I nod. Our waiter drops off the dessert menu, which we don’t pick up. I project the version of Ethan I knew before onto the one in front of me. He’s not wrong. If he did now a few of the things he’s done to me in the past, I wouldn’t be here with him on a date.
“Whether I felt this unconsciously . . . I won’t write it off entirely,” he continues. “I can say, I wouldn’t sabotage your newspaper today.”
“And I wouldn’t give the math textbook you left in the journalism room to someone who thought it was theirs,” I offer in return.
Ethan furrows his brow. “You—wait, what? I missed two assignments because of that. You know, on second thought”—he waves his hand decisively—“we don’t have to retread all the terrible things we’ve done to each other. We’re different now.”
I have no objection to what he’s said, which definitely is different. I’m glad for it. Nevertheless, I can’t ignore the fact that when he exchanged our disruptive warfare for our new relationship, he traded in a few qualities of his I liked. His sharp wit. His smug sense of humor. The way he pushed me to be smarter, faster, better. He’s half himself. While it’s a half I’m enjoying meeting, I miss his other side.
I want the irritating and competitive Ethan back, and our messy relationship—I mean, without the sabotage. It might make me immature, and might not even be worth pursuing at this point in my life. But I’m starting to wonder if none of that mattered as much as I thought.
Ethan picks up the menu. “Shall we order dessert?”
I reach across and push the menu down. “I have a better idea.”
Fifty-Five
ETHAN ORDERS THE BROWNIE Dough. I get the Royal New York Cheesecake.
We eat our Blizzards on the metal tables outside, near the parking lot, Ethan’s blazer folded on the bench next to him. He’s seated. I’m perched on the edge of the table, watching the drive-thru, my thigh brushing his elbow. Inside the Dairy Queen, I can see other groups of people our age through the window, hanging out, waiting in line. It’s a very different clientele from the restaurant we were just in. I savor a spoonful of ice cream, noting how the sticky oversweetness doesn’t complement my scallops. None of it matters. It’s a perfect ending to our evening.
I face Ethan, enjoying the chill of the night on my cheeks. “You better watch your back on AP French,” I say. “I’ve already memorized one hundred of the extra vocabulary words.”
The hint of a grin flits over Ethan’s lips. “Oh, is that how it’s going to be?” Familiar competitiveness dances in his eyes. It’s like we’re years from the purposeful pretense of the first half of the date, and here, I can feel Ethan returning to himself—his perfectly frustrating, fractious self.
I slide down next to him, our eyes locked. “Just because I’m your girlfriend doesn’t mean I’m going to go easy on you.”
Surprise lifts Ethan’s eyebrows. “Girlfriend,” he says softly, like he’s enjoying the sound. I don’t mind it, either. His stare narrows on me, and his eyes ignite, like he’s incapable of holding himself close to warmth for long without catching fire. I have a feeling I know what’s coming. “I guess the word doesn’t gross you out now,” he remarks.
I shrug.
Satisfied, he eyes his half-finished sundae nonchalantly. “Don’t worry. We could make it a blitz if you’re game?”
Leaning forward in reply, I lay my lips on his, the ice cream on our tongues sweetening the kiss.
I don’t care how unexpected it feels, kissing a guy I used to hate in the parking lot of the local Dairy Queen. Our relationship is immature, contentious and chaotic, and yet undeniably right. It’s who I am right now, not who I thought I needed to be.
Which means my story isn’t written just yet. I’m still finding new facts, making new discoveries. Like Ethan. Like realizing I wanted to compete with him even when it caused me sleeplessness and stress. Like feeling our fireworks fizzle when we weren’t pushing and one-upping each other. If embracing this relationship, blitzes and bickering and all, means embracing a little immaturity, then it’s an immaturity I’m ready to love. In us, and in myself.
Ethan withdraws, his face close to mine. “I’ve been waiting all night for you to kiss me. Should I be worried it took challenging you to a competition?”
I ignore what his rogue voice does to me. “Only if you don’t think you can keep up,” I say with a smirk.
He grins, all cheek and confidence. It sends my stomach somersaulting. “Oh, I’ll keep up.” He kisses my neck, and I blame my shivers on the ice cream in my hands, not his mouth gliding down my skin. “Harvard just got much more interesting,” he says when he’s done.
“Ethan . . .” I pull back, the mention of Harvard leading my thoughts elsewhere. I remember the only other time we really discussed college, how Ethan only joked he wanted to study what I did. While I don’t know exactly how I want my future to look, when I choose, I’m confident it’ll be what I want. I didn’t point it out to Ethan when we were in the midst of our uncertain string of hookups, but if we’re going to have a real relationship, I feel like I need to. It’s not because I’m curious what drives him, not because I’m worried he sees me as a game. It’s because I care about him.
He watches me questioningly, no doubt not following the change in my demeanor.
I take his hand. “You can’t keep making your decisions based on me. You’re so smart, and really funny, and the best high school writer I’ve ever read,” I say. It’s weird—complimenting Ethan feels kind of wonderful. “You should be finding what you like, not just competing with me.”
“I know,” he says thoughtfully. Then his eyes, rebelliously playful, find mine. “I am all those things.”
I raise one eyebrow flatly. “I mean it. If we’re dating and at the same school and still competing, I’m worried you’ll just match me, and I don’t want that.”
Ethan’s humor fades. “You’re not wrong,” he says. “Competing with you has driven me to achieve things I might not have otherwise. I’m grateful for it. I mean, without you I never would have joined the Chronicle, and I think I really do like journalism.”
“You’re great at it,” I say quickly, liking how the compliment sounds in my voice. Even when I hated Ethan, I respected him. Knowing he might actually care about journalism, his frustration over the NSPCA fits into place. It wasn’t just losing out on the award he resented, it was losing out on recognition in something he’s started to like. “But Ethan, we let our competition get in the way. You would have won the NSPC reporting award had we not . . .”