I’m alone in the farmhouse, alone in my misery. Mom is on campus and all my friends are getting ready for prom tonight, so I play games on my phone for a while. But not Mythteries. I don’t play that.
Somewhere around lunchtime, I try calling Dad. He doesn’t answer and I don’t leave a message, but I do shoot him a text.
hey dad, what’s up?
Even though he didn’t pick up when I called, he texts back right away.
hi beautiful. in rehearsal, new play, amazing role.
closes in july so def able to come out & help u move into dorms. what do u need for college?
I turn off my phone. I don’t know what I need anymore.
Two long and boring and lonely hours later, I’m reconsidering my decision not to call Mom when I hear a familiar crunching coming from outside. It’s accompanied by the low rumbling sound of an engine. Those two noises together can mean only one thing.
The behemoth.
I rush to the front door.
Except it’s the wrong behemoth. This one isn’t black; it’s somewhere between beige and gold. And the person driving isn’t Oliver. It’s his mother, Marley.
Oliver’s mom’s white-blond hair is pulled into a high ponytail and she carries a giant designer bag. She’s finally remembered to return some socks and pajamas she borrowed from Mom when she spent the night. “There’s a book, too,” she tells me.
I smile and nod and reach for the bag, assuming she’ll drop it and run, but instead, she pushes past me into the house. “Can I borrow a pen?” she asks. “And some paper?”
I follow Marley into the kitchen and provide her with writing implements. She scribbles a note to Mom and glances up at me. “Hannah says you’re not going to prom tonight?”
“I’m not into it.”
“That must be a generational thing. Oliver is meeting some friends there, but he doesn’t seem excited at all. I practically had to drag him to get a tux.”
I have a sudden, overwhelming surge of desire to see Oliver in his tuxedo. I can imagine how he’ll look, all tall and blond and old-school movie star—
No. I mentally pack the image into a box labeled “Nice Try” and stash it away. Instead of thinking about Oliver, I reach out my hand to his mother and accept the note she gives me. Then I walk with her to the front door, where she thanks me. “Sorry to barge in unannounced.”
“No problem. Have a nice evening.”
I close the door and glance down at the note in my hand. It’s not anything exciting.
Hannah—
Thanks for the read.
Still on for coffee Monday?
—Mar
But for some reason, I keep staring at the note. And staring at it. There’s something about it. Not what it says, but how it says it. The neat, slanted handwriting.
I pound up the stairs and into my bedroom, where I rush to the bulletin board hanging on my wall. Holding Marley’s note up to it, I compare.
I was right. Marley’s handwriting is the same—like, the exact same—as the handwriting on my father’s birthday card. The one that came with the flowers he sent me. The one I cling to when I’m lonely or sad or angry. The one that was supposedly transcribed by the local florist.
Local florist, my ass.
Marley Flagg wrote that card.
Marley has already backed down our driveway and pulled onto Callaway when I slam out the front door. The behemoth takes off. I know it’s pointless to try to catch it, but I try anyway, racing down the driveway and into the street, waving my arms and screaming, “Mrs. Flagg! Wait!”
It’s the only way I’m going to find out the truth.
I chase her for a couple houses’ worth of road before slowing to a stop, my breath coming in short gasps. I’m not sure if it’s sweat or tears covering my face….
And miraculously, ahead of me, the behemoth also stops. I drop my hands to my knees and try to catch my breath as the big car makes a slow U-turn and Oliver’s mom comes back for me.
She’s coming back with answers. Answers that I already know will break my heart.
“Did you write this?” It’s the third time I’ve asked the question, but Marley still hasn’t given me an actual answer. We’re standing on the front porch and I’m waving the florist’s card in the air.
“I’m calling your mom.” Marley dives a hand into her huge bag and scrabbles around in it.
“No.” I move to stand directly in front of her. “You owe me.”
“What do I owe you?” Marley says, not in a snotty way but like she’s confused, like she has no idea what I’m talking about.
“I covered for you. I knew about your marriage problems for months and I didn’t say anything to Oliver.”
“I appreciate that—”
“It ruined everything!” I’m getting more and more worked up with every passing second in which I am not given the simple courtesy of being told the truth. “You put me in a really bad position. Oliver is my friend and I should never have known more about his family than he did. That’s messed up and it’s not fair. It wasn’t fair to me and it definitely wasn’t fair to him, so please tell me the truth about why you faked that note from my dad. Enough, already!”
For a second, I think I’ve gone too far and Marley is going to yell at me, or tell on me, or ground me. But instead, she fixes those huge blue eyes on mine. “Oh, sweetie.”
“What? ‘Oh, sweetie’ what?”
Marley steps closer. She reaches for my hand and I allow her to take it, because even though I’m mad, I’m also a little terrified of hearing whatever she’s going to say next. “Your dad…” She stops and gives a little sigh. “Oh, honey, your dad is such a screwup.”
Words of denial and defense leap to exit my mouth, but I clamp my lips together hard and I keep them inside. I keep everything inside.
And I listen.
“It’s not your fault,” Marley tells me. “It’s not your mom’s fault, either. Hell, it’s probably not even his fault. It’s just who he is—one of those guys who never sees what’s right in front of him. He loves you, June. I believe that and so does Hannah. But your dad…he does the best he can. It’s just that your mom’s best is a lot better.” She squeezes my hand gently. “We had lunch together on your birthday, your mom and me. Your dad texted while we were in the restaurant, asking your mom to pick something up. Something for you.”
No. No-no-no-no-no.
“He had forgotten about your birthday until that morning.”
Until I sent him a picture of my decorated locker.
“Your mom said she’d take care of it, and we went to a florist for the prettiest bouquet we could find.”
Dad will visit. He’ll visit. He said he would.
“I wrote the note so you wouldn’t recognize your mom’s handwriting.”
He’s better than that. I need him to be better than that.
This time, I’m 100 percent sure the wetness on my face is not sweat.
“Come here, honey.” Marley pulls me into her arms. I let her rock me and stroke my hair before she pushes me back so she can stare into my face. “What can I do?”
“I want to go to the prom,” I tell her.
Marley and I are sitting awkwardly on the art gallery bench when Mom and Cash emerge from her office. The buttons on Mom’s blouse are fastened wrong, and Cash’s hair is a little wonky, which makes sense, because the door was locked when Marley tried the knob.
Cash gives me an apologetic look. “June—”
“It’s better for me if we don’t talk about it,” I tell him.
“It’s better for me, too,” he says.
“Well, I think we should have a healthy discussion,” my mom chimes in.
“Hannah,” says Marley, but my mom doesn’t notice.
“When two adults are in a relationship, it’s natural to—”
“Hannah!” Marley says again, and this time my mother shuts up and listens. “We have a more pressing matter than your sex life. June wants to go to her prom, which starts in an hour and a half. She needs a dress, accessories, hair, and makeup. I told her we could make that happen.” My mother opens her mouth, but Marley raises a finger. “In other news, June knows about the flowers and how her dad’s kind of a lovable loser—”
“Marley!”
I touch my mom’s arm. “It’s okay.”
“Put it on your maternal to-do list for future discussion,” Marley tells my mother. “Right now, we have one priority: to get June ready for her senior prom.”
I see my mother consider, weigh, decide.
“We should call Quinny.”
“On it,” says Marley. “She’s bringing options. Next issue: transportation. Is it too late to rent a limo?”
“I can take her,” says Cash. “Nothing says ‘prom’ like a pickup truck.”
“Actually,” says Marley, “Oliver is flying solo—”
“No!” It explodes out of my mouth like a bomb, and everyone stares at me. I collect myself. “I mean…that would be weird. You said he already has plans with his friends. Besides, I have an idea. Where’s my phone?”
I am a frothy lavender milk shake standing atop a chair in the center of the gallery. Mom and Marley and Quinny whirl around me, plucking at and tweaking the tulle foaming from my waist. Fortunately (for him), Cash was sent out for burgers. “Enough!” I throw my hands in the air. “I don’t think this is the one.”
“Next!” says Quinny, heading to the garment bags slung across the bench. Mom unzips the back of the milk shake dress and Marley starts tugging it down. Over the last hour, since Quinny arrived with the dresses, I’ve lost all sense of modesty. The lavender is the eighth one I’ve tried on. Or maybe the ninth. One was okay, but the rest were either too poofy or too big in the chest or something. Quinny is a costume designer for the university theater and has all kinds of interesting stuff. I’m just worried she doesn’t have something that will both fit me and look like what a reasonable person might wear to a prom.
“This one,” says Mom. She’s pulling a dress out of a bag. “Try it.”
Four minutes later, I’m in a strapless steel-blue circle dress straight out of the fifties.
The sexy part of the fifties, that is.
The dress dips low in the back, gathering at my waist before blooming out all around me in a ballerina skirt that stops right above my knees. The fabric is textured but not too shiny. “Bengaline,” Quinny tells me when I run a finger over it.
Best of all, she and Marley and Mom have somehow managed to rig an undergarment that hoists and maneuvers in such a manner that I actually appear to have boobs. It’s perfect….
Except the dress doesn’t quite fit me.
Quinny hands my mother a tiny green-handled instrument. “You rip. I’ll sew.”
Next thing I know, my feet are back on the ground. Quinny pins the dress just as fast as Mom can rip stitches out of it. Marley brushes my hair and shushes Quinny, who keeps saying things like “Quit moving her” and “Hold still, Marls.”
When Mom and Quinny are done with the ripping and pinning, they help me wiggle out of the dress. I end up sitting on the bench in a crinoline and my T-shirt while Marley plays with my hair and, nearby, Mom hot-glues rhinestones to earring backs. “It’s convenient having an entire art studio at our disposal,” she says.
I don’t say anything.
I am mute with gratitude.
I stare at my own image looking back at me from my cell phone screen. I’m wearing the blue dress and peep-toe pumps on tall, slender heels. Sparkly earrings dangle from my lobes, which are visible because my hair has been swept into a glamorous updo. My eyes are lined and my lips are red. I’m a sleek, pinup version of myself.
A cluster of tiny roses appears between me and the phone screen, and I get a whiff of their delicate aroma. Cash is holding them with a bashful smile. “I got the wrist kind so you won’t have to put a pin through Quinny’s dress.”
Although nothing else has made me tear up, this does. “Don’t!” says Mom. “Your mascara will run!”
“Thank you,” I tell Cash, and hug him. Then I touch my on-screen image, sending it speeding through the galaxy toward my father. It’s accompanied by a message.
Don’t just scratch the surface.
He won’t get it. He won’t understand that because of his choices, he has a daughter in name only, a series of images and messages translating to a relationship that doesn’t really exist. He can’t begin to comprehend it, and that’s why I am able to forgive him. Because he really, truly doesn’t understand.
I forgive him, but that doesn’t mean I need to keep pretending he’s going to show up. I’ve pretended for way too long.
Mom pulls me away from everyone else. “Hey, Marley said you might have some questions for me.”
“Just one,” I tell her. “Will you teach me how to drive?”
A big smile breaks over her face. “Of course, honey.”
My ride arrives later than I hoped, but I don’t care. After all, it took quite a bit of convincing for us to reach an agreement at all.
“Are you sure about this?” my ride asks.
“Very sure,” I answer. “You and I have really, really good reasons to go to prom tonight.”
We pose for photos, I thank everyone who was involved in the Xtreme Cinderella-ing, and then we’re off.
The car jams to the curb and I hop out before the valet can reach my door. I’m in the biggest hurry of my life and I don’t care who knows it.
I’m alone when I run up the front stairs, and I’m alone when I cross the vast empty lobby of the hotel and step into the glittering ballroom. Hung with twinkling strands of light and dotted with white-draped tables, it is crowded with people I have known for years. My ears are flooded with indie punk music, and that’s the moment I feel the most alone of all: when I enter my senior prom.
It’s my own fault, of course. Sure, it was a boy who broke my heart, but I am the one to blame. I am the one who broke a promise.
Still, I hold my head high, because I have a reason to be here. I have a grand romantic gesture to make, an epic speech to give, a heart full of regret to bleed out over the scuffed vinyl.
My ride catches up to me as I’m scanning the dance floor. I know everyone here, or even if I don’t know them, I know their face, or their name, or some small fact about them. Despite all my attempts to deny it and to pretend I am different, now that I’m here, I have to admit the truth: these are my people.
Maybe I’m not alone after all.
Maybe I never have been.
And then I see Itch. He’s standing on the edge, swaying back and forth in that way guys do when they don’t want (or know how) to dance. He isn’t looking for me, but that makes sense, since he’s here with Akemi. She’s right beside him and their fingers are twined together.
Nothing about tonight is going to be easy.
I turn to say that I need to speak with someone, but my ride is frozen, staring into the distance. “Go,” I say, and then I also go. I make a beeline toward my ex-boyfriend.
Itch and Akemi stare at me when I barrel up to them. “I’m sorry,” I tell them. “But I need to talk to Itch.”
“No way,” Itch says.
“I get it. I’m not exactly the first person you want to hang out with tonight.”
“You’re actually the last,” he says. “The dead last.”
“Be nice.” Akemi elbows him in the ribs. I shoot her a grateful look and she shrugs. “I’m secure,” she tells me. “Besides, I have to pee.” She rises on her tiptoes and gives Itch a peck on the lips. “Remember. Give to the world what you want it to give back to you.”
It’s the kind of statement Itch and I would have mocked just a few months ago, but it no longer sounds mockable to me. In fact, it sounds sort of deep and real. Who am I?
As Akemi sails off, the current music fades and an old Elton John song swells up in its place. I grab Itch by the wrist. “This one time, you are going to dance with me like a cheesy high school joiner,” I tell him, and yank him onto the floor.
Shockingly, Itch allows it. I place his hands on my hips and set my hands on his familiar, narrow shoulders. We sway together, arm’s length apart, his eyes hard and angry on my own. “What, June?”
“I’m going to say out loud why you’re so mad. Okay?”
Itch doesn’t answer, exactly, but he does tilt his chin down a tiny bit. An almost imperceptible acknowledgment.
I take a deep breath. “At first, you were probably mad because of a bunch of things, because that’s how breakups work. People get mad when relationships end. But in most cases, people then get over it.” Itch’s stony gaze doesn’t falter. “But you couldn’t get over it, because I never let you, because I made you feel like our breakup wasn’t important. Like it didn’t matter, like maybe our entire relationship didn’t matter, because it wasn’t even worthy of a mention.”
Itch’s fingers tighten on my waist, just a little, and for the briefest of moments, we’re back in time, back in the stairwell, and we belong to each other all over again. I don’t want to be back there with him now, but I couldn’t be more thankful that it happened.
“Someday, there’s going to be a Grown-Up Me,” I tell him. “That Grown-Up Me is going to have High School You to thank for a little part of who she is. Future Grown-Up Me says thank you. Thank you so much for helping her turn into herself.”
Itch stares back at me and I realize we’ve both stopped swaying and my fingers are gripping his shoulders. I relax them and feel him relax, too. “Tell her she’s welcome,” Itch says. “I mean, when you see her. When you see Grown-Up You, tell her I said you’re welcome.”
“I will,” I say, and we smile genuine smiles at each other…until Itch’s gaze drifts past me. His expression changes.
Akemi is back.
I turn so I can apologize to her, so I can explain that I’m not trying to do anything inappropriate with her boyfriend and that we’re just talking…but it’s not Akemi.
It’s Oliver.
He is standing at the edge of the dance floor, watching us with a dark, furious look. He’s seeing Itch’s hands on my hips, my hands on his shoulders. I know Oliver saw our smiles and the way we were staring into each other’s eyes. It must look like one more lie I told him: about being done with Itch.
Panic rises in me and I tug away from Itch but it’s too late. Oliver is gone.
I whirl back to Itch. “I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I have to go.”
“Wait.” Despite my need to find Oliver, I let Itch fold his arms around me. It’s a hug that would have felt awkward when we were dating, but somehow, now that it’s not supposed to be romantic, it’s just nice. Itch feels nice. “If he doesn’t want you, he’s a jackass,” Itch tells me.
“Thanks.” I separate myself from him just as Akemi arrives.
“I’ll take him back now,” she says, reaching for Itch’s hand.
“You should,” I say. “You guys make a supercute couple.”
I charge in the direction Oliver disappeared into the crowd but realize there are several doors leading out of the ballroom. I choose one and find myself back in the ornate lobby. A uniformed bellboy looks up when I race in. “Can I help you, miss?”
“Did a guy come through here?” I ask breathlessly.
The bellboy shakes his head. “Can you be more specific?”
“Tall, blond, really cute?”
He looks like he’s considering. “There was this one dude, but I think he had brown hair. He was probably closer to my height, and I’m not that tall.”
“Just now?”
“No. Ten minutes ago. Maybe more like fifteen—”
“Thanks,” I say, not meaning it at all, and run back toward the ballroom.
An empty corridor. I almost turn back but then I notice the two doors leading to bathrooms. I rush up to the one that says MEN and pause. All my internal rules prohibit me from opening this door. I knock on it and wait, but nothing happens. I reach out, turn the handle, and am about to walk in with my eyes squeezed shut when the door to the women’s room bangs open and Ainsley appears.
“June, what are you doing?”
If Ainsley was gorgeous in normal, everyday street clothes, right now she’s an actual angel. Her skin glows bronze against her glittery white dress, and her green eyes are wider and brighter than usual.
“I’m knocking on this bathroom door.” World’s most obvious statement.
She sizes me up. “I thought you hated prom.”
“I did.” I don’t want to tell her I’m looking for Oliver, because I don’t want her help, or anything to do with her. That brief flash of friendship I had with Ainsley…it wasn’t real.
And then the bathroom door opens, and of course Theo comes through it. “Was that you knocking?” His eyes ooze up and down my body before flicking to Ainsley. “I’d do a three-way. Since it’s prom and all.”
Back to this. Forever this. Some of us have the ability to change, to shed our skin, to move forward. And some of us…are Theo.
“I don’t suppose there’s anyone else in there?” I ask him.
“Nope,” says Theo. “But if you want to go in and check, me and Ainsley will wait right here. Or, better yet, you could be the one to wait here and guard the door while the two of us go in and—”
“Shut up,” says Ainsley, and for a second, I think she’s talking to me. But her eyes are narrowed at Theo. “Get a new joke,” she tells him before turning to me. “We dropped our car with the valet, but Oliver didn’t. He parked in the lot behind the hotel, because he said he wanted to be able to make a quick getaway.” She points back in the direction I came from. “Go left down that hallway off the lobby.” Ainsley sees my hesitation. “I’m telling the truth,” she says. “I didn’t always, but right now I am.”
“Thank you, Ainsley.” It comes out sounding heartfelt, and I belatedly realize it’s because I feel that way. “For real.”
Ainsley cocks her head and regards me, like she’s trying to figure something out. “You know that thing about keeping your friends close and your enemies closer?” she says. “I was doing that. Except you weren’t ever an enemy, were you?”
“Only to myself.”
“Fair enough.” She makes a shooing gesture. “Hurry. Before he leaves.”
I give her a last grateful look before racing off.
The bad news is that the parking lot—like most parking lots—is huge. The good news is that so is the behemoth. I see its dark shape towering over the surrounding cars and I hurry toward it. Maybe I’ll sit on the hood or something until Oliver arrives.
Except that when I’m right in front of it, the headlights flare, blinding me. The engine rumbles to life, but I stand my ground, raising my arms to shield my face from the light. He’ll have to run me over if he wants to get out of here.
Standoff. I wonder if he’ll honk, because that would be a very Oliver thing to do, but he doesn’t. He only kills the engine. The lights cut off and the glare is replaced with darkness. After a minute, he gets out. I can’t see him, but I can hear his voice.
“June, what are you doing?”
He doesn’t sound mad, which is what I expected. He sounds tired, and that might be worse. I know I need to say something important and epic and romantic, because this is a moment that requires an important, epically romantic gesture, but the words aren’t there. Instead, all I have is the overwhelming fear that I’ve already lost the one person I most want to find.
So I blurt something out—something that hasn’t always come naturally to me.
The truth.
“I’m going to learn how to drive.”
“Congratulations,” he says. “Very independent. You don’t need me anymore.”
Well, that came out wrong.
My vision adjusts to the lack of light in the parking lot, and Oliver comes into focus before me. His eyes are hard. Cold. Angry.
“No, listen. My dad was supposed to teach me.” I try to explain, the words scratching raw against my throat. “It was going to be this fun thing we’d do together, the way his dad taught him, in parking lots and on farm roads. He kept saying he was coming, but then he’d always have a reason why he couldn’t, and I always acted like it didn’t matter, because I needed to pretend that was true. Because otherwise it mattered so much that he never, ever did what he said he’d do. That I was always disappointed. That he made me feel like I didn’t matter. And, Oliver”—I draw in a deep breath and let it out all in a rush—“it mattered. You were right. It all mattered. What your dad did and what mine didn’t. All the traditions and moments and choices. You taking this stupid bank internship that we both know will crush your soul. Ainsley and Itch. Everything.”
I stop and wait, but apparently my speech isn’t nearly epic or romantic enough, because Oliver doesn’t sweep me into his arms. The only thing he does with his arms is fold them in front of his chest. “Great revelation,” he says. “And nice timing, since just now I saw you and Itch mattering to each other.”
“We were talking. You know that.”
“How would I know that?” Oliver glares at me. “You didn’t tell me when you broke up with him. Why would you mention it if you got back together?”
“Oliver.” I know I sound desperate, but I don’t care. “Please. We’ve already talked about this.”
“It was the ultimate screw you.” Oliver’s voice is icy. “We were friends and it was great, and then I thought maybe we were more than friends but I didn’t want to mess it up. I was with Ainsley and you were with Itch and it all seemed manageable that way. Like at least we wouldn’t ruin it by trying to have something more than friendship, even though I knew—I knew, June—that you and I together was so much more special and interesting than either of us with anyone else.”
I stare at him. He’s not just mad. He’s furious. “Oliver—”
“I’m still talking,” he says. “When you didn’t even tell me you broke up with Itch, that’s when I knew I had made it all up in my head, that there was nothing else there. We really were just friends like I’d been lying to Theo all along. So I went with it. Because I really—really—liked you as my friend. And also because otherwise, the world didn’t make sense.”
I wasn’t crazy. All that stuff I was feeling between us—it was real. I open my mouth to tell him so, but he’s on a roll.
“And then there was Kaylie’s party, when I thought it all changed, when I kissed you the way I’d wanted to kiss you for months and…” He pauses. Swallows. Recovers. “And suddenly everything in the world seemed like it was right.”
“It was right,” I break in. “It was—”
“It was bullshit!” he thunders. “Just tequila and starlight and nostalgia—”
“I only had the one shot!”
“—and I was the closest guy around.”
“That’s not true!”
“What’s not true?” Oliver surges closer to me. The light from the hotel plays over him and now I can see him in his tuxedo. He looks classic. Sharp. Agonized and beautiful. “The part where you broke my heart or the part where you pretended it never even happened? I have no idea what you’re trying to say. What are you trying to say, June?”
I broke his heart.
I broke his heart.
No, it’s my heart that’s breaking. It’s cracking inside me, fracturing into an infinite number of tiny jagged pieces, and if I open my mouth to say a single word, they’re going to fly out and rip apart everything in sight. Or maybe just me. I’m the only thing that will rip apart.
A year ago, a month ago, a week ago, that fear would have been enough to keep my mouth shut. But now something has changed, and that something is Oliver Flagg, and I have to tell him that.
“What?” I hear it in the word. I see it in the tense way he’s holding his mouth, in the way his upper body is leaning toward me. It’s hope.
So I answer it. I answer it with a hope that is just as strong.
“This is the moment.” That doesn’t make much sense, so I elaborate. “It wasn’t the night of the senior prank, Oliver. It’s tonight.”
“What’s tonight?”
“The night I’ll come back to, the one I’ll replay over and over and over again like a song in my head.” I smile through my tears. “The one when I tell you the truth.”
He’s standing in a way that makes me think of that deer we startled on our drive to school. Like if I make the wrong move, if I say the wrong thing, he could bolt and I’ll never see him again. “What truth?” he asks.
I take a slow, careful step toward him. I reach out to touch him. His muscles are tensed beneath the tuxedo jacket as I slide my hand down his arm and rest my fingers lightly against his. I open my mouth, and when I speak, all those jagged little heart pieces pour out. “The truth is that this is the single stupidest thing I’ve ever done, showing up right before everything changes and our lives turn upside down and time runs out, but I have to, because I’ve finally figured out that some things are uncontrollable, and one of those things is my heart and the fact that it absolutely, without question, loves you.” We stare at each other and I watch his eyes widen. Just in case I wasn’t completely clear the first time, I tell him again. “I love you.”
“I got that part,” he says. One corner of his mouth is twitching up, just a little. I take it as an encouraging sign, but even if it’s not, I’m too far gone to stop the rest of it.
“And it matters,” I tell him. “It matters because you matter and I love you.”
The words hang between us. My heart stops beating and the world stops turning and every twinkling star in the sky freezes into a bright pinpoint of white-hot light.
And then Oliver smiles, and I feel it everywhere, like he’s touching me everywhere. “Well, obviously I love you, too,” he says. “So now what?”
The tiny jagged pieces of my heart coalesce into laughter. The laughter bounces off the hood of the behemoth and rings out over the parking lot.
“Now we go to prom,” I say.
I’m walking into my senior prom, onto the dance floor, where it seems like everyone I’ve ever known is jumping up and down to some sort of Beatles house remix. It’s like a thousand high school dances I haven’t attended, except that this time I am attending and I’m doing it while holding hands with Oliver Flagg. Our fingers are interlaced, like they were always meant to be that way. As we wend our way through the craziness, we see Darbs. She and Ethan Erickson are holding hands and bopping around in a group with Lily. Nearby, Yana Pace dances with a girl in red sequins.
Oliver pulls me to a halt in the middle of the crowd. A few people glance at us, but Oliver doesn’t seem to notice, because apparently, I am the only thing he notices. In fact, his eyes are roaming all over me. “You look kind of amazing,” he says.
“Thank you.” It seems weird to tell a boy he looks beautiful, so instead, I slide a finger down the lapel of his tuxedo. “You look like a spy.” One of his eyebrows arches up, so I attempt an explanation. “An international spy. A dashing, handsome international spy who sort of has this thing about him that makes all the girls crazy and…What?”
He’s smiling that blinding smile down into my eyes. “It’s another one of those moments,” he says.
“Which moment?” I ask, even though I think I know the answer.
“The one where I kiss you.”
“I’m pretty sure you’re right,” I answer, my heart speeding up. I want him to kiss me so bad, but I’m also a little terrified of it—of how it’s going to make me feel. “We haven’t had any tequila….”
“Good,” he says, and then his mouth is on mine. I was right to be terrified, because Oliver Flagg’s kiss destroys the entire world. Everything around us drops away, and all I know is the feel and the taste of him. I don’t care who’s looking or who’s surprised or what administrative official could run up and tell us to knock off the public display of affection. Oliver is everything, and it’s even better than when we were on the hood of the behemoth, because this time I’m not pretending about anything. This time, I’m just me. With him.
And it’s so real.
After a moment (okay, a few moments), Oliver pulls away and gazes down at me. I suspect I look the same way he does—a little rattled, a little exhilarated, a lot in love. “We’re going to do more of that,” he tells me. “When we don’t have an audience.”
“I can’t wait.” And yet I can, because I’m going to savor every last second of this prom.
Oliver slides his hands down my arms, linking his fingers with mine again. “Hey, guess what.”
“You’re trading in the behemoth for a smaller, more fuel-efficient vehicle?”
“Oh, that’s right. I had forgotten how bad you are at guessing.” He leans over and pecks me on the lips again. “I got that summer bank internship—”
My heart falls. “Oliver…”
“—and I turned it down. Instead, I’m taking woodworking classes at a studio off State Street. Dad’s not thrilled, but he’s busy trying to handle things with Mom, so he’s dealing.”
I beam up at him before breaking away. “I have to do something. Wait here.”
Leaving Oliver on the dance floor, I run up to the deejay booth, where I fling my arms around Shaun. “You look like you’re having fun,” Shaun says after he pries me off his body.
“So do you.” I shove my phone at him. “I have a deejay request.”
Shaun glances at the song scrolling across my screen. He rolls his eyes. “Who are you?”
“I know, right?” I grin at him and he grins back. He looks happier than I’ve ever seen him. He looks like how I feel.
A minute later, I’m back with Oliver on the dance floor. After kissing me again, he motions to the deejay booth. “Who’s the guy with Shaun?”
I follow his gaze. “Oh, that’s Kirk. He drove me here.”
“Cool,” says Oliver.
“Very cool,” I say, and then the next song—the one I requested—rises from the hotel’s speakers. We hear powerful drumbeats followed by power chords. In fact, it’s definitely the drummiest, power-chordiest song that has ever graced the airwaves.
“Seriously?” says Oliver with great satisfaction.
“Seriously,” I assure him as I slide my hands up his chest and over his shoulders so I can link my fingers together behind his neck. He circles his arms around me, dropping another kiss onto my lips as “When It Matters” pours out from the speakers. “Look, you just won,” I tell him. “You won the playlist.”
“I won something better than the playlist.”
“That’s super cheesy,” I say, and he grins down at me.
“But now you embrace cheesy.”
“Now I embrace you,” I clarify.
“That’s super cheesy,” he says, and then we’re swaying back and forth, like Itch and Akemi, like Shaun and Kirk, like everyone else. Because even though this moment is cheesy and weird and antiquated, it means something.
It matters.