b) I want to hang out with you.
11:33 PM
Fifteen minutes pass without a new notification.
Thirty.
Forty-five.
I am in a staring contest with my phone. My cheeks flush with embarrassment even though I am one hundred percent alone in this ugly AF more-orange-by-the-minute bedroom. I feel like an idiot for texting Nash out of the blue like this.
The rejection stings more than I expect, even though I deserve it.
My phone battery is running on empty, so I plug it in and place it screen-down on the night table. I will not obsess over it. Instead, I drown out the endless loop of anxiety with a new Lola Daniels book, because romance novels are perfect escapism. I get lost in the world of hockey boys and skater girls—until a knock on my door snaps me out of it.
“Hal?” The door swings open and it’s Ollie, dressed head to toe in his Middleton Market uniform. Khakis, forest green polyester shirt, and a matching green visor. At fifteen, he’s legally only allowed to bag groceries, but he likes having money of his own as much as I do.
I’m not sure what Ollie needs from me before his shift, but he looks pretty freaked out. His mouth is a straight line and his eyes are all bugged out like I’ve never seen.
“Ol?”
He shuts the door behind him and presses his back against it.
When he speaks, his voice is low.
“Gramps asked me to come get you. Nash is in our living room?” Ollie’s voice goes up at the end like it’s a question.
The hockey boys and skater girls fall to the floor.
“What? Why?”
“You tell me, Hal, since you’re allegedly the one who invited him.”
I grab for my phone, grab for any explanation—but the only notifications that light up my screen are for Kels.
“I did invite him. He never answered, though.”
Ollie raises his eyebrows. “Why?”
I shake my head. “I just wanted to, I guess.”
“Are you going to tell him?” Ollie whispers.
I shake my head fiercely. “Not yet.”
Ollie sighs. “This is a terrible idea and I do not condone it one bit. Nope.”
“What if he blasts me online?” I ask. “He’s pretty pissed at me right now.”
He crosses his arms over his chest. “Seriously?”
“I don’t know, Oliver. It’s a risk I can’t take—not before BookCon announces their panelists and my NYU application is in. Not until I’m sure.”
He flips me off for using his full name, like I knew he would.
“Oh, so that’s still the plan? Wait until you graduate and hope he doesn’t find out?”
I bite my lip and shrug. “It won’t be that long.”
He rolls his eyes and I can’t remember the last time his frustration has been so palpable. “But you like him, yeah?”
I feel my cheeks flush.
Online, Nash is my best friend. In person, though? When he’s nearly falling off swings, or blushing when his friends gush about REX, or joking in terrible book puns? It’s kind of impossible to ignore how cute Nash is.
I’ve been trying so hard to ignore how cute Nash is.
“He’s my best friend. Of course I like him.”
Ollie shakes his head. “That’s not what I meant.” He checks his phone. “I really need to go. I’ll tell him you’ll be down in five—enough time for you to change?”
I look down at my Snoopy PJs. Even when we’re tense, Ollie is always looking out for me.
“This sucks—I hate lying, Hal. If he’s going to be around more, you legit have to tell him.”
“What if I can’t?”
Ollie puts his hand on the knob and twists. “You’ve read this book before. It’s going to blow up, and it’s going to be your own stupid fault.”
He doesn’t get it, I think as the door slams behind him.
I change quickly into a cute but not trying look of leggings and a long T-shirt. Brush my hair. Hide my books in the closet because my collection screams Kels. Pick up my phone and read a message from Nash to Kels. The last one he sent says I guess you’re busy, talk to you later and it makes me laugh and hate everything all at once because, if only he knew.
* * *
Operation: Rebrand this Orange Hellhole has commenced.
Problem: I, Halle Levitt, have forgotten how to speak in the presence of Nash Kim.
“So first, I think we need to tape the walls,” Nash says.
“Okay.”
I pick up one of the rolls of blue paint tape and toss it to Nash.
It bounces off the floor a few feet away. Fail.
Nash’s eyes are on the tape. “So you invited me over to throw things at me. Got it.”
“I didn’t—”
He turns his back to me and starts taping before I can finish my sentence. I can’t stand the awkwardness, so I pull up Spotify. We spend half of Hamilton’s first act taping the room—because Hamilton is universal.
Once the room is sufficiently taped, we dip our roller brushes into lavender and start painting.
Time to permanently delete orange from my life.
Except, the orange isn’t completely disappearing under the lavender.
“Are we doing something wrong?” I ask. “I think we’re doing something wrong.”
“Seriously?” Nash asks, annoyed.
“Is that your new favorite word or something?”
If Nash is going to be passive-aggressive to me, I can give it back. I don’t know why he’s here if he’s not even going to give me a chance to apologize. We step back from the wall and assess the work we’ve done so far. Something is definitely wrong.
This isn’t the lily lavender I was promised on the swatch.
“Primer,” Nash says after a beat. “Duh. We didn’t prime first.”
“That’s important?” I ask.
“When the new color is lighter …” Nash walks over to the corner of my room where the second, unopened paint can is. He picks it up and brings it over and it’s actually not paint at all. It’s primer. “Of course, it’s been right here the whole time.”
“I thought they were both paint,” I admit.
Nash scrunches his eyebrows. “You thought you needed two cans of paint for one room?”
“I haven’t exactly done this before,” I say.
“Clearly,” Nash says, opening the can of primer.
I want to note that Nash didn’t exactly point this out before we started either, but instead I stand beside Nash and try to roll primer in sync with him—though his reach extends much higher than mine ever will. I jump to try to make up the difference. If I look ridiculous, he doesn’t laugh. My thoughts swirl trying to figure out how to bring up Rosh Hashanah, how to say I’m sorry. I’m not prepared to interact with this version of Nash.
“I get that you’re still mad at me,” I say. “I get it and I deserve it. But I don’t get why you’re here.”
“I’m not sure either, tbh,” Nash says, and even though we’re tense, a part of me dies because he says text-speak out loud too. “I mean, to be honest.”
“Got it,” I say.
His exhale almost sounds like a laugh. “Sorry—bad habit from the blog. My friends give me so much shit for it.”