IN ENGLISH CLASS ON MONDAY, my eyes find Bram immediately. He sits on the couch beside Garrett, wearing a collared shirt under a sweater, and he’s so freaking adorable that it almost hurts to look at him.
“Hi, hi,” I say.
He smiles like he’s been waiting for me, and he scoots over to make room.
“Good job this weekend, Spier,” says Garrett. “Pretty friggin’ funny.”
“I didn’t know you were there.”
“I mean,” he says, “Greenfeld made me go three times.”
“Oh, really?” I say, grinning at Bram. And then he grins back, and I’m giddy and breathless and kind of unraveled. And I didn’t sleep at all last night. Not even for a second. I’ve basically been picturing this moment for ten hours, and now that it’s here, I don’t have a clue what I’m supposed to say. Probably something awesome and witty and not school-related.
Probably not: “Did you finish the chapter?”
“I did,” he says.
“I didn’t,” I say.
Then he smiles and I smile. And then I blush and he lowers his eyes, and it’s like this entire pantomime of nervous gestures.
Mr. Wise comes in and starts reading aloud from The Awakening, and we’re supposed to follow along in our own copies. But I keep losing my place. I’ve never been so distracted. So, I lean in to look on with Bram, and his body shifts toward me. I’m perfectly attuned to every point of contact between us. It’s like our nerve endings have found a way to slip through fabric.
And then Bram stretches his legs forward and pushes his knee into mine. Which means the rest of the period is pretty much devoted to staring at Bram’s knee. There’s a place where his jeans are fraying, and a tiny patch of brown skin is barely visible between the fibers of the denim. And all I want to do is touch it. At one point, Bram and Garrett both turn to look at me, and I realize I’ve just sighed out loud.
After class, Abby hooks an arm around my shoulders and says, “I didn’t realize you and Bram were such good friends.”
“Hush,” I say, and my cheeks burn. Freaking Abby never misses a freaking thing.
I’m not expecting to see him again until lunch, but he materializes at my locker right before. “I think we should go somewhere,” he says.
“Off campus?”
Technically, only the seniors are allowed, but it’s not like the security guards know we’re not seniors. So I imagine.
“Have you done this before?”
“Nope,” he says. And he presses his fingertips softly against mine, just for a moment.
“Me neither,” I say. “Okay.”
So, we walk out the side door and briskly through the parking lot with as much confidence as we can muster. The air is sharply cold from an hour or two of early morning rain.
Bram’s Honda Civic is old and comfy and meticulously neat, and he cranks up the heat as soon as we get inside. An auxiliary cable strings out from the cigarette lighter, attached to an iPod. He tells me to pick the music. I’m not sure if Bram knows that handing me his iPod is like handing me the window to his soul.
And of course his music selection is perfect. A lot of classic soul and newer hip-hop. A surprising amount of bluegrass. A single guilty pleasure song by Justin Bieber. And, without exception, every album or musician I’ve ever mentioned in my emails.
I think I’m in love.
“So, where are we going?” I ask.
He glances at me and smiles. “I have an idea.”
So I lean back against the headrest, spinning through Bram’s music list as the heater revives my fingers. It’s beginning to rain again. I watch the droplets slide in tapering diagonals across the window.
I make a decision and press play, and Otis Redding’s voice comes quietly through the speakers. “Try a Little Tenderness.” I turn up the volume.
And then I touch Bram’s elbow. “You’re so quiet,” I say.
“Now or in general?”
“Well, both.”
“I’m quiet around you,” he says, smiling.
I smile back. “I’m one of the cute guys who gets you tongue-tied?”
He squeezes the steering wheel.
“You’re the cute guy.”
He pulls into a shopping center not far from school, and parks in front of Publix.
“We’re going grocery shopping?” I ask.
“It looks like it,” he says, with a spark of a smile. Mysterious Bram. We cover our heads with our hands as we run through the rain.
As we step into the brightly lit entryway, my phone buzzes through my jeans. I’ve missed three text messages, all from Abby.
R u coming to lunch?
Um, where r u?
Bram’s gone too. How strange. ;)
But there’s Bram, carrying a grocery basket, and his curls are damp and his eyes are luminous. “Twenty-seven minutes until the end of lunch,” he says. “Maybe we should divide and conquer.”
“You got it. Where to, boss?”
He directs me to the dairy aisle for a pint of milk.
“So what did you get?” I ask, when we reconvene at the checkout.
“Lunch,” he says, tilting his basket toward me. Inside, there are two plastic cup containers of miniature Oreos and a box of plastic spoons.
I almost kiss him right there in front of the U-Scan.
He insists on paying for everything. The rain has picked up, but we make a break for it, falling breathlessly into the seats and letting the doors slam shut. I rub my glasses against my shirt to dry them. Then Bram twists the ignition, and the heat kicks back on, and the only sound is the tap of raindrops against the window. He looks down at his hands, and I can see he’s grinning.
“Abraham,” I say, trying it out, and there’s this soft ache below my stomach.
His eyes flick toward me.
And the rain makes a kind of curtain, which is probably for the best. Because all of a sudden, I’m leaning over the gear stick, and my hands are on his shoulders, and I’m trying to keep breathing. All I can see are Bram’s lips. Which fall gently open the moment I lean in to kiss him.
And I can’t even describe it. It’s stillness and pressure and rhythm and breathing. We can’t figure out our noses at first, but then we do, and then I realize my eyes are still open. So I shut them. And his fingertips graze the nape of my neck, in constant quiet motion.
He pauses for a moment, and my eyes flutter open, and he smiles, so I smile back. And then he leans in to kiss me again, sweet and feather-soft. And it’s almost too perfect. Almost too Disney. This can’t actually be me.
Ten minutes later, we’re holding hands and eating Oreo mush, and it’s the perfect lunch. More Oreos than milk. And I never would have remembered spoons, but he did. Of course.
“So now what?” I ask.
“We should probably go back to school.”
“No, I mean, us. I don’t know what you want. I don’t know if you’re ready to be out,” I say, but he taps along the creases in my palm with his thumb, and it makes me lose focus.
His thumb stops tapping, and he looks at me, and then he twines his fingers through mine. I lean back, tilting my head toward him.
“I’m all in, if you are,” he says.
“All in?” I say. “Like what? Like boyfriend?”
“I mean, yeah. If that’s what you want.”
“That’s what I want,” I say. My boyfriend. My brown eyed, grammar nerd, soccer star boyfriend.
And I can’t stop smiling. I mean, there are times when it’s actually more work not to smile.
That night, as of 8:05, Bram Greenfeld is no longer Single on Facebook—a.k.a. the best thing that has ever happened in the history of the internet.
At 8:11, Simon Spier is no longer Single either. Which generates about five million Likes and an instantaneous comment from Abby Suso: LIKE LIKE LIKE.
Followed by a comment from Alice Spier: Wait—what?
Followed by another comment from Abby Suso: Call me!!
I text her and tell her I’ll talk to her tomorrow. I think I want to keep the details to myself tonight.
Instead, I call Bram. I mean, I almost can’t believe I didn’t have his number until yesterday. He picks up right away.
“Hi,” he says, quickly and softly. Like the word belongs to us.
“Big news on Facebook tonight.” I sink backward onto my mattress.
His quiet laugh. “Yeah.”
“So what’s our next move? Do we keep it classy? Or do we blast everyone’s newsfeeds with kissing selfies?”
“Probably the selfies,” he says. “But just a couple dozen a day.”
“And we have to shout out our anniversary every week. Every Sunday.”
“Well, and every Monday for our first kiss.”
“And a couple dozen posts every night about how much we miss each other.”
“I do miss you, though,” he says.
I mean, Jesus Christ. What a week to be grounded.
“What are you doing right now?” I ask.
“Is that an invitation?”
“I wish it was.”
He laughs. “I’m sitting at my desk, looking through my window, and talking to you.”
“Talking to your boyfriend.”
“Yeah,” he says. I can hear him smiling. “Him.”
“All right.” Abby accosts me at my locker. “I’m about to lose it. What the heck is going on with you and Bram?”
“I’m, uh.” I look at her and smile as a wave of heat rises in my cheeks. She waits. And I shrug. I don’t know why it’s so weird talking about this.
“Oh my gosh. Look at you.”
“What?” I ask.
“Blushing.” She pokes my cheeks. “I’m sorry, but you’re so cute, I can’t even stand it. Just go. Keep walking.”
Bram and I have English and algebra together, which basically amounts to two hours of staring longingly at his mouth and five hours of longingly imagining his mouth. Instead of lunch, we sneak into the auditorium, and it’s strange seeing the stage stripped of the set for Oliver! The school talent show is on Friday, and someone’s already hung spangled gold tassels in front of the curtains.
We’re alone in the theater, but it feels too big, so I take Bram by the hand and pull him into the boys’ dressing room.
“Aha,” he says as I fiddle with the latch. “This is a doors-locked kind of activity.”
“Yup,” I say, and then I kiss him.
His hands fall to my waist, and he pulls me in closer. He’s only a few inches taller than me, and he smells like Dove soap, and for someone whose kissing career began yesterday, he has seriously magical lips. Soft and sweet and lingering. He kisses like Elliott Smith sings.
And then we pull out chairs, and I twist mine around sideways so I can rest my legs across his lap. And he drums his hands across my shins, and we talk about everything. Little Fetus being the size of a sweet potato. Frank Ocean being gay.
“Oh, and guess who was apparently bisexual,” Bram says.
“Who?”
“Casanova.”
“Freaking Casanova?”
“For real,” he says. “According to my dad.”
“You’re telling me,” I say, kissing his fist, “that your dad told you Casanova was bisexual.”
“It was his response to me coming out.”
“Your dad is amazing.”
“Amazingly awkward.”
I love his wry smile. I love watching him relax around me. I mean, I love this. Everything. He leans forward to scratch his ankle, and my heart just twists. The golden brown skin on the nape of his neck.
Everything.
I float through the rest of the day, and he’s all I can think about. And then I text him as soon as I get home. Miss you sooooo much!!!
I mean, it’s a joke. Mostly.
He texts back immediately. Happy two day anniversary!!!!!!
Which makes me cackle at the kitchen table.
“You’re in a good mood,” says my mom, walking in with Bieber.
I shrug.
She shoots me this curious half smile. “All right, well, don’t feel like you have to talk about it, but I’m just saying. If you wanted to . . .”
Freaking psychologists. So much for not being weird and obsessed.
I hear a car pull into the driveway. “Nora’s home already?” I ask. It’s funny, but I’ve gotten used to her being gone until dinner.
I look out the window and do a double take. I mean, Nora’s home. But the car. The driver.
“Is that Leah?” I ask. “Driving Nora?”
“Appears to be.”
“Okay, yeah. I have to go out there.”
“Oh no,” she says. “Too bad you’re grounded.”
“Mom,” I say.
She tips her palms up.
“Come on. Please.” Already, Nora’s opening the car door.
“I’m open to negotiating,” she says.
“For what?”
“One night of parole in exchange for ten minutes of access to your Facebook.”
Jesus Christ.
“Five,” I say. “Supervised.”
“You got it,” she says. “But I want to see the boyfriend.”
So yeah. At least one of my sisters is about to get murdered.
But first: Leah. I sprint out the door.
Nora’s face whips toward me in surprise, but I run straight past her, panting, as I reach the passenger side door. Before Leah can object, I pull it open and climb inside.
Bram’s car is old, but Leah’s car is a Flintstones relic. I mean, it has a tape deck and crank windows. There’s a line of plush anime characters on the dashboard, and the floor is always littered with papers and empty Coke bottles. And there’s that floral grandmother smell.
I actually sort of love Leah’s car.
Leah looks at me in disbelief. I mean, waves of stink-eye roll off of her. “Get the hell out of my car,” she says.
“I want to talk.”
“Okay, well, I don’t.”
I click in my seat belt. “Take me to Waffle House.”
“You’re fucking kidding me.”
“Not even a little bit.” I lean back into the seat.
“So you’re carjacking me.”
“Oh,” I say, “I guess so.”
“Fucking unbelievable.” She shakes her head. But a moment later, she starts driving. She stares straight ahead with her mouth in a line, and she doesn’t say a word.
“I know you’re pissed at me,” I say.
Nothing.
“And I’m sorry about Midtown. I really am.”
Still.
“Will you just say something?”
“We’re here.” She puts the car in park. The lot is almost empty. “You can get your fucking waffle or whatever.”
“You’re coming with me,” I say.
“Um, yeah, no.”
“Okay, then don’t. But I’m not going in without you.”
“Not my problem.”
“Fine,” I say. “We’ll talk here.” I unlatch my seat belt and turn toward her.
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“So, what? That’s it? We’re just not going to be friends anymore?”
She leans back and shuts her eyes. “Aww. Maybe you should go cry about it to Abby.”
“Okay, seriously?” I say. “What the hell is your problem with her?” I’m not trying to raise my voice, but it comes out booming.
“I don’t have a problem with her,” Leah says. “I just don’t know why we’re suddenly best friends with her.”
“Well, because she’s Nick’s girlfriend, for one thing.”
Leah whips her head toward me like I’ve slapped her.
“That’s right. Keep making this about Nick,” she says, “and we can all just fucking forget that you’re obsessed with her, too.”
“Are you kidding me? I’m gay!”
“You’re platonically obsessed with her!” she yells. “It’s cool, though. She’s such a fucking upgrade.”
“What?”
“Female best friend four-point-fucking-oh. Now available in the prettiest, perkiest package ever!”
“Oh, for the love of God,” I say. “You’re pretty.”
She laughs. “All right.”
“Seriously, just stop it. I’m so fucking tired of this.” I look at her. “She’s not an upgrade. You’re my best friend.”
She snorts.
“Well, you are. Both of you. And Nick. All three of you,” I say. “But I could never replace you. You’re Leah.”
“Then why did you come out to her first?” she says.
“Leah,” I say.
“Just—whatever. I don’t have the right to give a shit.”
“Stop saying that. You can give all kinds of shits.”
She’s quiet. And then I’m quiet. And then she says, “It was just so, I don’t know. It was obvious that Nick liked her. None of that’s been a fucking surprise. But when you told her first, it was like, I didn’t even see that coming. I thought you trusted me.”
“I do,” I say.
“Well, apparently you trust her more,” she says, “which is awesome, because how long have you known her? Six months? You’ve known me for six years.”
And I don’t know what to say. There’s a lump in my throat.
“But whatever,” she says. “I can’t—you know. It’s your thing.”
“I mean.” I swallow. “Yeah, it was easier to tell her. But it’s not about trusting her more or you more or anything like that. You don’t even know.” My eyes prickle. “It’s like, yeah. I’ve known you forever, and Nick even longer. You guys know me better than anyone. You know me too well,” I say.
She grips the steering wheel and avoids my eyes.
“I mean, everything. You know everything about me. The wolf T-shirts. The cookie cones. ‘Boom Boom Pow.’”
She cracks a smile.
“And no, I don’t have that kind of a history with Abby. But that’s what made it easier. There’s this huge part of me, and I’m still trying it on. And I don’t know how it fits together. How I fit together. It’s like a new version of me. I just needed someone who could run with that.” I sigh. “But I really wanted to tell you.”
“Okay.”
“It’s just, it got to the point where it was hard to bring it up.”
I stare at the steering wheel.
“I mean, I get that,” she says finally. “I do. It’s like the longer you sit with some shit, the harder it is to talk about.”
We’re both silent for a moment.
“Leah?”
“Yeah?”
“What happened with your dad?” My breath hitches.
“My dad?”
I turn my head toward her.
“Well, it’s kind of a funny story.”
“Yeah?”
“Um. Not really. He hooked up with this hottie nineteen-year-old at his work. And then he left.”
“Oh.” I look at her. “Leah, I’m so freaking sorry.”
I spent six years not asking that question.
God, I’m such an asshole.
“Stop blinking like that,” she says.
“Like what?”
“Don’t you dare cry.”
“What? No way.”
Which is the moment I lose it. Full-on, puff-eyed, snot-faucet crying.
“You’re a mess, Spier.”
“I know!” I sort of collapse into her shoulder. Her almond shampoo smell is so perfectly familiar. “I really love you, you know? I’m so sorry about everything. About the Abby thing. All of it.”
“It’s fine.”
“Really. I love you.”
She sniffs.
“Um, did you get something in your eye, Leah?”
“No. Shut up. You did.”
I wipe my eyes and laugh.