I don’t answer Blake. In fact, I make up some excuse and bolt from the house. Then three days later, I get a text.
Hey, you.
Hey yourself.
Hark! He answers! Sound the alarm! Blow Gabriel’s horn!
Don’t be glib.
Glib? That’s a new one to describe me.
Do you even know what it means?
Glib, adjective: fluent and voluble but insincere and shallow.
Did you look that up right now?
No! I’ll have you know, I’m not just a handsome face with a nice body. I am decently smart too. You know I’m going to go to Harvard, right?
Is that supposed to be some major selling point?
Not major, but still something to consider.
Ah, I see. Good to know.
Thirty minutes later, Blake sends a follow-up.
So…?
So…?
You never answered me.
About what?
Now who’s being glib?
About, you know, the date.
Ah, that.
Is that a no?
No, not a no.
So it’s a yes?
I mean…sure.
Sure as in you are excited to go, or sure as in you are begrudgingly agreeing to it?
Does it matter?
Yeah, Andre, it kinda does matter?
Then it’s the former.
Are you sure?
Yes, I’m sure.
That doesn’t sound convincing at all.
What are you looking for, then?
I don’t know but something that means it DOESN’T seem like a chore.
It’s not.
Are you sure?
I’m sure.
All right.
All right.
Two days later, I get another message from Blake. And for the first time since we started texting, I get excited when I see his name pop up.
Do you like animals?
Like, to eat?
No, idiot. To see. Like the zoo.
Oh, yeah sure. I do.
Again with the lack of enthusiasm. Let me ask again: Would you like to go to the zoo with me?
Sure, that sounds like fun.
I swear to God, I’m going to get an ounce of excitement out of you. Saturday good?
Sounds good.
If you could see me right now, I’d be rolling my eyes.
I roll my eyes at that text and think nothing of it, until the next day, when Blake sends me two photos comparing outfits. The caption:
Which one do you like better?
I hesitate before answering, then double-tap the first one so a heart emoji appears. He replies with a thumbs-up, and in that moment, it all hits me.
I’m actually going on a date with Blake McIntyre.
Quickly, I text the one person I can trust: Isobel.
This is a bad idea.
Okay, please explain to me what is bad about going on a date with a hot guy?
A hot white guy with far too much money and power who lives in his own little world?
I think you’re projecting or whatever onto him.
You haven’t met him!
No, I haven’t, but he seems fine—remember, I looked him up online.
And?
And what?
What’s your analysis?
I told you—he’s fine. He seems…dare I say it…normal? But more importantly, where is he taking you?
The zoo.
Okay, that’s adorable.
Don’t you start! You’re supposed to be on my side!
And I am!
HOW?
When most kids are dealing with first crushes and heartbreaks, you’ve been dealing with cancer and your grades. You didn’t get those experiences like the rest of us did. Now you have a chance and no excuse. Blake is a nice person to have those experiences with. And if worse comes to worse, I’ll just punch him in the face.
I don’t think you can get into Harvard with an assault charge.
Worth it—and you know I’m right.
Maybe.
Love you too. Now show me what you’re going to wear.
I groan loudly after rereading the exchange with Blake from a few days ago, tossing my phone onto the seat next to me on the small couch in my parents’ room. Mom glances at me in the reflection of the mirror, turning her body in a three-quarter view, examining the dress she’s picked.
“What’s up?” she asks, turning back to face herself. She’s been trying to decide what to wear to the gala for hours now. She left work early today, and I can tell that her hair is different; it smells slightly of hair spray—the same type they use in her sister’s hair salon on the other side of town.
This fundraiser for the college must be important if she (a) left work early, and (b) went to Aunt Sheryl’s place. They haven’t talked since last Christmas—the famous Saunders Christmas incident of 2020.
“Isobel trouble?” she asks, sauntering over to her nightstand and pulling out a pair of diamond earrings.
I shake my head.
“Boy trouble?”
I nod but don’t give her any more.
But Blake’s not my only trouble. It’s been over a month, and I can still feel Michael on my lips. It’s distant now, like when Clyde’s scent on my bed finally disappears, and I can only smell it by burying my face deeply in the fabric. That’s what Michael feels like right now.
The logical question that anyone would ask would be: If you miss him so much, why don’t you just go see him, Andre? He’s literally only a hop, skip, and a jump away.
But it’s not that simple. It’s like when you know you should call someone, but you don’t. Or when you know you have an email to read, but you don’t open it. Most of the time, that’s out of nervousness; you don’t want to get any bad news. And I guess, the feeling I have right now is the same, but different all at the same time.
That moment with Michael was amazing. Truly freakin’ amazing. And I don’t want to ruin it. I’m getting better at jumping, but what if this time I jump too far? What if I jump three months farther, and Michael has moved on, forgotten about me, and met someone new? Or worse, what if I jump three days from our kiss, and Michael has realized that he made a mistake?
Right now, if I stay here, in my year, I can imagine what I want to happen. There’s no reality barging in, forcing me to deal with the truth. I can make up my own future, my own happy ending.
And that’s worth it.
Clyde doesn’t miss the chance to come padding over, put his front paws on the couch, and lick my cheek, bringing me back to reality.
“Boy trouble?” Mom repeats in a leading tone.
“Not like that, Mom.”
“Do we need to have—”
“We one hundred percent do not need to have that talk. Dad already gave it to me. And you did too.”
“I did?”
“Twice.”
“A third time can’t hurt.”
I swat Clyde away. “Maybe when I actually have a boyfriend.”
Mom leaves the room, heading into her closet for a moment, then returns with a pair of heels. She sets them on the chair by her vanity, checking them against the fabric of her dress.
“Should I be worried?”
“Why would you be?”
“That boy. Blake McIntyre, the son of the woman who gave you your liver and the boy who stopped by last week. He’s in one of your online classes, right?” She doesn’t actually want an answer. “And he’s also the boy who you’re so concerned with, who’s been taking up so much of your mental space.”
She pauses, spritzing herself with perfume and putting on her shoes.
“Being close to those who saved you is good, Andre. But I don’t want you to feel like you have to be indebted to them. That’s not how an organ transplant works.”
“I know.”
“And you promise me you’ll be careful?”
“I promise.”
She nods. That’s the end of that.
“So you like this boy?”
I pause. The real question isn’t if I like Blake; it’s if I like Blake more than I like Michael, and I don’t know the answer to that question.
“Let me rephrase.” Mom stands and gestures for me to help her with the clasp of the necklace that Dad got her for their twentieth anniversary. Tonight must be an important night. “Do you think you might like this boy?”
I stand behind her, weaving and threading my fingers like it’s second nature, helping her with the clasp. It’s not long before the necklace falls against her skin. It’s beautiful but doesn’t overpower her. It allows Mom to shine, and I can see, in this moment, why Dad fell for her—and keeps falling for her.
“I don’t know yet, but I know I don’t dislike him. There are a lot of factors at play.” Like Michael.
“That’s enough for now.” She turns back around, cups my cheek with one hand, and smiles. I can’t help but instinctively nuzzle her hand. It’s warm and it’s safe and—
“Andre!” Dad’s voice rings loudly from downstairs, breaking through the wooden barrier of Mom’s door. “There’s a boy at the door for you!”