CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
After I pull the blanket tighter around Sam, I head upstairs and I FaceTime my friends to make a proposition.
“One final go…,” Sloane says, chewing her lip.
Her and Abby’s faces are pixelated on my phone. Grace’s is coming through clearer in her little FaceTime box.
“And you’re sure this is a good idea, given that he’s already proven to be… questionable?” Grace asks, applying rose-hip oil to her face, since she just showered.
“I don’t know. After nearly running him over, I think he deserves a second chance,” I say, laughing a little.
“She has a point there,” Sloane acknowledges.
“So, how do we make this work while you’re still grounded?” Abby asks, which is the reason why I called this emergency meet-cute meeting so late at night.
“That’s what we have to figure out,” I say. I get up from my bed and go over to my desk, where the lighting is better.
“Maybe if your parents won’t let you go out, he could come to you?” Grace proposes.
“But how could she have a date at her house?” Sloane asks.
Abby begins to suggest, “Well, maybe it shouldn’t be a ‘date.’ More like—”
“I could invite him over to study?” I figure it makes sense, since finals start tomorrow. Plus, the only way my parents would actually let me hang out with someone is if it’s something school related. And this way I have an actual reason to invite Ritchie over, other than, Oh, I just want to see if I like you enough to invite you to a wedding at the last minute.
“But your parents won’t let any of us come over to study,” Abby points out.
“So, tell them he’s your partner for a class project. Make it seem like you can’t study without him there,” Sloane says.
Grace and Abby nod in agreement, and Sloane leans back, feeling proud.
So I text Ritchie to ask if he might want to come over to help me study for my history exam. I tell him that since I’m still grounded, I’d have to tell my parents we’re working on a project together or something.
I’m in, he says.
After school on Wednesday, I feel a little nervous but not nearly as much as I did a couple of months ago. My parents agreed that Ritchie could come over right after school for a little while and that we could sit in the dining room to do work. I told Sam about my plan, and she promised to keep Dad busy and told Mom she would come to the house after work, so that Mom could go to the garden and finish up one of her projects before it gets too cold.
So when Ritchie comes into the kitchen after setting out his textbooks, and opens the fridge, making himself at home, I feel excited and a little self-conscious. He told me that he’s never tried a matcha latte, so I put ice into two glasses and start brewing some hot water from the Keurig to make the matcha paste.
“Are these apples up for grabs?” he asks, reaching for a bottle of water.
“Definitely. Almost anything in there is free game,” I say. “Just don’t eat Sam’s super salad. She’s very territorial over that.”
“Noted.”
I pour some milk over the ice and feel Ritchie watching as I pour the matcha. The way the green descends over the white, mixing in slowly, is kind of mesmerizing.
“That looks cool,” he says when I hand him his glass. He takes a sip and adds, “Thank you.”
We go back into the dining room, and I sit down in front of my computer with my digital study guide, open textbook beside me, ready to focus. Ritchie starts crunching on his apple, and I realize how quiet the house is. I know Sam is up in her room, and after Dad said hi to Ritchie, he went into the den to check on his fish. Even so, it feels like we are completely alone.
Before, it was so easy to talk to him about—well—anything. Now that I have something specific that I want to say, I don’t know how to start a conversation. I can’t just jump in and ask him to the wedding, at least not without context. Then again, he already knows about the meet-cute stuff and that I’m not going with Ben anymore.
I sneak glances at him, hoping he doesn’t notice. He’s wearing jeans and a blue-and-green flannel. He got a haircut, so now it’s almost a buzz. It makes him look older. The more I picture him walking me down the aisle, the more my brain keeps switching up the image with Gavin. Ritchie is taller than Gavin, so I’d have to tilt my head really far back if we slow-dance. Gavin is also more attractive, with his full lips and his curly beard. But Ritchie is single and Gavin has a girlfriend. So I need to get Gavin out of my head and focus.
“Ritchie,” I say, but it comes out at the same time that he says my name.
I blush, wondering if it’s at all possible that he was reading my mind just then.
“What’s up?” I ask, pulling my latte closer to take a long sip.
“There’s something that I’ve been wanting to talk to you about,” he admits. He looks down at his book and starts fidgeting with his pencil. His nerves begin to make me nervous.
“What is it?”
“Well, I know that when we first met, there was something there. And since then I feel like we’ve become more like friends.”
He pauses, watching for my reaction.
“Yeah?” I say, agreeing. “Yeah, I feel like we are better as friends.”
He lets out a deep breath, relieved. Then he smiles and looks at me the same way he looked at me when he talked about his family. He’s comfortable again, and I feel the same sense of familiarity that brought us close so fast.
“There’s this girl that I’ve kind of been talking to. She’s in my biology class, and I’ve been trying to figure out how to talk to her, and—well—she’s on the swim team. And I was wondering if maybe you knew anything about her that could help me out—like, if she’s single, if she likes going to the movies, or what she likes to eat.”
His leg bounces under the table and he rubs his palms on his jeans. He’s cute when he’s nervous—not cute in an I like you way, but cute in a My friend likes a girl kind of way. That initial spark between us has completely faded, but it’s been replaced with ease. Boyfriends, you have to win over. It should never be a lot of work, but you might have to trade in your jeans and hoodies for a cute dress. You might have to hold back all your baggage on the first few dates before it’s okay to open up. But boy friends don’t take that much. You can be yourself, all the good and bad parts—the insecurities—up front. And if you vibe together, then you vibe. Then you can talk about your sister’s wedding and plotting meet-cutes, or your parents’ divorce and how you miss your brothers who are right in front of you.
“You, my friend,” I say, smiling, “are a nervous rambler.”