“My dad was diagnosed just before Thanksgiving,” Harrison says, his voice low. He slips off the couch and joins me on the floor. “It seemed frivolous to spend time and energy on things like Christmas decorations when our entire lives have been turned upside down.”
“You don’t have to talk about it.” The memory of Harrison’s censure is still fresh. I had no idea he was going to react that way to a comment about his mom, which is a stark reminder that I’ve only known him for a day. For an hour or so earlier this evening, I thought he could be my adventure. Shows what I know.
He sighs and unties his bun, dragging his fingers through his hair. “I’m bad with emotions. Like, really bad. If you want to talk about feelings, I’m not the guy you want around.”
“Who says I want to talk about feelings?”
He raises an eyebrow.
“I was trying to be nice,” I say.
“I know. I shouldn’t have snapped.”
“It’s fine.” I keep my eyes on the lights of the tree, but I can feel him watching me.
“We thought a tree wouldn’t matter, but it does.” He puts his hand on my knee, and I finally look at him as the heat from his hand sears through my leggings. Shadows fall across his face. “My dad looked so happy tonight, stringing these crappy old lights and dancing with your mom. I’m glad you made me drag this thing half a mile and up five flights of stairs.”
“This is a thank-you speech?” I ask, eyes straying to the hand still resting on my knee. It’s unfamiliar and unexpected, but I don’t want him to move it. I think back to how giddy I felt walking to the apartment tonight, and am pretty sure it had less to do with the city or the tree and more to do with the fact that surly, brooding Harrison keeps a philosophy textbook by his bed, a dragon book in his pocket, and a warrior tattoo close to his heart. It’s a Mad Libs combination of traits that makes him more intriguing than he has any right to be. I inch closer, and for a moment I’m so nervous I can’t breathe, wondering if he’s going to kiss me. But instead of leaning in, he repositions himself and lies on his back, looking up at the Christmas tree. “The view is great down here,” he says, raising his eyebrows.
“Me, or the tree?” I say, leaning back on my arms.
He gently knocks the inside of my elbow so my arm collapses and I fall next to him; nerve endings come alive from my leg up to my shoulder, lighting a flame along every inch of skin that is pressed to my clothes to his clothes to his skin. My stomach clenches and I let my head fall to the side, facing him. I’m begging him to kiss me, and he sees it; he leans in at the same moment my phone beeps.
“I should check that,” I blurt. He pauses, then nods. “Could be my dad.” I sit up and grab my phone from the coffee table. He sits up too and places his hands on my knees, his fingers dancing idly.
“Or your love letter guy,” he muses.
Mention of Fitz sends my heart into my throat, but thankfully it’s a text from Clover. I open the message to see a picture of her hand with a diamond ring on the fourth finger.
?? I reply.
“Is everything okay?” Harrison asks as I frown at my phone.
I tilt the screen so he can see it. “From my friend Clover.”
“Hot damn, that’s a diamond ring! How old is she?” he asks.
“Eighteen last month.”
He whistles under his breath. “Do they put something in that desert water?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re in love with this best friend guy, and now this chick has run off and gotten engaged.”
“What? No! She wouldn’t.”
“She did.”
When my phone rings, I answer immediately. “What happened?”
“Jay proposed! We’re engaged!” Clover squeals so loudly that even Harrison winces.
I run my hand over my face as all the worries I keep stored in my brain on a daily basis squish tightly together, making room for this new thing. SIM licks his fingers, flips to a blank page, and starts a new list.
All the ways Clover will ruin her life if she gets married at eighteen:
higher risk of divorce (statistically proven fact, I’m pretty sure)
more likely she’ll drop out of college—if she even goes
no college = no job = no place to live = she’ll be homeless and destitute
I’m not proud of the fact that my mind takes Clover from engaged to homeless in approximately 2.2 seconds, but my brain is an expert at worst-case scenarios. My tongue sticks in my throat. What can I say? How do you tell your best friend that she’s about to make the biggest mistake of her life?
“Paige? You there?”
“Yeah.” I try to force my voice to sound happy, but it comes out strangled and forced. “Tell me everything.”
Clover seems blissfully oblivious to my hesitation and launches into the story. “Well, it started with him surprising me with tickets to ride the Polar Express train with his family. On the way up there, we got a flat tire and didn’t have a spare so we called Fitz and he came to help us—”
“You saw Fitz?” I blurt without thinking. Harrison’s fingers stop waltzing and he sits back. I cringe, hating myself for being so desperate to know about Fitz, for almost kissing Harrison when I’m in love with someone else, and for getting distracted when this moment is about Clover. “Never mind. Keep going.”
She describes the train ride in perfect detail, down to the hot chocolate and the cookies and the twinkle lights at the depot. Because my mind is a dirty traitor and my heart is hopelessly predictable, my mind wanders while Clover talks, placing Fitz in the scene she describes. It’s too easy to imagine him amid the white lights, his hands clasped around a warm drink. The picture tilts my entire world on its axis, making this moment with Harrison feel cheesy and wrong. I force myself to focus on Clover’s story, because I can tell by her voice that she’s getting to the important part.
“—Jay drove me home and dropped me off at my house. We sat in my car and talked for a long time, and he told me he couldn’t wait another second to give me my present. Then he showed me the ring and told me how much he loves me and that he cannot wait to spend the rest of his life with me, and asked me to marry him! Isn’t that the most romantic thing you’ve ever heard?”
“Uh—” My heart hammers in my chest. I wipe my sweaty palms on my pajama pants, suddenly sweltering.
“Paige?” Clover’s voice falters. “Why aren’t you saying anything?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“That you’re happy for me,” she says flatly.
“I—I’m …” I clear my throat. Harrison cocks his head to the side questioningly. “Is this because you want to have sex?” I blurt. Harrison shakes with silent laughter. I angle my body away from him.
“No!”
I don’t believe her. She and Jay are both intent on waiting until marriage. “What other reason is there to get married now?”
“What reason is there to wait?”
“The obvious one.”
“Age is just—”
“—a number? Maybe. But in this case, it’s a really important one.”