct.
“Fart aisles coming up,” Ethan replies loudly.
I know it’s partly from exhaustion when Ethan and I collapse into laughter. I laugh until water runs down my cheeks and I’m no longer making sound, my sides aching from how hard my stomach clenches. Ethan’s doubled up, his hand over his face. It’s ridiculous. Unbelievable. I’m laughing with the smartest guy I know over a fart joke.
Not only the smartest guy I know. My rival. It’s the first moment I’ve shared with Ethan in weeks without insults, without undermining or distance. Remembering I miss him hits me suddenly. It’s something I’ve been fighting to forget, hiding the feeling under studying and the newspaper and literally any refuge I could find. But here, with Ethan in front of me, his face pink from laughter, it’s impossible to keep ignoring. It’s lemonade in the wound, stinging yet sweet.
I start in the direction of my office, where I’ll pull up the “fart aisles.” While I’m walking away, Ethan catches my wrist.
It’s painfully exhilarating, our first skin-on-skin contact since we ended things. I face him, finding surprising vulnerability in his eyes.
“Have dinner with me,” he says, his voice rough with sleeplessness. “This Friday.”
I’m caught off guard. “What?”
“A real date,” he clarifies. Whether he decided it now or some time earlier, he sounds certain.
Maybe I’m delirious with exhaustion. Maybe I’m grateful he saved me hours of work tonight. Maybe it’s the invitation itself, which feels defined and real. Or maybe I just miss him. Whatever it is, I reply instantly. “Yeah,” I say. “Okay.”
Ethan nods, releasing my wrist. I know him well enough to read excitement and relief in his eyes. Giving him a small smile, I return to my office, where I close my door and open my computer. Just minutes ago, I could hardly hold my eyes open, vision searing with every word I edited.
Now I’m wide awake.
Fifty-Two
I KEEP EXPECTING I’LL cancel the date. I’ll find him outside class where no one’s listening and say I decided it’s not a good idea. Ethan would understand. He’d dismiss the whole possibility with some quip about how we were tired. Neither of us were in our right minds. We’d head to our next class and return to competing the way we always have.
It doesn’t happen. Thursday passes, excitement inexplicably growing in my chest. I remember what Hector told me. Sometimes you only think you outgrew someone when really you let them go. I don’t know if a date with Ethan will give me any confirmation. But it might.
We get the paper out on Friday, in part thanks to Ethan. It’s weird, having worked with Ethan instead of against him. It feels like having a fluent conversation in a foreign language for the first time. I’m picking up the nuances, the rhythms, and enjoying myself.
By six o’clock on Friday night, I still haven’t canceled our date. I’m standing in my room, having changed my outfit three times. Closing my closet door, I straighten my cream-colored sweater over my light pink skirt. While I want to look nice, I don’t want to look like I labored over dressing up.