ETHAN ORDERS THE BROWNIE Dough. I get the Royal New York Cheesecake.
We eat our Blizzards on the metal tables outside, near the parking lot, Ethan’s blazer folded on the bench next to him. He’s seated. I’m perched on the edge of the table, watching the drive-thru, my thigh brushing his elbow. Inside the Dairy Queen, I can see other groups of people our age through the window, hanging out, waiting in line. It’s a very different clientele from the restaurant we were just in. I savor a spoonful of ice cream, noting how the sticky oversweetness doesn’t complement my scallops. None of it matters. It’s a perfect ending to our evening.
I face Ethan, enjoying the chill of the night on my cheeks. “You better watch your back on AP French,” I say. “I’ve already memorized one hundred of the extra vocabulary words.”
The hint of a grin flits over Ethan’s lips. “Oh, is that how it’s going to be?” Familiar competitiveness dances in his eyes. It’s like we’re years from the purposeful pretense of the first half of the date, and here, I can feel Ethan returning to himself—his perfectly frustrating, fractious self.
I slide down next to him, our eyes locked. “Just because I’m your girlfriend doesn’t mean I’m going to go easy on you.”
Surprise lifts Ethan’s eyebrows. “Girlfriend,” he says softly, like he’s enjoying the sound. I don’t mind it, either. His stare narrows on me, and his eyes ignite, like he’s incapable of holding himself close to warmth for long without catching fire. I have a feeling I know what’s coming. “I guess the word doesn’t gross you out now,” he remarks.
I shrug.
Satisfied, he eyes his half-finished sundae nonchalantly. “Don’t worry. We could make it a blitz if you’re game?”
Leaning forward in reply, I lay my lips on his, the ice cream on our tongues sweetening the kiss.
I don’t care how unexpected it feels, kissing a guy I used to hate in the parking lot of the local Dairy Queen. Our relationship is immature, contentious and chaotic, and yet undeniably right. It’s who I am right now, not who I thought I needed to be.
Which means my story isn’t written just yet. I’m still finding new facts, making new discoveries. Like Ethan. Like realizing I wanted to compete with him even when it caused me sleeplessness and stress. Like feeling our fireworks fizzle when we weren’t pushing and one-upping each other. If embracing this relationship, blitzes and bickering and all, means embracing a little immaturity, then it’s an immaturity I’m ready to love. In us, and in myself.
Ethan withdraws, his face close to mine. “I’ve been waiting all night for you to kiss me. Should I be worried it took challenging you to a competition?”
I ignore what his rogue voice does to me. “Only if you don’t think you can keep up,” I say with a smirk.
He grins, all cheek and confidence. It sends my stomach somersaulting. “Oh, I’ll keep up.” He kisses my neck, and I blame my shivers on the ice cream in my hands, not his mouth gliding down my skin. “Harvard just got much more interesting,” he says when he’s done.
“Ethan . . .” I pull back, the mention of Harvard leading my thoughts elsewhere. I remember the only other time we really discussed college, how Ethan only joked he wanted to study what I did. While I don’t know exactly how I want my future to look, when I choose, I’m confident it’ll be what I want. I didn’t point it out to Ethan when we were in the midst of our uncertain string of hookups, but if we’re going to have a real relationship, I feel like I need to. It’s not because I’m curious what drives him, not because I’m worried he sees me as a game. It’s because I care about him.
He watches me questioningly, no doubt not following the change in my demeanor.
I take his hand. “You can’t keep making your decisions based on me. You’re so smart, and really funny, and the best high school writer I’ve ever read,” I say. It’s weird—complimenting Ethan feels kind of wonderful. “You should be finding what you like, not just competing with me.”
“I know,” he says thoughtfully. Then his eyes, rebelliously playful, find mine. “I am all those things.”
I raise one eyebrow flatly. “I mean it. If we’re dating and at the same school and still competing, I’m worried you’ll just match me, and I don’t want that.”
Ethan’s humor fades. “You’re not wrong,” he says. “Competing with you has driven me to achieve things I might not have otherwise. I’m grateful for it. I mean, without you I never would have joined the Chronicle, and I think I really do like journalism.”
“You’re great at it,” I say quickly, liking how the compliment sounds in my voice. Even when I hated Ethan, I respected him. Knowing he might actually care about journalism, his frustration over the NSPCA fits into place. It wasn’t just losing out on the award he resented, it was losing out on recognition in something he’s started to like. “But Ethan, we let our competition get in the way. You would have won the NSPC reporting award had we not . . .”
“I know. And I know I can’t just follow your choices. I have to figure it out on my own instead of hoping I stumble into myself through you.” His face serious, he stares past me into the parking lot and doesn’t speak for a few seconds. “Honestly, though, I don’t know how anyone really learns what they want.”
It’s the most real he’s ever been with me. I squeeze his hand. “They try new things,” I say. “Maybe you need space from me to make your own choices.”
He glances up, real worry peering past the wryness in his eyes. “Are you breaking up with me already?” He’s straining to sound joking. “I have to admit, I thought I’d get more than three minutes.”
“I’m not breaking up with you,” I reply gently. “I’m ready for this relationship to carry into my future. I just want to make sure you are.”
Ethan’s expression turns faraway. I recognize the look from my own mirror. He’s envisioning, projecting us into the years ahead, imaging first classes in crowded lecture halls, walks in Harvard Yard when the ground is white and the trees have lost their green, conversations with roommates, choices of extracurriculars. “What if we put us on pause for a few months when we get to campus?” he says finally. “Just long enough to establish independent lives, make independent decisions. Then . . .” He rubs my hand with his thumb.
It’s hard to want what he’s saying. We’d only have months together before separating. Against all my expectations, I don’t want to leave our relationship behind with high school. Even if we promise to get back together, the whole point of this pause is to give Ethan room to discover who he is. When he does, he might decide he doesn’t want us anymore.
But while it’s hard, it’s right. “I think that might be for the best,” I say. Nothing with Ethan feels the way I would expect. When my previous relationships ended, I wasn’t desperate or despondent. I was fine. With Ethan, the very idea of the fledgling thing we have unraveling isn’t unbearable, but it is enough to hurt. I stand, wanting space from the subject. What’s left of my ice cream is melted, and I throw it in the trash.
When I turn from the blue metal bin, Ethan’s behind me. My breath catches in a good way. He places one caressing hand on my elbow, and it eases my heartache. “This means we don’t have long to catch up on everything we didn’t do while we were busy fighting.” He draws me close, his eyes flirtatious.
I permit myself to forget how I’ll feel if we don’t work out. Tilting my head, I meet his gaze. “You’re saying we’re behind on the material?”
His lips move closer. “Very, very behind,” he answers, smiling into my cheek.
I reach up, holding him right here, my fingers in his hair. I know we don’t have long. What time we do have left, I’m determined to savor, turning my calendar from a countdown into a compendium of banter, dates, and everything else we could be. “Well,” I say seriously, putting on a studious pout, “I’ve always enjoyed doing extra credit.”
He’s laughing as I tug him down to meet my lips.