Me
August
I glance at my clock from my lounging position on my bed. 7:05 p.m. Bentley is on his way over. I’ll just make it a short visit.
Me
But before he can respond, there’s a knock on my door and I put down my phone. “Valentine?” Mom says through the wood.
“Come in!”
She opens the door, revealing a freshly showered Bentley in a white T-shirt and distressed jean shorts. “You have a visitor,” she says, and one of her eyebrows goes up as though it were observing the situation and declaring it interesting.
I slide off my fluffy white comforter onto the carpet. “Hey,” is all I say to Bentley, yet my mom’s other eyebrow appears to join in on the amusement. So I add, “Mom, we’re good.”
“Kicking me out, huh?”
“Mom.”
She puts her hands up and heads into the hallway.
The smell of woodsy soap and minty toothpaste drifts toward me as Bentley moves into my room and sits on the end of my bed.
He smiles up at me. “Is it weird that I missed you?”
I laugh, sitting down next to him with one ankle tucked under my knee. “You didn’t miss me.”
“I mean, I did, though,” he replies, and I’m not sure I like the way my stomach drops. He’s like that dessert you cannot resist no matter how full you are.
I bump him with my shoulder. “You just can’t help but say things like that.”
“True things?” he asks, practically batting his long eyelashes at me like a Disney princess.
“Line things,” I correct him.
“What if I told you that I thought about our kiss about every other minute today?” Only this time when he says it his voice has a note of weight to it, and it rings true.
I decide either he’s an expert at this kind of thing, or he really does fall this hard and fast, which would explain why he’s had so many relationships. Unfortunately, there’s no correlation between falling quickly and lasting. Not that I want a relationship from him. “I’d say that’s a great line.”
He stares at me like he’s trying to work some meaning out of my expression. “Then tell me . . . did you?”
“Did I what?” I say innocently even though I know what he’s asking.
“Think about our kiss?”
“I mean”—I pause like I need to consider—“I’d be lying if I said no.”
Now he’s grinning. “So you missed me, too.”
“I swear,” I reply with a laugh, “you’re basically impossible.”
He lightly touches my hand on my thigh, running his fingers along the curve of my palm, and just that feather of a touch sends heat coursing through my body. “What can I say? I know what I want.”
And great, I’m flustered. “Right . . . but that changes every two weeks. Sooo.” I don’t even know why I’m fighting him on this. But something about his closeness and the way his damp, sun-bleached hair falls on his forehead scrambles my thoughts. It’s taking all my restraint not to tackle him into my bed.
“Does that bother you?” he asks like it’s a concern.
But I don’t know the answer. Does it bother me? It’s the summer before college. If we were anything, it wouldn’t be serious. Besides, I’ve been known to fall hard and fast, too. Can I really fault him without it being a double standard? I shrug.
“What if I told you, hand to heart, that this isn’t a two-week thing for me?” he says, and the overindulgent, romantic part of my brain leaps on the sentiment, even though I know it’s neither true nor realistic.
I smile. “I’d say that you’re wicked good at this. Talented.”
“How about this,” he replies, lifting my palm to his mouth and kissing it. A small gasp escapes my lips before I can pull it back, and he looks far too pleased by my reaction. “We make a deal right now that we’ll be one hundred percent honest with each other.”
I lean back on my bed, propping myself up on my elbows. “No one is ever one hundred percent honest. What happens if I ask you something you don’t want to answer or something that makes you super uncomfortable?”
He follows my lead and lies on his side next to me, his head supported by his hand. “I’ll get over it and tell you anyway.”
I eye him, hooked by curiosity. “I’m weirdly tempted to take you up on this, even just as a social experiment.”
“Then do it . . . unless you’re scared?”
I lift a challenging eyebrow. “Never. I’m in.”
“Good,” he says, brushing back the hair that once again fell onto his forehead, and I have a compulsion to reach over and help him with it. “Ask me a question.”
I turn on my side to face him. “Hmmm. Let’s see,” I say, going straight for a question he won’t want to answer. “What’s the most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to you?”
He grunts. “Oh man. Seriously?”
I smile, feeling a little gloaty. “Hey, this was your idea.”
He laughs. “Yeah, but if I tell you, you’ll never want to kiss me again.”
“If you’re scared,” I say, more than a little pleased that I managed to prove my point on the first question, “we can call off the deal now, no hard feelings.”
He puts his hand out. “Hang on now, I didn’t say no.”
But he doesn’t respond right away. It takes him a couple of beats and a disbelieving headshake before he says, “Well, here goes nothing.” He rubs his hand over his face, clearly trying to psych himself up. “I shit my pants.”
I half laugh, half choke. “You did not.”
“I did. Bad food combo before football practice. Rookie mistake. I felt the rumble and I ran for the locker room, but just as I was pulling my pants down . . . bam. I took a shower and split. Coach was pissed I disappeared, but it’s basically a universal rule that if you shit your pants in public, you just go home and hide.”
I’m having a hard time controlling my laughter; it’s spilling out of me in a goofy way. “Wow. That’s a reputation killer right there.”
“You’re telling me. This is serious trust, Valentine. Serious. Trust.”
In a way I’m actually impressed he put himself on the line like that. His dude friends would never let him live that down if they knew.
“Okay, my turn,” he says, and my stomach drops in a bright pang of anticipation. He searches my eyes with his gaze. “Did you feel something when we kissed yesterday?”
And that’s all it takes for my heart to start hammering. “Feel something like what?” I stall.
“You know what,” he says, more sure of himself than anyone who just told a pants-shitting story has any right to be.
My phone buzzes on the bed next to me, but I’m too consumed with his question to look at it. “Well . . . I mean, yeah. It was nice.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Nice? Is that the whole truth?”
I press my lips together and then resign myself to answering. “Fine. More than nice. Like stomach-dropping, knee-weakening perfection. The kind of kiss that I’m thinking about even right now. You happy?”
The surprise on his face is gratifying. “Very,” he replies. “But I’m also relieved. I don’t know what I’d do if the best kiss of my life was no more than okay for you.” The way his eyes flit from my eyes to my mouth makes my lips part like betrayers.
“You might be the worst,” I say in almost a whisper.
But he only smiles. “I think we just established that I’m not.” He gently touches my cheek, his warm and calloused fingers tracing a line to my mouth.
“My turn,” I say, having a hard time focusing on anything other than his touch. “What’s your favorite thing about yourself?”
He drops his hand. “Besides the fact that I just made you blush?”
“Yes, very much besides that.”
“Okay, let’s see,” he says, thinking. “Probably that I’m a bedtime whisperer.”
I tilt my head to the side. “Huh?”
“Basically that I can get the twins to sleep in under ten minutes. Always.”
I stare at him. His favorite thing about himself is a parenting ability he shouldn’t have for another fifteen years. “Really?”
“Yup,” he confirms. “When my mom started leaving them with me, I couldn’t handle bedtime. An hour of fighting and crying. I used to dread it. Now I love it.”
“How come I’ve never heard you talk about these things before?” I ask, curious about this version of Bentley who’s so different from the one I thought I knew.
He smirks. “Before a few days ago, you barely talked to me at all.”
I tuck my hair behind my ear. “Fair. But do you talk about this stuff with Charlie or Cassie or whoever?” I say, referencing his ex-girlfriend who is kind of awful but an essential part of his friend group.
“Nah,” is all he says.
I wonder how I never noticed that Bentley compartmentalized his life like that. I guess I just wasn’t paying attention.
“Tell me something people don’t know about you,” he says when I don’t respond, lacing his fingers through mine.
The first thing that comes to mind is Summer Love, but that’s a shared secret and not mine to tell. The second is something I don’t want to be true.
“I told you I shit my pants,” he reminds me. “Whatever it is, it can’t be that bad.”
I look at him, desperately trying to think of something that fulfills his ask, but the same thought loops on repeat, one that I’ve been in denial about. I squeeze my eyes shut for a second, and it spills out of me. “I’m not sure I want to go to Berkeley in two months.”
When I open my eyes, he’s looking at me like he doesn’t understand. “You’re thinking of deferring?”
“No. I don’t want to go, full stop,” I say and feel the air whoosh out of me, shocked by how strangely liberating it felt. “The thing is, August and I have been planning on going to business school there since forever. We’ve worked all of high school to have the grades and extracurriculars to make it happen. It’s the plan, like, our collective dream for the future.”
“Why did you change your mind?”
“I don’t know. I . . .” My voice trails off, embarrassment flaming my cheeks. “I kinda hate the idea of being that far from home?” I feel silly saying it, like it’s a failing of some kind.
He nods. “That makes a lot of sense to me.”
“It does?” I say, unsure, but also desperately wanting the agreement.
“Sounds cheesy, but I love this town.”
But his answer isn’t so much comfort as a reaffirmation of what I’m struggling with. Guys like Bentley stay put. They’re hot and popular in high school, don’t give a lot of thought to college, and wind up marrying the head cheerleader at nineteen. And when you run into them in the supermarket ten years later, you thank your lucky stars you got out. I look away, immediately feeling guilty about my unkind prediction of his future.
My phone buzzes again, only this time I break my hand hold with Bentley and reach behind me to grab it off my comforter.
August
A jolt of adrenaline catapults me into a sitting position. I was supposed to go to August’s house, not have him come to mine. Did I lose track of time? Did he misinterpret my message? Out of the corner of my eye, I see Bentley sit up, too, registering my discomfort.
“What is it?” he asks.
My heart sinks. Why, oh why, did I make that honesty deal? Idiot with a capital I. I say the only true thing I can. “I’m super sorry to do this, but August and I actually have to work.”
“So you’re kicking me out?”
I exhale. “Can we reschedule?”
But before Bentley responds, my door opens, and I stand so fast you’d think I’d been goosed.
August stops dead in his tracks, clearly picking up on the tension, not that it’s some feat of perception.
Bentley hesitates, like he’s debating how to navigate this. But all he says is, “See you tomorrow, Valentine,” and he heads for my door. And while I feel massive relief that he’s leaving and I don’t need to try to navigate a conversation with them both, he also said the one thing that will raise alarm bells for August.
“Yeah, okay,” I say, pushing back my hair and lifting my hand in an awkward goodbye.
The door clicks shut behind Bentley, and August and I are silent for a beat.
“What was that about?” he asks, rightfully suspicious.
“Bentley? It’s no big deal.” Which is exactly what people say when something is a big deal.
“Want me to tell him to back off?” he asks, and now I’m the one who’s shocked. August isn’t one for confrontation.
I scratch my forehead. “Like I said, it’s not a big deal.”
He assesses me, and it’s hard not to squirm. “Did I miss something? Are you guys . . . hanging out?”
“What would make you think that?” I say too quickly. I might as well just tattoo I have a secret on my forehead.
He looks at me like I have two heads. “’Cause he hasn’t been in your room since we were twelve, and he just said he’s seeing you tomorrow.”
The room spins. “Truth is, um, he needs help with his brother and sister. His mom’s gone a lot. You know what that’s like.” I instantly hate myself for saying it—for the lie and for playing on his sympathy.
“Oh,” he says and considers it. “Sorry.” He plops down on my bed. “Wasn’t trying to go all protective on you.”
I shrug, both relieved that he’s letting it go and kind of wishing he’d call me out. I’m not sure I’m brave enough to flat-out tell him, especially since I’ve made such a big awkward deal of it, and part of me wishes he’d notice and we could clear this up. “I kind of like you protective. Brotherly love and all that.”
“Bentley’s just such a player. And the thought of him playing you made me see red for a second.” He lies back, folding his hands behind his head.
“Totally,” I agree and join him on the bed. And now my denial is complete and I feel like the biggest jerk in New England. But before I can agonize over it, my phone buzzes.
Leah
I instantly perk up, turning my phone screen toward August. “This is perfect for our strategy.”
“It is,” August chimes in, but his enthusiasm is lacking.
“What’s crazy is that just earlier this week I’d have said we were in real danger of not completing this case in time.” I snatch my notebook from my bedside table. “But these last few days have been a game changer. You really rallied.”
August looks like he’s deep in thought.
“August?” I say when he doesn’t respond.
“Yeah?”
“You’re a million miles away.”
“Nah. I’m good,” he says and points to my notebook. “Let’s just work out our plan for tomorrow night.”
I can’t help but frown. August’s Wall is something I’ve gotten used to the last couple years, but this past week it’s felt like something entirely new is wedging between us. And I have no idea what it is or what to do about it.