“Don’t feel bad. We would have found out anyway.”
“How?”
“Eavesdropping,” I tell her.
“Oh really?” She laughs. Then she presses her hands on her thighs and leans forward, sighing. “Yeah. It’s—you know. It is what it is. Your mom is pretty sad about it.”
“Has she talked to Karen?”
“I don’t think so.”
“I don’t think I could get married without Cassie there,” I say.
“Aw, sweetie.” She sweeps my hair to the side and rubs the back of my neck. “Yeah, it sucks. But it’s just one of those things. And as you get older, it’s not quite so . . .” She trails off, thinking.
“Quite so shitty?”
She smiles faintly. “It’s pretty shitty. It really is. This stuff is incredibly hard.” She tilts her head. “But it’s not quite so raw. You know, when you’re seventeen, everything feels like the end of the world. Or the beginning of the world. And that’s an awesome thing.”
I nod.
“But, you know. It’s been really complicated with Deenie and Karen for a long time. Obviously, she’s never been cool with Nadine being gay. And they’re not as close as they used to be.”
“Oh.”
“And sometimes that’s just what happens. People grow apart.”
Her words just sit there. And they leave this hollow ache in my gut.
Not as close as they used to be.
People grow apart.
And it makes me think of Cassie.
Even though Cassie and I would never do what Aunt Karen’s doing. We’d never fall that far apart. But we’ll drift. Siblings always do. They marry other people and have their own families and forget the way they used to whisper in bunk beds. It’s as inevitable as an airplane landing.
But there’s this sonogram picture of Cassie and me, where we’re pressing up against our little sacs, as close to each other as we can get. Apparently, we wouldn’t sleep in separate cribs. We held hands in our car seats. We started walking on the same day. Cassie first, and then me.
Now it feels like all we do is take tiny steps away from each other.
Toward crushes.
Toward girlfriends.
I’m not saying I want to be like those hundred-year-old Delany sisters. I always pictured us both married, with our own homes and spouses and a bunch of awesome kids. I just never thought about the in-between time. The part where we turn from we to she and me.
I mean, Cassie’s so ridiculous with her let’s date best friends plan. But maybe she’s right. Because Cassie’s gone. Her train has left the station. And all I can do is try to catch the next one in the same direction.
Or I don’t. And we grow apart.
“I hate that phrase,” I say. “Growing apart. It reminds me of plants.”
Patty laughs. “What do you have against plants?”
“I just hate it.”
“I know.”
She hugs me around the shoulders and sighs.
When I get to work, Reid’s at the front of the store, taking down the Fourth of July display. Or, at least he’s making it a little less conspicuously red, white, and blue. He leaves the burlap tablecloth and vintage Coke crates, but he’s stacking the Americana painted mason jars into a cardboard box. It’s pretty interesting watching Reid work. He gets really hyper-focused and methodical, like he’s in the zone. He doesn’t even notice me until I’m literally standing next to him.
“Hey—you’re here!” He lays the final mason jar down in a nest of bubble wrap and nudges the box aside with his shin. “Okay, I have to tell you something. Your cookie dough was the best thing I have ever tasted in my entire life.”
“Really?”
“It’s all I can think about.”
I laugh. “Oh wow.”
“Molly, I am not joking. I don’t know how something so wonderful even exists on this earth.”
“You know there’s still a few left over, right?”
“What?” He clutches his heart.
“You should come over after work,” I say.
And then I immediately regret it.
It’s not the fact that I’m being extremely uncareful. That’s a good thing. Uncareful is exactly what we’re going for.
Except the person I’m supposed to be uncareful around is Will. Because Will takes me a step closer to Cassie. Reid takes me further away.
But still. My heart is beating so quickly. I open my mouth to speak again but the words fall away. My entire brain empties in a single whoosh. Like driving through a tunnel in a rainstorm.
And now I should probably say something, but that would involve words, and WHAT EVEN ARE WORDS, and he’s looking at me with the hazelest eyes and the softest, most upturned mouth.
I can’t.
But I’m saved. By Deborah, who corners us, smiling. God, she even looks like Reid, sort of. I think their mouths are similar. I don’t know how I didn’t notice this.
“Hey. Sorry to interrupt,” she says, “but I need some heavy lifters. Someone bought that vanity. You guys up for it?”
I don’t know why I feel so nervous.
“Sure. The white one?” Reid asks.
“Yup. She’s pulling her car around now.”
Reid and I head over to the back corner of the store, where there’s a wooden vanity table painted a distressed white, with a big, rectangular mirror. It’s one of my favorite pieces in the whole store.
“You ready?” Reid asks, gripping one side, bracing for its weight.
“Ready.”
We lift it on three and carry it a few feet before setting it down slowly. Then, we lift it again, walk, and stop. Lift, walk, stop. And as it turns out, Reid and I are pretty good at carrying heavy stuff together, even though he’s over half a foot taller than me, and I’m the least athletic human on the planet. I think it helps that we take it slowly.
We set it down again, and he looks at me. “So, your sister’s dating Mina Choi?”
“Yeah. They’re kind of inseparable these days.”
“Oh, that’s cool.”
We pick up the vanity again and walk a few steps.
“So, what’s she like?” I ask when we set it down again.
“Mina?”
“Yeah. Like, should a protective sister be worried about this?”
“Oh, I don’t think so. She’s pretty cool. She’s artsy, I guess? I don’t know her that well.” He shrugs.
We lift the vanity again, and this time, we get it almost to the door—and then it takes two more lift-walk-stop cycles before we reach the woman’s car. She has a big, open SUV with all the back seats folded down, and the three of us manage to wedge it in there somehow.
Then the woman drives off, and Reid brushes his hands on his jeans.
“Okay, that was really impressive of us,” I say. “Right? Like, as a feat of strength?”
“It was a feat of strength,” he agrees, smiling, and I think he likes the way I phrased it. Then he pauses. “Okay, question.”
“Yup?”
He tilts his head. “Are you serious about this cookie dough situation?”
“You mean the situation of extra cookie dough existing at my house?”
His dimple flickers. “Yes.”
“Oh, I’m serious. I am dead serious.”
“That is very good to know.”
“And there may also be vanilla ice cream,” I say, “if you’re willing to help me with my moms’ wedding centerpieces.”
“I see.” He grins. “Okay, but I’m not very artistic.”
“I can talk you through it,” I say—and there’s this quiet little yank below my stomach.
When our shift ends we take the back streets to my house, and Reid tells me about this fireworks-viewing party he went to at his parents’ friend’s condo. Which has a rooftop. Because of course Deborah and Ari go to rooftop parties downtown.
“And it was interesting,” he says, “but it was basically a bunch of adults drinking
craft beer and asking me where I’m applying to college.”
“Oh my God. Why are adults so obsessed with that?”
“I know.” He shrugs. “Anyway, my friend Douglas lives near Capitol Hill, so my brother and I snuck off to his house to play World of Warcraft.”
“You missed the fireworks?”
He looks sheepish. “Yeah . . .”
“Not very patriotic, Reid.”
“I know.”
“But hey—you’re wearing red, white, and blue today.”
“I am?” He looks down. He doesn’t remember what he’s wearing. I love that. “Oh, I am.” He pauses. “But where’s the white?”
“What?”
“On my outfit. I’ve got a red shirt, blue jeans . . .”
I grin up at him. “Your sneakers.”
“Ohhhh.” We step into the crosswalk.
“They’re very white,” I tell him.
“Yeah, that’s actually funny,” he says, “because one of the only real conversations I’ve had with Mina Choi was about that.”
“About your sneakers?”
“Yup.”
“Really? What did she say?”
“Oh, you know.” He blushes. “It wasn’t a big deal.”
Okay. So now I’m curious. What in the world did Mina say about Reid’s sneakers?
“This is your house, right?” he says.
“Yup! Are you ready to paint centerpieces?”
He looks slightly unnerved. “I think so,” he says, with a serious nod. Then he pushes his glasses up. “Yes.”
“All right. Let me give you some newspapers, and maybe you could cover up the porch? And then I’ll run in and get the supplies.”
“I can do that.”
“And I’ll also grab your cookie dough,” I add.
He beams. “Awesome.”
I set Reid up with our recycling bin, and by the time I return with the mason jars and paint, he’s got the whole porch covered with newspapers.
“This is great,” I tell him. “It’s the perfect workspace.” I set the first batch of jars down on top of it.
“And you’re painting these?” he asks, brow furrowed.
“Yup. And then I’ll fill them with flowers. It’ll be really cute and simple.”
“So, I don’t want to throw you off your game or anything,” he says, “but you realize they’re already painted, right?”
“Yes.” I make a face at him. “They get a second coat.”
He settles cross-legged onto the newspaper with his cookie dough, while I pick up my paintbrush. And somehow, it’s this perfect sigh of a moment. It’s cloudy and sort of breezy. I line up my brushes and begin squeezing different colors of paint into an egg container. And the funny thing is, I know Reid’s not looking at me. But I sense him looking at me. It doesn’t line up.
I should say something, though, before the silence takes on its own life force. Silence does that sometimes.
“So you’re really not going to tell me what Mina said?”
“What Mina said?”
“About your shoes.”
He laughs. “It was really nothing.”
“I want to know.”
He shrugs. “Okay. I don’t know. It was during prom, so she might have been a little drunk, but we both ended up outside at one point. And she came over and sat next to me—which was a little surprising, just because, you know, we’d never really—anyway, she put her arm around me and got a very serious look on her face and said, ‘Reid, I’m going to give you some really, really important advice. Okay?’ And I said, ‘Okay.’ And she said, ‘Those sneakers are a liability.’”
“A liability?” I ask.
He nods and takes a quick bite of cookie dough. “Yeah. Like with girls.” He blushes. “With dating. Like my shoes are a turnoff.”
“Oh God.” I cover my cheeks. “Mina.”
“Yeah, it was kind of weird,” Reid says.
But oh—there’s a tiny, secret part of me that knows: Mina’s right. Sort of. It’s hard to explain, but the sneakers are awful. They are so bright white. They’re so loudly, defiantly uncool.
Not that it matters. It totally doesn’t matter.
But come on: he wore the sneakers to prom?
“But you kept them,” I say, nudging his sneaker with the toe of my flat.
“Yeah.” He smiles. “I don’t know. I just don’t care that much?”
“About impressing girls?”
He blushes again. “No. It’s just . . . I am who I am, you know? I’m not ever going to be cool.” He shrugs. “But it doesn’t really bother me.”
“I think you’re cool.”
He laughs. “Thank you.”
“I’m just saying.” I turn a mason jar over in my hands and try not to smile.
Because I have to admit: there’s something really badass about truly, honestly not caring what people think about you. A lot of people say they don’t care. Or they act like they don’t care. But I think most people care a lot. I know I do.
Like, if someone had told me an article of my clothing was a liability? I’ll be honest. I’d probably burn it. But Reid wears those sneakers every single day.
And there’s something interesting about that. Unsettling, but in a good way, like when a stranger looks you right in the eye.
I feel suddenly nervous.
“I need to stick these in the oven,” I say, standing abruptly. “The paint needs to set.”
There’s this springing in my chest. My pogo stick of a heart.
When I step back outside, Reid suggests going on a walk. If I want to.
And yes, I want to.
So we do. We fall into pace together, our strides adjusting automatically. It’s getting grayer outside, with heavy-hanging clouds like wet diapers. That’s how Nadine describes it.
“So, are you doing any other projects for the wedding?” Reid asks as we come up on Laurel Avenue. He reaches out to press the walk button.
“I’m making a fabric garland for the ceremony space.”
“A fabric garland.” His dimple flickers. “Are we sure that’s a real thing?”
“Oh, we’re sure.”
“I need a visual,” he says.
I pull out my phone. And then I text him the link to “Let Me Google That for You.”
He stops walking to check my text. I don’t think he’s actually capable of texting and walking at the same time.
“Psshhhh—very funny.” He grins. And then he hugs me. It’s kind of a one-armed, sideways, squeezy hug. It’s over before I can process it, but now my insides are one big shaken Coke bottle.
“So, I—” he starts to say, but then the sky dims so suddenly, it’s like someone flipped a switch. The first few raindrops plunk down slowly.
Then the sky splits open.
“Um,” I say.
“Should we make a run for it?”
“I think we have to.” I look up at him—his hair clings slickly to his forehead, and rain slides down his nose and his cheeks and the lenses of his glasses. “Can you see?”
He laughs. “Can you?” And then, carefully, he reaches forward, pushing my wet bangs to the side. My breath catches in my throat.
“Okay, let’s run,” I say quickly.
He grabs my hand, and there’s this pulsing tightness below my stomach. We run all the way back to my front porch, our clothes soaked through, hands still intertwined. The rain is still coming down so forcefully, the drops seem to ricochet back up off the pavement. It smells wet. And it sounds like stepping into the shower.
He laughs. “So, that was—”
Don’t be careful.
But then the door opens. Our hands spring apart.
It’s Cassie. And her eyebrows are raised to unprecedented heights. “What is this? A wet T-shirt contest?”
“Yes.” I grin. My heart’s still pounding.
“You both lose,” she says. But she looks at me quizzically.
And I can read her thoughts as cl
early as if she said them out loud.
AND NOW I CAN’T STOP thinking about it. The rainstorm. All of it. My brain has turned the whole thing into a hazily lit movie reel, Valencia-filtered, to a soundtrack of Bon Iver. I keep remembering the way our hands looked, laced together. My arms, covered in goose bumps. Reid’s fingertips on my forehead, sliding my bangs aside.
This is crazy, but I almost think he might have kissed me. Or I could have kissed him, and he would have kissed me back.
So this is what it’s like not being careful.
I feel vaguely nauseated. Like a weirdly pleasant norovirus. Kind of the halfway point between vomiting and becoming a sentient heart-eye emoji.
Which means it’s probably time to officially declare it: crush number twenty-seven. Reid of the Sneakers. Reid of the Cookie Dough Obsession. Reid of the Year-Round Mini Egg Relevance. I mean, I don’t even know how to explain him.
It’s too soon. I’m too in the thick of it.
I want him to text me, even though I know he’s at work. He’s probably unpacking picture frames at this very moment. But I can’t stop checking my phone.
Nothing. Miles of nothing.
I try to lose myself in my garland, cutting slits into the ends of the fabric. The cool thing about cotton is that you don’t have to cut the entire strip. If you rip it in the right direction, it comes apart in a straight line. I need approximately fifty billion fabric strips for this garland. Which is good, because my hands need fifty billion distractions. If I’m ripping fabric, I’m not sending embarrassingly honest texts to Reid.
Reid, I don’t think your sneakers are a liability.
Reid, you should have kissed me in that rainstorm.
Maybe I should have kissed you.
The weirdest thing is this compulsion I feel to say it out loud. I want to yell it into the tunnels of the Metro and make it my Facebook status. I want to look Reid right in the face and say it. Reid, I just like you, okay?
I think he might like me, too.
Except maybe I’m misinterpreting. Or maybe he does like me—but what happens after that? We’d kiss. Okay. We’d have sex. I don’t know. Even if he likes me, I’m not sure he’d like me naked.
I hate that I’m even thinking that. I hate hating my body. Actually, I don’t even hate my body. I just worry everyone else might.
Because chubby girls don’t get boyfriends, and they definitely don’t have sex. Not in movies—not really—unless it’s supposed to be a joke. And I don’t want to be a joke.