I lie in bed under my fluffy white comforter, rereading Bentley’s texts for the five hundredth time. Once again, my fingers pluck at the keys. I type out Don’t worry about it and erase it. Then I type It was bound to happen and erase that, too. I toss my phone onto my bed with an exasperated huff.
“What do I care?” I say and place my hands over my eyes. August is the overthinker; I’m the go-with-the-flow girl. And this is all really simple—I thought I might kiss Bentley, but it turns out he’s unworthy. No biggie.
I pull my hands away from my face and look at my vanity, where my latest notebook lies. Work. That’s exactly what I need to distract myself. I get up and cross the room, taking a good look at myself in the vanity mirror.
“Stop obsessing,” I say to my reflection. “Just be cool.”
The Berkeley sticker in the corner of my mirror snags in my view. California, I think, and once again, my stomach drops at the thought. I stand there for a long moment feeling uncertain and disliking my reaction a disproportionate amount. So I yank the sticker off my mirror and shove it in my drawer, not for good, just until this weird feeling passes. But my stewing is cut short by a loud ping on my window.
I turn so fast that the room spins. My alarm clock reads 11:47 p.m. For a second, I think I must have imagined it. But then, ping. I speed toward my window, conjuring images of things that go bump in the night.
Just as I pull back the curtain, a pebble hits the glass, startling me for a third time. But there’s no monster, only Bentley on the lawn between our houses. And when I see his messy hair and pajamas, I’m instantly furious. I yank open the window and stick my head out.
“What the hell, Bentley? It’s the middle of the night,” I whisper yell.
“Can we talk?” he says, full volume.
I aggressively put my finger to my mouth.
“Can we talk?” he asks again, quieter, but not nearly quiet enough.
I want to refuse, but another couple of exchanges like this and my parents will wake up. I hold out my hand, instructing him to wait, and close the window. I grab my short lilac robe off the back of my door and throw it over my pajamas.
I quietly pick my way down the carpeted steps and follow the runner in the hallway to the front door like a cartoon burglar. No way I’m going out back—my parents’ bedroom faces that direction and so does August’s. I slide into my flip-flops and slip outside, moving from cool air-conditioning to warm humidity that smells like salt water and dewy grass.
My sandals flop on the stone path, and even though the crickets chirp and the water laps in rhythm, my sandals sound like they’re on loudspeaker in our sleepy inlet.
I lean around the side of the house where Bentley’s waiting on the lawn. I motion for him to follow me, and then speed walk until I reach the hedges that separate my front yard from the road.
I turn to face him, the cool grass tickling my feet. “You can’t just throw pebbles at my window. This isn’t a nineties movie.”
He grins like a little boy. “But you came down.”
“Yeah, I did. That’s not the point.” I’m still annoyed for a reason I can’t define.
He stares at me.
“You said you wanted to talk?” Frustration affects my intonation. “So talk.”
“I wanted to apologize.”
“At midnight?”
“Yeah.”
“My lights were off.”
“You were typing in our text,” he says. “I kept seeing the message bubble pop up, but you never sent anything. So I thought I’d try talking to you in person.”
I tuck my hair behind my ears and break eye contact, hoping he can’t see my embarrassment in the dim light. I realize his observation means he was also staring at our text thread, but the whole thing is far too romantic a notion for me and Bentley.
“I got nervous the other day,” he says.
“Yeah, you said that. Don’t worry about it. That fight was bound to happen anyway,” I say, trying out both my rejected texts.
He looks like he disagrees.
“I mean . . . we’re different,” I clarify.
“But that’s not a bad thing. That’s why I like you.” His voice is sincere.
I nervous-laugh. “Bentley, let’s be real, you say that to everyone.”
“I really don’t.”
“You do. And I get it. You’re a flirt.”
“I am a flirt. But that doesn’t change the fact that I like you.” There goes that sincerity again. And for unknown reasons it fuels my frustration.
I put my hands on my hips. “Great. We done here?”
“You’re mad.”
“I’m not mad.”
“Your eyebrows are pushed together.”
“They’re not.”
“Tell me what to do to fix it.”
I suppress the urge to push him with both hands. “What am I supposed to say to that?”
“Tell me that I have to hand wash your Jeep or something, and then you’ll forgive me.”
I huff, not ready to give up my exasperated tone. “Let’s just forget the penance part and skip forward. I forgive you.”
“Then you’ll go on another date with me?”
I stare at Bentley, his faded Superman shirt and plaid pants making him look way too innocent. I stand there for a good five seconds, but he doesn’t back down and he doesn’t say he’s kidding. “Don’t you think we should call it quits while we’re ahead?”
“We’re not ahead.”
I rub my eye, thinking of a million reasons why this is a bad idea. But instead, I say, “Do you promise not to insult my best friend?”
“I do.”
“And do you promise not to BS me with one-liners?”
“Cross my heart.” He makes the motion on his chest.
“Fine. I’ll go on another date with you.”
A grin lights up his face so completely that I have to tighten my jaw to keep from smiling back.
“Tomorrow?” he asks. “For the date, I mean.”
My eyes widen; he’s totally incorrigible. “You’re serious?”
“Valentine, I’ve been waiting for three and a half years for you to say yes to me. I’m not missing a day.”
And suddenly my frustration is replaced with a fuzzy feeling that I also can’t define. I pull my bathrobe tighter even though I’m not cold. “Oh,” I stumble. “Okay.”
“Okay,” he repeats, once again grinning.
I shake my head. “Now go to bed, Bentley Cavendish,” I say, but we both linger a second before we walk our separate ways.