I LIE IN bed until noon on Sunday, listening to a downpour that rivals the hurricane remnants that swept through Asheville last summer.
The streets flooded and Dylan and I took his dad’s kayak down main street. The muscles in my neck wince at the memory. It’s a good memory I don’t really deserve.
I squirm under the blankets—my own personal shame fortress. I’ve had to pee now for approximately three millennia, but I refuse to go in the bathroom. Or even leave this room, for that matter, until Henry goes downstairs. Because I am super mature.
The store is closed on Sundays so that George can attend church. Henry apparently doesn’t, however, because his voice filters down the hallway. Talking on the phone, laughing, and moving around in his room. There is no clear prediction for when I’ll be able to pee. I hope I can outlast him.
I don’t even let myself think about the fact that he and I are here alo—see? Won’t even complete the thought.
The bathroom door opens and I pull the blanket over my head. I give it a minute before I peek out. When the push button lock clicks, I breathe again. Faucets squeak as he runs the shower. He’s totally naked on the other side of the door. But it’s not like I’m picturing it with perfect recall or anything.
My phone buzzes on the desk, so I sit up and glance at the caller ID. Dylan. Again. I reject the call and throw myself backwards on the pillow. I know it’s ridiculous, but I feel so guilty. And he will sense the guilt the moment he talks to me. I made it worse by not answering his calls last night. I scroll through all my missed texts.
I reply to Maddie first.
You should see his brother.
I think it instead of typing it, then shove my phone under a pillow and groan. I can’t do this. I have to work with this guy for weeks. I can’t go getting a crush because we finally talked to each other like human beings. Or because of a stupid dream. A dream with the same eerie qualities to the ones that have come true. Disordered causality? Nope. Not gonna think about it.
It makes no sense that I feel betrayed, but I do. Mama is hosting co-ed sleepovers for my friends? This is not something she would normally do. It’s not like it’s a youth group lock-in at church or anything.
My phone starts ringing again. Dylan.
I turn it off and toss it aside. Now there will be no doubt that I’m avoiding him.
I close my eyes and listen to Henry’s movements as he leaves the bathroom, opens and closes drawers in his bedroom, and then disappears down the stairs. I take the opportunity to make a mad dash to the bathroom.
It’s locked from my side.
I press my forehead against the cool frame of the door.
Drawing a deep breath, I tiptoe to the hallway and poke my head out. When I’m sure the coast is clear, I dash to his room and push the door open. My heart pounds in my throat. I glance behind me before I slip inside.
His walls are covered end-to-end with astronomy posters. Constellations. One that’s solid black with the definition of quantum entanglement on it. In case you’re wondering: a physical phenomenon that occurs when pairs or groups of particles are generated or interact in ways such that the quantum state of each particle cannot be described independently of the others, even when the particles are separated by a large distance.
I think I fell asleep before I finished reading it.
The room is a wreck. His bed is unmade, dark blue sheets twisted around the foot of the bed. Above it on the wall are pictures of his family and friends. His dad and Patrick. Mons and Zara and Sanjay. Then there are squares where the paint on the wall is a little brighter, like photos used to hang there, but have been taken down. I wonder how many old girlfriends he has. Maybe he even has a current one.
Footsteps on the stairs jar me out of my nosy investigation. I fly into the bathroom and lock the door. A moment later, the door handle jiggles.
“Jo? You in there?”
I have to pee so incredibly bad, but I don’t want to do it with him standing outside the door.
“Yeah,” I call.
Silence descends. I can’t tell if he’s still standing there, but I keep holding it, listening to the drip, drip, drip of the rain outside. My eyeballs start to float.
“You feel okay?” His voice is muffled through the door.
“Yep, great.” Please. Go.
A pause.
“I’m headed out to meet Zara,” he says.
I stare at the tile backsplash over the sink, legs shaking. Why is he telling me this? And worse, why does it make me jealous?
“Have fun!” What else can I say? His shadow under the door disappears, returns, hesitates.
“The deli on Brixton, if you want to come over.” His shadow vanishes before I can answer.
I should go, I think. This is good. A step forward. But then I remember we only hung out last night because of George’s request. Maybe he told him to invite me to this, too.
So I stay in my room all day instead.
