TWO
IN THE BEGINNING
Present Day
New York City
The Diary of Cassandra Taylor
Dear Diary,
Tristan has suggested I use you to help chronicle the events in my life that led me to being the maladjusted individual I am today. He wants me to look at some of the unhealthy relationships that have made me moody and emotionally unavailable, so I thought I’d start with the jackpot of all my regrets:
Ethan Holt.
The first time I saw him, I was simulating anal sex with someone I’d just met.
Wow. That sounds bad.
Let me explain.
I was auditioning for a place at The Grove Institute of Creative Arts, a private college that offered courses in dance, music, and visual arts, and also housed one of the most prestigious drama schools in the country.
Built on the bones of an old orchard, it was located in Westchester, New York, and in recent history, it had trained some of America’s most talented stars of theater and screen.
I’d been dreaming about studying there forever, so in my senior year, when all my friends were applying to colleges to be doctors, lawyers, engineers, and journalists, I applied to be an actress.
The Grove was my first choice for many reasons, not the least of which was that it was on the other side of the country from my parents.
It wasn’t that I didn’t love my parents, because I did. But Judy and Leo had very specific ideas about how I should live my life. Because I was an only child and therefore programmed to do anything and everything to gain their approval, I basically lived up to all their unrealistic ideals.
By the time I reached my senior year, I’d never drunk alcohol, smoked cigarettes, eaten anything other than Judy’s healthy-but-tasteless vegetarian crap, or slept with a boy. I was always home when I was supposed to be, even if it was so they could both completely ignore me, or snipe at each other, or not be there at all.
My mother was a fixer. She always felt like she should be bettering herself, or me. I was clumsy, so she enrolled me in ballet classes. I was chubby, so she watched every mouthful I ate. I was shy, so she made me go to drama classes.
I hated everything she forced me to do, except for drama. That one stuck. Turns out I was pretty good at it, too. Pretending I was someone else for a few hours? Yeah, that rocked my world.
Leo’s main contribution to my upbringing consisted of laying down strict guidelines about where I could go, who I could see, and what I could do. Apart from that, he ignored me unless I was doing something really right or really wrong. I quickly learned there was less yelling and being grounded when I did stuff right. Getting good grades made him happy. So did winning awards for drama and public speaking.
So, I worked hard. Harder than a daughter should to get her father’s attention. It’s safe to say all of my people-pleasing hang-ups came from him.
My parents weren’t happy about my plan to go to drama school, of course. I believe Leo’s exact words were, “Like hell.” He and Mom were okay with me acting as a hobby, but with my grades, I could have had my choice of highly paid professions. They didn’t understand why I’d throw that away for a vocation in which 90 percent of college graduates were forever unemployed.
I convinced them to let me audition by bargaining that I would also apply to the law program at Washington State. That bought me a roundtrip plane ticket to New York and the faint hope of leaving my approval-seeking husk behind.
I knew when I started the application process that my chances were slim, but I had to try. There were other schools I would have been happy to attend. But I wanted the best, and The Grove was it.
Six Years Earlier
Westchester, New York
The Grove Auditions
My leg is shaking.
Not trembling.
Not shuddering.
Shaking.
Uncontrollably.
My stomach is tying itself in knots, and I want to vomit. Again.
I’m sitting on the ground with my back against a wall. Invisible.
I don’t belong here. I’m not like them.
They’re brash, and outrageous, and seem comfortable using the “F” word. They chain-smoke and touch each other’s private parts, even though most of them have just met. They brag about the shows they’ve done or the films they’ve been in or the famous people they’ve seen, and I sit here getting smaller and smaller each second, knowing the only thing I’m going to achieve today is to prove how inadequate I am.
“So then the director says, ‘Zoe, the audience needs to see your breasts. You say you’re dedicated to your craft, and yet your misguided sense of modesty dictates your choices.’”
A perky blonde is holding court, telling theatrical war stories. The people gathered around look captivated.
I don’t really want to hear it, but she’s so loud I can’t help it.
“Oh my God, Zoe, what did you do?!” a pretty redhead asks, her face contorting with exaggerated emotion.
“What could I do?” Zoe asks with a sigh. “I sucked his dick and told him I was keeping my shirt on. It was the only way to protect my integrity.”
There’s laughter and a smattering of applause. Even before we’ve stepped inside, the performances have begun.
I lean my head back and close my eyes, trying to calm my nerves.
I run through my monologues in my head. I know them. Every word. I’ve dissected each syllable, analyzed the characters, subtext, and layers of emotional subtlety, yet I still feel unprepared.
“So, where are you from?”
Zoe is speaking again. I try to block her out.
“Hey. You. Wall Girl.”
I open my eyes. She’s looking at me. So is everyone else.
“Uh … what?”
I clear my throat and try not to look terrified.
“Where are you from?” she asks again, like I’m mentally challenged. “I can tell you’re not from New York.”
I know her snide smile is directed at my department store jeans and plain gray sweater, as well as my boring brown hair and lack of makeup. I’m not like most of the girls here, in their vibrant colors, large jewelry, and painted faces. They look like exotic tropical birds, and I look like a grease stain.
“Uh … I’m from Aberdeen.”
Her face crumples in distaste. “Where the fuck is that?”
“It’s in Washington. It’s kind of small.”
“Never heard of it,” she says with a dismissive wave of her lacquered nails. “Do you even have a theater there?”
“No.”
“So you don’t have any acting experience?”
“I did some amateur plays in Seattle.”
Her eyes are bright. She smells an easy kill. “Amateur? Oh … I see.” She stifles a laugh.
My self-preservation kicks in. “Of course, I haven’t done all the amazing things you’ve done. I mean, a movie. Wow. That’s must have been seriously awesome.”
Zoe’s eyes dull a little. The smell of blood is diluted by my suck-uppery.
“It was seriously awesome,” she says as she smiles like a barracuda with lipstick. “I mean, I’m probably wasting my time taking this course, because I won’t make it to the end before I get a big-budget deal, but it’s something to keep me occupied ’til then.”
I smile and agree with her. Stroke her ego.
It’s easy. I’m good at it.
The conversations bubble around me, and I add a comment here or there. Every half-truth that spills from my mouth makes me more like them. More likely to fit in.
Before long, I’m guffawing and braying like the rest of the donkeys, and one of the gay boys pulls me to my feet and pretends we’re at a rave.
He stands behind me as he thrusts against my butt. I play along, even though I’m horrified. I make vulgar noises and toss my head. Everyone thinks I’m hilarious, so I ignore my shame and keep going. Here, I can choose to be uninhibited and popular. Their approval is like a drug, and I want more.
I’m still pretending to be butt pumped when I look up and see him. He’s a few yards away, all tall and broad shouldered. His dark hair is wavy and unruly, and although his expression is impassive, his eyes show clear disdain. Sharp and unforgiving.
My fake laugh falters.
He looks like a vengeful angel with his intense gaze and ethereal features. Smooth skin and dark clothes.
He has one of those faces that stops you when you’re flipping through a magazine. Not textbook handsome, but mesmerizing. Like a book cover that begs you to flip it open and get lost in the story.
My new false bravado feels heavy under his gaze. It slides off me all dirty and thick, and I stop laughing.
The gay boy pushes me away and turns to someone else. I’ve lost my vulgar butt-pumping charm.
The tall boy also turns away and sits with his back to the wall. He pulls a tattered book from his pocket. I catch the title: The Outsiders. One of my favorites.
I turn back to the noisy group, but they’ve moved on.
I’m torn between trying to regain my position and finding out more about Book Boy.
The choice is taken from me when the nearby door opens and a woman steps out. She’s statuesque, with short black hair and bright red lips, and she assesses us with the focus of a laser beam. She reminds me of Betty Boop, if Betty Boop were pee-your-pants intimidating and had a patent-leather clipboard.
“All right, listen up.”
The chicken coop falls silent.
“If I call your name, head inside.”
She fires off names, her voice clear and sure.
When she yells, “Holt, Ethan,” the tall boy pushes off the wall. He looks at me briefly as he passes, and it makes me want to follow. I feel false and uncomfortable without him.
Names keep coming. I estimate more than sixty people walk through the door, including “Stevens, Zoe,” who squeals before strutting inside. I flinch when I hear, “Taylor, Cassandra!”
As I grab my knapsack, the intimidating woman says, “That’s it for this group. Everyone else wait here. You’ll be collected by other instructors.”
She follows me through the door and pulls it closed behind her.
We’re in a large, black room. A multipurpose theater space.
On the far wall is a long bank of collapsible bleachers. Most of the group is sitting on them, chatting quietly.
The final count is eighty-eight. Sixty girls and twenty-eight boys. None of them look as nervous as I feel.
I sit, feeling like a clueless hack in a sea of more experienced city kids. My leg starts trembling again.
The instructor stands in front of us.
“My name is Erika Eden, and I’m the head of the acting department. This morning we’re going to do some character work and improvisation. At the end of each scene, I’ll let you know who will stay. I know what I’m looking for, and if you don’t have it, you’re gone. I’m not trying to be a hard-ass, that’s just the way it is. I don’t need to tell you that the Grove only takes the top thirty drama candidates from the two thousand who will be auditioning over the next few days, so put your best foot forward. I’m not interested in seeing hackneyed theatrics and fake emotion. Give me the real deal or go home.”
My fear of failure whispers that I should leave, but I can’t. I need this.
We spend the next half hour doing focusing exercises. Everyone’s desperately trying not to look desperate. Some people are more successful than others.
Zoe is loud and confident, as if her acceptance is in the bag. It probably is. Holt, Ethan is intense. Incredibly so. His interactions fire with restrained energy, like he’s a nuclear power plant being used to light a single bulb.
I try to keep everything real and natural, and for the most part, I succeed.
After each scene, people are cut. Some take it well and some crash and burn. It’s like a war zone.
The group numbers dwindle rapidly. Erika is fast and efficient, and every time she comes near me I think I’m gone. Somehow, I manage to survive.
When we break for lunch, we’re all quiet. Even Zoe. We sit in a circle, our minds stumbling over our monologues while we try to ignore that most of us won’t make it to callbacks tomorrow. A few times I feel my face burn and look up to see Holt, Ethan staring at me. He immediately looks away and scowls. I wonder why he seems so angry.
Back in the room, we’re paired off. I get assigned to a boy named Jordan who has acne and a lisp.
Each duo is given a scenario, and the rest of us watch. It’s like a blood sport. We’re all hoping the others will screw up so we have a better chance.
Zoe and Holt, Ethan are paired together. They’re supposed to be strangers at a train station. They talk and flirt while Zoe tosses her hair. I can’t tell if she’s more eager to impress Erika or Ethan.
Jordan and I play brother and sister. I have no siblings, so it’s kind of nice. We banter and laugh, and I have to admit, we’re pretty damn good. Erika compliments us, and the rest of the group grudgingly applauds.
At the end of the round, people are cut and tears are shed. I sigh in relief as I realize there are only about thirty of us left. The odds are getting better.
The partnerships are switched up. I get Holt, Ethan. He doesn’t look happy about it. He sits next to me as his jaw clenches and releases. I don’t think I’ve ever noticed a guy’s jaw before, but his is impressive.
He turns and catches me staring, and his expression is a perfect blend of a frown and I’m-going-to-kill-you-and-remove-all-your-skin.
Wow. We are so going to suck as partners.
Erika paces in front of the group. “For this last session, everyone will be given the same task. Your scenario is ‘Mirror Image.’”
Sounds easy.
“It won’t be easy.”
Dammit.
“This exercise is about trust, openness, and making a connection with the other person. No self-consciousness. No artifice. Just raw, pure energy. Neither of you leads or follows. You have to sense each other’s movement. Got it?”
We all nod, but I have no flipping clue what she’s talking about. Holt is rubbing his eyes and making a groaning sound. I figure he doesn’t, either.
“Right, let’s go.”
The first pair takes their position. It’s Zoe and Jordan. They take a few minutes to plan, then start to move. It’s obvious Zoe is leading and Jordan is following. They’re all hands and nothing more. At one point, Jordan giggles. Erika scribbles on her clipboard. I figure he just screwed the pooch. I smile. So does Holt.
Another one bites the dust.
The other groups perform in turn, and Erika circles them like a hawk, scrutinizing their every movement. She’s deciding who will make the final cut for callbacks. Most people are cracking under the pressure. I’m thrilled beyond words.
At last it’s our turn, and we stand in front of the group. Holt is jangling his leg. His hands are in his pockets, and his shoulders are hunched. It doesn’t fill me with confidence. I’d really like to pee and/or vomit. Because I can’t do either, I shift my weight from one foot to the other and beg my bladder to stand down.
Erika studies us for a few moments.
I realize Holt and I have both stopped breathing.
“All right, you two,” she says. “Last chance to impress me.”
Holt glances at me, and I see my desperation mirrored in him. He wants this. Maybe as much as I do.
Erika leans into me and lowers her voice. “He moves, you move, Miss Taylor. Understand? Breathe his air. Find a connection.” She glances at Holt. “You have to let her in, Ethan. Don’t think about it, just do it. Three strikes and you’re out, remember?”
He nods and swallows.
“You have three minutes to prepare.”
She leaves, and Holt and I move to the back of the room. He stands close and he smells good. Not that I should be noticing something like that, but my brain is looking for a distraction from my nerves, and his good smell is it.
“Look,” he says as he leans down. “I need this, okay? Don’t screw it up for me.”
I flush with anger. “Excuse me? You have just as much chance of screwing it up as I do. And what did Erika mean when she said ‘Three strikes and you’re out’?”
He leans in closer but doesn’t look at me. “This is the third year I’ve auditioned. If I don’t get in this time, I’m done. They won’t let me re-audition. Then my father would say a big, fat ‘I told you so’ and expect me to go to medical school. I’ve worked hard for this. I need it, okay?”
I’m confused. I’ve been watching him all day. Are these people blind?
“Why haven’t you gotten in before? You’re really good.” In a disturbingly intense kind of way.
His expression softens for a moment. “I find it hard to … mesh … with other performers. Apparently Erika believes that’s an important attribute for her actors to have.”
“It didn’t look like you had any problem with Zoe.”
He scoffs. “There was no connection there. I felt nothing, as usual. Erika could tell.”
I glance over at the dark-haired lady who is studying us. “She’s auditioned you before?”
He nods. “Every year. She wants to offer me a place, but she won’t give me a free pass. If I can’t prove I can do this particular exercise, which I’ve completely sucked at each time I’ve auditioned, then it’s over.”
“One minute!” Erika yells.
My heart rate kicks into overdrive. “Listen, just do whatever it takes to ‘connect’ with me, okay? Because if I don’t get this, I have to go back to my overprotective parents, and I seriously can’t fluffing cope with that. I know this might come as a surprise, but you’re not the only one with something to lose here.”
He frowns. “Did you … did you just say ‘fluffing’?”
I feel a fierce blush engulf my throat. He’s laughing at me, just because I refuse to curse my head off like every other fluffer in this place. “Shut up.”
His smirk widens. “Seriously? Fluffing?”
“Stop it! You’re wasting time.”
He stops laughing and sighs. He seems more relaxed, but I’m guessing that’s because all his anxiety has transferred to me.
“Look, Taylor—”
“My name is Cassie.”
“Whatever. Just relax, okay? We can do this. Look into my eyes and … Jesus, I don’t know … make me feel something. Don’t lose concentration. That’s what’s screwed everyone else so far. Just focus on me, and I’ll focus on you. Okay?”
“Fine.”
“And don’t say ‘fluffing’ any more, ’cause that shit cracks me up. You know it’s a porn term, right?”
No, I didn’t know it was a fluffing porn term. Do I look like a porn-watching pervert?
I exhale and try to focus. My thoughts are chaotic. I need to be calm.
“Hey,” he says as he touches my arm. It doesn’t help my concentration at all. “We can do this. Look at me.”
I look up into his eyes. His lashes are ridiculous.
As he gazes at me, something jolts straight into the pit of my stomach.
He must feel it, too, because his mouth drops open, and he inhales sharply. “Holy shit.” He blinks but doesn’t look away.
The energy crackling between us is too intense. I close my eyes and exhale.
“Taylor?”
“Cassie.”
“Cassie,” he whispers, his voice soft and so very desperate. “Stay with me. Please. I can’t do this without you.”
I swallow and nod. Then Erika yells at us, and we walk to the center of the room.
We turn to face each other, only a foot apart.
He’s much taller than I am, so I stare at his chest, watching it rise and fall as he tries to calm himself.
“Ready?” he whispers.
I want to yell, “No, God, please, I’m not fluffing ready!” but instead I say, “Yeah. Sure,” like this wasn’t life or death, or at the very least, really important.
I take a deep breath before looking up. His expression is less desperate now, and it feels like I’m seeing him—really seeing him—for the first time. I feel his energy. It’s like a wave of heat all around him. We stand there for a few seconds, just breathing, and as we gaze into each other’s eyes, the air between us solidifies, connecting us like two parts of the same person.
He raises his hand, and I follow, as if we have thousands of tiny strings between our arms, tugging them into alignment. I match his speed exactly, moving when he moves, breathing when he breathes.
We move again, and our bodies are perfectly aligned. It feels so natural. More natural than I’ve felt in a long time. Maybe ever.
We step closer. He leans forward, and I lean back. I tilt sideways, and he follows. The invisible strings tighten between us. Our movements become faster, but every one is perfect and precise. Intricate choreography that we’ve never learned, but our muscles somehow remember.
It’s thrilling.
We’re in the zone. That magical state performers sometimes achieve when everything is flowing and open. Heart, mind, body. I’ve felt it before, but never with another person.
It’s amazing.
Smiles spread on our faces. I notice Holt is kind of beautiful when he smiles.
Our arms are above our heads, and as we bring them down, our palms come together. His hands are big and warm. My skin tingles where we touch. Then I’m looking into his eyes, and we’re both not breathing, and I don’t know why.
In a second, Holt’s expression fills with panic, and he tenses. He blinks and drops his gaze, and suddenly it’s like all the buoyancy has gone out of the air. Our energy slams into the floor and drains away.
Holt steps away and exhales before looking over at Erika. “Are we done? Nobody else went for that long. We’re done, right?”
Erika tilts her head and studies him. His posture is tense and challenging.
I lower my hands. They’re cold now, and I clench them at my sides as my heart beats fast and unsteady.
“Are we done or not?” Holt says, and every good thing I felt about him fades in the shadow of his rudeness.
“Yes, Mr. Holt,” Erika says calmly while glancing at me. “You and Miss Taylor completed the exercise. Well done. You two have some interesting chemistry, don’t you?”
He glares.
She gives him a warm smile. “You may sit down. Everyone, give them a round of applause.”
The whole group breaks into applause. I hear murmurs of surprise that we were so good.
No one is more surprised than I am.
Holt stalks back to the bleachers and sits. Zoe gushes beside him as she touches his bicep. She’d be more subtle if she ripped open her shirt and begged him to grope her. He ignores her and leans his elbows on his knees.
I make an effort to stop staring at him.
The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur. People get cut, and the pairs get swapped around as more scenarios are played out.
At the end of the day Erika dismisses us, and we file outside to wait for her to post the callback list.
We’re all on edge. None of us know that we’ve done enough to move on to the next round. Even Zoe is unsure. She bites the inside of her cheek and paces.
I gnaw at my cuticles and chant, “Oh please, oh please, oh please” over and over again, as if begging the universe could possibly help me now.
At the end of the corridor, Holt sits with his back against the wall and his legs pulled up to his chest. He looks like he’s in pain.
Despite his behavior today, I feel sorry for him. Everyone’s nervous, but he seems really sick.
I walk over. He’s leaning his head against the wall, eyes closed. When I touch his shoulder, he jolts like I’ve Tasered him.
“What the fuck?” He glares, but it’s hard to find it intimidating when he’s so green he could get a job with the Muppets.
“You okay?”
He drops his head down to his knees and sighs. “I’m fine. Go away.”
I don’t know why I even bothered. “You’re a jerk, you know that?”
“I’m aware.”
“Just making sure.”
I go to leave, but he puts out an arm to stop me. “Taylor, look … I—”
“My name is Cassie.”
“Cassie…”
The way he says my name is … Well, it does strange things to me. It might be best if he goes back to calling me Taylor.
He gestures for me to sit, and I do. “The thing is … we’re not going to be friends, so I figure there’s no use in wasting energy on each other, right?”
I blink a few times. “Uh … okay.”
“That’s it? Okay?” He seems disappointed, but I don’t know why.
“Well, I’ve never really had the ‘you and I aren’t going to be friends’ talk before, so I’m not sure of the protocol. Do I thank you for pointing out the obvious, or…?”
He rubs his hands over his face and groans.
“What?” I ask. “I don’t know what you expect me to say. I wasn’t planning on being your friend.”
“Good,” he says, still rubbing his face.
I inhale and try to not lose my temper. “What is your problem? I pretty much saved your butt in there today, and you treat me like crap?”
“Yeah,” he says, his shoulders tense and high. “Because you’re so—”
“What?” I say. “Annoying? Irritating?”
“Bipolar.”
That stops me in my tracks. “Oh. I … huh?”
He sighs and shakes his head. “I saw you earlier, playing the popularity game. Giving the cool kids what they wanted, which is ridiculous because most of them are obnoxious creeps who are about as genuine as a three-dollar bill. But with me, you’re all prickly impatience and ball-breaking honesty. What, you don’t like me enough to fake it?”
I hadn’t realized it, but he’s right. I’ve never, and I mean never, spoken to someone the way I’ve spoken to him. Letting people know I’m annoyed or impatient is not what I do. I get along with people. I’ve done it my whole life. If someone doesn’t like me, I make them.
But with him, everything’s different.
“Well, what about you?” I say. “What’s your story?”
He shrugs. “I’m easy to figure out. I’m an asshole.”
“I know that.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Uh, yeah, I do. You’ve spent the afternoon treating me like I was going to infect you with leprosy. So I know what you are.”
He nods. “Good. Then you’ll know to stay away from me.”
“I’m sure I won’t have much choice about that, because after Erika posts the callback list, we’ll never see each other again. Problem solved.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Because you’re probably going to get a callback, and I’m not, so … yeah.”
He looks down and fiddles with his laces. “Don’t be so sure. You did okay today. More than okay.”
It takes a moment to realize he’s just given me a compliment. “Well, gee, thanks. You were okay, too.”
He looks up with a half smile. “Yeah?”
I roll my eyes. “Oh, please. You know you were amazing.”
“Yeah, I was,” he says and nods.
“So humble.”
“And good looking. It must really suck to not be me.”
I shake my head. “So, if you’ve been trying to get in here for three years, what have you been doing in between auditions?”
He looks down the hallway. “Mostly I worked construction for a company in Hoboken. They build sets for Broadway shows. Figured if I couldn’t be onstage, I’d work behind the scenes.”
“That’s why your hands are rough?” He frowns. “During the mirror exercise,” I say, “when we touched, your hands were calloused.”
He looks at his hands. “I prefer to think of them as rugged. Lugging around tons of set pieces isn’t delicate work. Hell of a workout though.”
“So is that why you have all”—I point at his shoulders and arms—“that?”
He smiles and shakes his head. “Yeah. That’s why I have all this. And enough money to pay for at least two years if I get in here.”
“When you get in,” I clarify.
He stares at me for a second, as if someone having faith in him is incomprehensible. “If you say so, Taylor.”
I give up asking him to use my first name. It’s probably better that we’re on a last-name basis, considering we’re not going to be friends or anything.
Except it kind of feels like we already are.
We sit there in silence for a while. Then the door opens and everyone jumps to their feet as Erika emerges with a piece of paper.
We all go silent, and expectation hums around us.
“For those of you on this list, congratulations. You’ll be back tomorrow for the second round of auditions. Those who aren’t, I’m afraid you’ve been unsuccessful. You may reapply next year. Thank you for your time.”
She sticks the paper to the back of the door before disappearing back inside.
There’s a huge rush of bodies as we all try to see the list. I push forward, my heart pounding, braced for disappointment.
When I finally get to the front, I hold my breath.
There are only three names.
Ethan Holt.
Zoe Stevens.
And … Cassandra Taylor.
The rest of our group is cut.
I’m in shock.
I made it.
Fluff, yes!
Holt reads over my shoulder and sighs in relief. “Thank fuck.”
I turn as he drops his head and exhales. He looks like a death-row prisoner who’s been granted a reprieve.
“Aw, it’s sweet you’re so happy for me,” I say. “Did you really have any doubt?”
“About you? None at all. Congratulations.”
“Congrats to you, too. I guess the medical world is safe from your scintillating bedside manner, for another day at least.”
“I guess so.” When he looks at me, the pit of my stomach tingles and flips.
I feel like I should say something else, but my brain is strange and clouded, so I just stand there.
He doesn’t speak, either. He just stares. His face is fascinating in an annoyingly good-looking kind of way.
“Well,” I say after an embarrassingly long pause, “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He nods. “Yeah. Sure. Later, Taylor.”
He grabs his bag and walks away, but I know we’ll see each other in the morning. I’m looking forward to it and dreading it at the same time.
I’ve never had this sort of reaction to a boy before.
I’m pretty sure it’s not a good thing.