“I know. And I know I can’t just follow your choices. I have to figure it out on my own instead of hoping I stumble into myself through you.” His face serious, he stares past me into the parking lot and doesn’t speak for a few seconds. “Honestly, though, I don’t know how anyone really learns what they want.”
It’s the most real he’s ever been with me. I squeeze his hand. “They try new things,” I say. “Maybe you need space from me to make your own choices.”
He glances up, real worry peering past the wryness in his eyes. “Are you breaking up with me already?” He’s straining to sound joking. “I have to admit, I thought I’d get more than three minutes.”
“I’m not breaking up with you,” I reply gently. “I’m ready for this relationship to carry into my future. I just want to make sure you are.”
Ethan’s expression turns faraway. I recognize the look from my own mirror. He’s envisioning, projecting us into the years ahead, imaging first classes in crowded lecture halls, walks in Harvard Yard when the ground is white and the trees have lost their green, conversations with roommates, choices of extracurriculars. “What if we put us on pause for a few months when we get to campus?” he says finally. “Just long enough to establish independent lives, make independent decisions. Then . . .” He rubs my hand with his thumb.
It’s hard to want what he’s saying. We’d only have months together before separating. Against all my expectations, I don’t want to leave our relationship behind with high school. Even if we promise to get back together, the whole point of this pause is to give Ethan room to discover who he is. When he does, he might decide he doesn’t want us anymore.
But while it’s hard, it’s right. “I think that might be for the best,” I say. Nothing with Ethan feels the way I would expect. When my previous relationships ended, I wasn’t desperate or despondent. I was fine. With Ethan, the very idea of the fledgling thing we have unraveling isn’t unbearable, but it is enough to hurt. I stand, wanting space from the subject. What’s left of my ice cream is melted, and I throw it in the trash.
When I turn from the blue metal bin, Ethan’s behind me. My breath catches in a good way. He places one caressing hand on my elbow, and it eases my heartache. “This means we don’t have long to catch up on everything we didn’t do while we were busy fighting.” He draws me close, his eyes flirtatious.
I permit myself to forget how I’ll feel if we don’t work out. Tilting my head, I meet his gaze. “You’re saying we’re behind on the material?”
His lips move closer. “Very, very behind,” he answers, smiling into my cheek.
I reach up, holding him right here, my fingers in his hair. I know we don’t have long. What time we do have left, I’m determined to savor, turning my calendar from a countdown into a compendium of banter, dates, and everything else we could be. “Well,” I say seriously, putting on a studious pout, “I’ve always enjoyed doing extra credit.”
He’s laughing as I tug him down to meet my lips.
Fifty-Six
ON MONDAY, I’M DETERMINED to make a grand gesture. Instead of going to ASG when I get out of French, I cross the quad in the other direction, heading for the yearbook room. Dylan is worth my first and only tardy.
It’s disorienting deviating from my regular route. I see different people, each carrying out routines of his or her own. In the late morning light, I pass the railing on the edge of the quad, where Ryan Maldonaldo and Lindsay Costello lean, holding hands. They part, presumably to head to their classes. I fight the urge to quicken my steps and double back to ASG.
The final bell hasn’t yet rung when I walk into yearbook, but everyone’s already working. Their deadline to get the yearbook to the printer must be upcoming. In the back of the room, I find Dylan at her regular computer, the title text of the “Seniors Reflect” page on her screen.
“Hey,” I say hesitantly, “do you have a minute?” Nobody’s noticed me walk in, everyone chatting or occupied in the pre-class minutes.
Dylan turns around. It’s not hard resentment I find on her face, which I guess is good. It’s surprise. “Alison,” she starts, her eyes wide. “What are you doing here? You’re going to be late to fourth period.”
“I don’t care,” I reply. “I wanted to talk to you, and I don’t know where you’ve been going during lunch.”
Dylan doesn’t appear to process my words. “You’re going to get a tardy,” she tells me.
“I’m aware. Dylan, I was wrong when I told you not to hold on to your relationship with Olivia. It wasn’t my place. I think people really can change,” I say, reflecting on the ways Ethan and I have changed toward each other. “Maybe I just haven’t spent enough time with her more recently. You two probably have a much better relationship—”
“We broke up,” Dylan interrupts me.
I stop, my speech hanging unfinished. “Oh.”
“Thank you for finally apologizing, though.” Her eyes shift off of me, which makes me nervous. “God, you were such a hypocrite,” she goes on.
My mind jumps to Ethan, my nerves winding into panic. I wonder how she could have possibly found out. “Um . . .” I swallow. “How?”
“You’ve always been adamant about what you wanted, and you didn’t allow anyone to question you,” Dylan explains. “Which I love, by the way. It’s why I think you’re awesome. But it was less awesome when you doubted what I said I wanted.”
My relief she’s not referring to Ethan fades quickly to the corner of my mind. I understand exactly how I wronged her, and it’s hard to hear out loud. “That’s fair,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
Dylan stares me down, then she sighs heavily. “I’m sorry I said our friendship wasn’t right anymore and that I wanted to leave it behind with high school. I don’t want that.”
“Good,” I reply unhesitatingly. “I don’t, either.”
The bell rings for the beginning of class. Dylan watches me, one eyebrow up. “You feeling okay? You’re officially tardy. Take deep breaths,” she says, her voice a combination of mocking and completely serious. I grin, unable to help myself. It feels like everything’s returning to normal, and I’m inexpressibly grateful Dylan’s teasing me the way she ordinarily would.
“You know I wouldn’t risk a tardy for anyone else, right?” I ask.
“I do,” Dylan replies. Class is starting, and while no one quiets down, there’s a rhythm of productivity in the room. Several yearbook staffers give me glances, noticing I’m not supposed to be here. Pham passes me without comment on his way to the front of the room, where he confers with a couple editors. Either everyone figures I’m here for some very important, legitimate school purpose, or they’re used to people cutting class as a symptom of senioritis.