“Can we change the subject?” I ask.

“Sure,” Matt says.

“Okay… tell me about you,” I say. “I know you’re good at English, hate public displays of stupidity, and save damsels in drunken distress. What else do you like to do? Who do you hang out with? What are your plans after high school?”

“Whoa!” Matt says with an easy laugh. “What’s with the interrogation?”

“Fine,” I say. “Start with an easy one. You probably know Audrey’s my best friend…. Who’s yours?”

Matt pauses, but right when I think he might play it cool and say something dude-ish about not having a BFF, he lets me in a little.

“Drew,” he says. “He’s in our English class.”

“The guy you sit behind?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he says. “We’ve been friends since kindergarten. Funniest guy I know,” Matt says with a chuckle. “He’s a great guitar player, too. He’s in a band with some guys from Omaha South. He keeps trying to get me to join.”

“What do you play?” I ask.

“Baseball,” Matt jokes.

“No, seriously,” I prod him. I try to think whether I’ve seen any musical instruments around his house. Just as I’m wondering whether there’s a drum kit stashed in the garage, I remember the—

“Piano,” he says quietly. “I’d play keyboard in the band.”

“That’s cool. You should do it.”

“I guess,” he says, shrugging it off. “So, what do you like to do, besides getting blitzed with frat boys?”

“Very funny,” I say as a stall tactic, silently running through possible responses. What do I like to do? Nothing as cool as playing in a band. When too much time has passed to be comfortable, I reply honestly. “I like to read,” I say. “I’m super quick, and often I read like four books at once. I know that’s sort of nerdy.”

“No, it’s cool,” Matt says. “I wish I read more.”

“And I blog, too.”

Matt looks away, smiling.

“What?” I ask.

“Nothing, I just… I know. Aud showed me. I’ve been following your posts. They’re really funny.”

My breath catches: Matt reads my blog?

“Is that weird that I read it?” Matt asks. “An invasion of—”

“Privacy?” I laugh. “It’s hardly private. I just haven’t ever met any of my readers.”

“Seriously? What about your friends back in Frozen Hills?”

I pause for a moment, then say, “Hey, Matt? Want to know a secret?”

He looks at me expectantly.

“I didn’t have any real friends in Frozen Hills.”

Instead of calling me a liar or—worse—asking why, Matt mutters “their loss” and moves on.

“I hear you like Arcade Fire,” he says before grabbing my hand once again, and reminding me that I want to be nowhere but here.

Unfortunately, we reach the other side of the bridge a few short minutes later. We stop, ponder our next move, and then decide to turn back. As we retrace our steps, the view is even better. With the vast city in front of us and the wide sky overhead, I feel free to say anything. Apparently, Matt does, too.

“I’m glad you moved here,” he says, eyes on the skyline.

“I am, too,” I manage to say calmly.

“I really like you,” Matt continues. “You’re like this good thing that showed up in the middle of the bad. You’re sort of helping me remember that there actually is positive stuff out there.”

I feel like there’s a balloon inflating in my chest.

“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” I say.

“Yeah, well, it’s true.”

Matt squeezes my hand. I wonder if he’s going to stop and kiss me, but he doesn’t. I’m disappointed, but instead I choose to focus on his sturdy grip and the way it makes me feel strong, like I can do anything, charged, like I’m plugged in.

I’m completely content until we reach the end of the walkway: That’s when I get anxious about our impromptu first date being over. As if he feels the same way, Matt slows his pace, then stops. We lean against the railing, admiring the view.

“Home?” Matt asks after a few moments.

“Late-night food?” I ask back.

“Even better,” he says, sounding a little relieved. He takes my hand and leads me back across the wide street, through the parking lot, and into the familiar passenger seat of his car.

“How is it possible that you don’t have a girlfriend?” I blurt out on the way to what Matt says is his favorite diner, ignoring how completely stalker it sounds.

“Who says I don’t?” he answers. I flip my face toward his, shocked and instantly jealous.

“What?” I say a little too loudly, which makes Matt laugh.

“Just kidding,” he says through chuckles. “I did last year, but she started college this year. We felt like it wouldn’t work long-distance. Well, I felt that way. She wanted to stay together.”

Now, in addition to jealous, I feel inferior. My lanky fifteen-year-old self is no match for a college girl. Possibly reading my anxiety, Matt adds, “She’s a bitch.”

We laugh together, and it brightens my mood again. I look out the window at the old and new buildings, thinking the conversation’s over. But then we stop at a red light and Matt turns to face me.

“Even if she wasn’t at college, it’d be over,” he says. “I like someone else now.” I have to look away so Matt doesn’t see the grin spliting my face.

When we arrive at the diner a few minutes later we find that despite it being a Sunday night, we’re not the only ones with the greasy-spoon idea. We have to circle around and park a few blocks away, and when we get out of the car, I suggest cutting through an alley.

“This isn’t the greatest part of town,” Matt protests.

“Nothing will happen,” I say with a shrug, taking off alone. His choices are either to let me walk alone or to follow. He jogs a little to catch up with me. Aside from a tense moment with a large rat, we reach the diner unscathed. When Matt and I walk through the door, he turns and looks deep into my eyes.

“What are you afraid of?” he asks.

The question catches me off guard and makes me feel vulnerable. So I swallow hard and overcompensate: “Nothing,” I say carelessly.

Matt looks at me like he did after the bridge-railing-as-balance-beam incident.

“Okay, fine,” I say, exhaling. “Bees. I’m afraid of bees.”

Two hours later, full from too many fries and a too-big milk shake, I try hard to suck in my stomach as Matt walks me to the guest bedroom door.

“That was really fun,” I whisper, keenly aware of his parents’ presence just three doors down.

“Yeah,” he whispers back, smiling. He steps toward me in that way that guys do in the movies when they want a goodnight kiss, and butterflies flit inside me like I’m at the top of a roller coaster, ready to drop. I raise my chin a little to tell him that it’s okay.

Matt’s lips taste like vanilla. His warm chest brushes mine. His arms stay at his sides, but his left index finger wraps around my right. It’s a long kiss, but there’s no tongue—only sweet softness. And then, too quickly, it’s over.