“Paige,” Fitz breathes. In one long stride he’s next to me on the bed, holding my gaze. I tear my eyes from his, afraid that if he looks too closely, he’ll see my secret.
“Cities you want to visit,” he says.
“Fitz—”
“In alphabetical order. Go.” He picks up my hand and squeezes gently, breaking down the last of my defenses.
“Amsterdam. Bangkok. Copenhagen. Dublin … El Paso?”
He scoffs.
“It’s harder than it looks! Especially when I’m—you know.” I gesture to the disaster that is me.
He drops one hand to swipe a single tear from my cheek, but he keeps his fingers threaded through my other hand.
“You’re touching me,” I say, my eyes focused on his calloused palms.
“Sorry.” He drops my fingers and steps away.
“No, it’s okay. It’s just … you didn’t really do that when you were with Molly. Or Ruby. Or Ivy.” There were others too, but those three stuck around the longest.
He winces. “Keeping that separation felt like the right thing to do.”
“Yeah. Obviously.” I clear my throat and shove him in the shoulder. He watches me warily, probably scared that I’m not going to be able to function like a normal human.
Maybe he has a point.
“Do you want to unpack while I start the fire?” he asks.
I nod, and he leaves, closing the door behind him. The room feels colder without him in it. I add a thick sweatshirt over my cardigan and place the rest of my belongings in the cedar dresser. It doesn’t take long, and a few minutes later I wander into the room with the couches.
Fitz is crouched over the fire, coaxing a bright spark to life. He leans forward and tenderly blows on the small flicker, and something about the gentleness of his movements brings a lump to my throat. I return his blanket to the couch and watch, transfixed, as the small flames quickly ignite. Soon, they’re blazing, warming the air around me.
He turns, unsurprised to see me watching. “What do you want to do now?”
It’s a small question, but I already feel raw and tender and vulnerable. Magic 8 didn’t come with rules, per se, but Clover encouraged me to use it whenever I’m feeling stuck or unsure. I type my question. Am I ready to face the firing squad?
The ball spins.
“What’s that?” Fitz reaches for my phone, craning his neck to see the screen.
I tuck it against my chest and shake my head.
He sighs but doesn’t push it.
Answer: Not likely.
My stomach flips. How foreboding. I try again.
Should I go upstairs?
The ball spins again, and this time I’m rewarded with a simple Yes. I like that. I can follow directions.
“Let’s go.” I pocket my phone.
Fitz flips off the light, illuminating us both in the soft glow of the fire.
“You go first,” he says.
“No, it’s okay.” I wait for him to lead the way, to act as my shield against Whit. We both hesitate, waiting for the other. It starts to get ridiculous, and I step forward at the same time he does. The dark staircase is narrow, and as we walk, I’m all arms and elbows and hips, gently bumping into Fitz and then quickly springing in the other direction. Our feet land on the top step at the same time.
Fitz looks up, his eyes wide. I follow his line of sight, and nearly trip over my own feet at the fresh sprig of mistletoe hanging directly above our heads.
“What are you doing in here?”
“Relax. I had to grab something I forgot.” Harrison closes the paperback in his hand, his index finger acting as a bookmark.
My skin bristles. I hate being told to relax or to calm down. It always has the opposite effect. “You’re on the bed. The bed with new sheets.” And this is a room. A room in an apartment. I sound like a lunatic. “Why are you on the bed with new sheets if you were just ‘grabbing something you forgot’?”
“I got distracted.” He shrugs and pushes himself to a standing position. “My bad. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable in my room.”
Tears prick the corners of my eyes as all my emotions from the past forty-eight hours come crashing down on me.
How did I end up here? In this strange room with a strange boy in a strange city?
My stomach pangs, a new ache blossoming inside me. Half my life has been spent claustrophobic in my own town, the desire for something new so stifling and so strong that I want to claw out of my own skin and wake up in another life. And now? The hollow gulf opening in my chest longs for something familiar. Maybe I’m not cut out to be a travel writer, after all. One hour in NYC and I’m already homesick for warm gingerbread and glowing twinkle lights and Fitz.
Especially Fitz.
Always Fitz.
“Do you think he’ll read it?” Harrison asks, bringing my attention back to him. I properly assess his appearance for the first time. Like I do with everyone, I find myself defining him in relation to Fitz. The differences between the two are stark. Fitz is all golden-boy charm: an easy smile, wavy hair, and piercing blue eyes. Fitz has lean baseball-boy muscles and an effervescent energy that demands attention.
Harrison is—not that. Then again, is anyone, really? While Fitz is an obvious homecoming king, Harrison strikes me as too cool for basic popularity, in a judgy, annoying sort of way. He’s way taller than I am, and probably has a couple of inches on Fitz too. He has dark brown eyes and a long face with lots of angles, giving him a dark, broody look that is not unattractive, if I’m being honest with myself.
“What?” I ask, having completely lost the thread of this conversation.
“The guy on the phone. Do you think he’ll read the letter?”
I hate that he overheard our private conversation. That he thinks he knows something about me. It gives him the upper hand and makes me feel unbearably young. “No.”
“Maybe you’re right. But I meant what I said before. He doesn’t need to read it to know that you’ve got it bad.”
“Why would you—what are you—I’m not—”
“You are.” He picks up three more books off his nightstand—which is piled with several precarious stacks. “You wrote him a letter confessing your feelings, then thought better of the whole thing. If he didn’t know before, he does now.”
“He doesn’t. I would’ve heard it in his voice.”
“Then he’s lying to himself.”
“You don’t even know me. Or him.”
“You guys spend a lot of time together? Do you consider him your best friend?” His voice is dripping with sarcasm.
“One of,” I say begrudgingly.
Harrison’s answering smile is wry, mocking. I feel about two inches tall. “Then he knows. He doesn’t need to read your bullshit Hallmark movie letter.” He pauses for a moment before asking, “Am I wrong?” He smirks at my nonresponse.
A thousand insults come rushing to my mind. I choke them down. “Is this a joke?” I look up at the ceiling of the dark apartment. “Seriously. Is this a freaking joke?”
“Freaking. How cute.”
“Get out.”
“Of my own room?”
“Please.” My voice cracks embarrassingly and my eyes swim with tears. “Please, leave me alone.”