What kind of freak gets a boner while their best friend is crying over her dead sister? There I was, patting her back while she cried into my T-shirt, wishing like anything I could siphon away all the terrible things she was feeling and inject them into my heart instead. And then her hip shifted just the right way against the inside of my leg, and little me was all, “Hi, Hope, how do you feel about sympathy boners?”
I backed away as fast as I could, but I knew she felt it. I could see it in her horrified eyes. And even though certain physiological responses are automatic, even though I wasn’t thinking anything dirty while I was hugging her, she could see in my eyes every time I thought about her while I was alone in my bedroom. I just knew it.
And I wanted to tell her, “You’re not just some girl I think about with the lights off. You’re my best friend, and the coolest girl ever, and the most important person in the whole world.”
But instead I choked out an “I’m sorry” and ran out of her bedroom like the creepiest mouth-breather alive.
The next few weeks go like this:
Hope sighting #1: After several days of careful hiding and James Bond–esque subterfuge, Hope and I nearly run smack into each other on the trail that cuts into the woods behind our houses. We narrowly avoid getting our limbs all tangled up kraken-style, but the embarrassment factor is still an eleven because neither of us seems capable of normal human interaction. After silence and making goldfish faces and seconds that feel like days, we both turn really red and walk in the opposite direction.
Hope sighting #2: We are both at the grocery store, me with Pam, her with her mom. They stop their carts, like, oh, yes, let’s just chat away the entire day next to these artisanal cheeses and totally ignore the fact that we are causing our children LASTING PSYCHOLOGICAL DAMAGE. So, yeah, I’m tic-sniffing up a storm, and Hope and I are scuffing our feet and looking everywhere except at each other, but then I finally hit this wall where I just cannot read the same goat cheese label again or I will literally die.
I look up.
And she’s staring right back.
I feel my face flush again, and she turns away, but she’s got this tiny smile, the kind that escapes even though you’re trying to keep it to yourself.
I start to wonder if maybe this is the good kind of nervous—the kind that might lead somewhere. I wave at her as we walk away, and her cheeks go red and the tiny smile comes back. I know what I have to do: I will finally stutter out the most embarrassing apology of all time (in my head, this plays out without me ever saying any of the words for boner, but with her still knowing exactly what I mean), and we’ll finally go back to being friends. Maybe more than friends, if I’m lucky. Except . . .
Hope sighting #3: I’m wheeling my bike out of the garage when I hear voices coming from Hope’s porch. I’m just about to say hi, apology speech at the ready, when I see who’s sitting next to her on the porch swing. Bella Fontaine.
Yeah, that speech is gonna have to wait. Maybe I can ride by without them noticing me. That’s probably the safest bet.
But it’s like I can feel Bella’s eyes hit me, singeing me up one side and down the other with her laser harpy vision. I know I shouldn’t, but I turn and look over my shoulder at them. Bella whispers something in Hope’s ear. Neither of them is smiling.
Hope sighting #4: Today is the day. I slip up Hope’s porch steps, my thoughts one long string of all the best scenarios. You got this, man. You can do this.
But the moment she opens her front door, I can feel my plans crashing and burning around me. She isn’t blushing this time. Her face has rearranged itself into all angles and hard lines.
“Hi.” The word falls out of her mouth and rises like a barrier between us.
I manage to squeak out a hi of my own. And then I wait for the bad thing that is coming next because even though I don’t know what that thing might be, the fact that it is bad, I am sure of.
“Bella told me about what you did,” she says.
“Um . . .”
“She saw you digging through my trash.”
I feel like I’m choking. Like metal bands are squeezing my throat, and I can’t get any words past them, can’t even swallow. I look at Hope, my eyes begging her to understand.
“Oh, damn, Spencer. You really did it.”
Spencer. Not Spence. She’s about two seconds away from crying.
She swallows hard, pulling herself together. “She said you used to do the same kind of stuff to her. That you’re, like, a stalker or something, and you get desperate when girls aren’t interested. I didn’t want to believe her, but then Tabitha Silverman said you did it to her, too.”
I know I have to do something, and it has to be right now. I find a hidden reservoir of Hulk strength, and I pop all the bands, and the words come pouring out of me.
“It wasn’t what you think. I mean, it was with Tabitha. I used to follow her home from the bus stop and put stupid notes in her mailbox when I was eleven, and everybody used to tease me about it. But with you, I was only trying to help. I know how hard it’s been for you since Janie—” I pause, but now that I’ve started, it’s easier to keep going. “Dean didn’t get it. And I’m so sorry he didn’t. Because you deserve someone who gets things.”
I’m supposed to be explaining about the trash, but instead, everything I’ve felt for the past three years comes spilling out. A flash flood of feelings.
“I could be that guy, I promise. I’d be the best boyfriend you could ever have. If you’d just give me a chance.”
The weight of what I’ve confessed settles on my shoulders, and I watch for her reaction with something that feels a lot like terror.
“I really need a friend right now,” she says through the lump in her throat.
We’re going to be okay. I exhale. “Of course. I’m here for you.”
“Thanks,” she whispers.
She closes the gap between us, slumping against me in a hug that makes me totally unsure of what to do with my hands. I hold them straight out behind her back, while her breath comes in sharp bursts that make her chest jump against mine. I ticshrug a couple times, but she either doesn’t notice or ignores it. I’m unsure how to classify the change in her behavior. Girls don’t do this unless they like you, right? She’s tucking her head into the place where my neck meets my shoulder—that’s supposed to be some kind of sign, isn’t it? She squeezes me closer while she cries, grabbing a fistful of my T-shirt in a way that makes me forget how to breathe. I give her hair some tentative pats, moving on to strokes once I feel brave enough, and that seems to be okay, too.
But when she finally pulls her head away, there are tears meandering down her cheeks in zigzag paths, and she looks as broken as I’ve ever seen her.
“Aw, man, I’m so sorry.” Our bodies are still touching, our faces inches apart. I wipe her cheeks as gently as I can.
If we’ve ever been this close before, it has never felt like this. She closes her eyes, still shaking from the crying, and I know exactly what I have to do. I let my hands slide down to her arms, stopping at the spot just below the shoulder. And then I press my lips against hers, and the entire world melts away.
I do not expect her to jerk backward. Or to whip out of my embrace self-defense-style. Or to say, with a look like I’ve wounded her, “What are you doing?”
The world stops melting pretty quickly at that point. And the reality that it crystallizes into seems a whole lot harsher and more confusing than it did a couple seconds ago.
“I . . . I thought—” I grab her hand, trying to keep her from slipping away from me.
“Just—” She yanks her hand back like I’m a hot stove. “Just stay away from me, Spencer. I mean it.”
My mouth might have fallen open. I don’t actually know. All I’m sure of is the hurt. An ocean of hurt. I am no longer a human, but a collection of gashes and scrapes and clinical incisions that sliced clean to the bone. I don’t know how much time passes before she speaks again.
“I don’t know what’s going on with you right now, but I need some space.” She waits for me to say something, but I can’t make the words, can’t even form a coherent thought. Not until she starts closing the door.
“Wait.” But I already have so many exposed wounds, I can’t bring myself to tell her about the maps. What if she thinks it’s dumb? Or weird? Or worse, what if she doesn’t care at all? “It’s not what you think,” I finally mumble.
She shakes her head slowly, arms crossed over her chest, keeping her safe, keeping me out. “I still think this is the best idea right now. At least until I work some things out.”
She closes the door before I can say anything back.