The next day I call Cassidy. Like a confessional prayer, I tell her everything. Start to finish.
She listens.
I go deep, deep, deep into the story, something I could only do with Cassidy.
She doesn’t say much, just listens intensely with an occasional, “Are you serious?”
I give her specifics about the bust, how I thought I was going to jail, and how I can’t stop thinking about Nate. I even tell her that I faked my injury to get off the squad. When I finally finish, she’s silent for a moment.
“You still there?” I ask.
“I’m here.” More silence. I find myself counting the seconds before she speaks again.
“What are you going to do now?” she asks quietly.
“I honestly don’t know. Everything is a mess.”
I pick up dirty clothes off of my floor. She sighs.
“Chelsea, I’m your best friend, and you know I’m here for you. We can figure this out together. I have some secret cash stashed in my drawer if you need it.”
It’s the same ole same. Chelsea needs help. Cassidy saves Chelsea.
When we hang up, I glance down at my phone and see a text message notification. What? When did this happen?
It’s from Nate. My stomach flip-flops as I open the message and start speed reading.
“Hi. I don’t like how things ended. I can’t stop thinking about you. You’ve left me with so many questions. I keep watching the front door in the poker room hoping you’ll walk in, but I know you won’t. Why did you accuse me of seeing other girls?”
Just as I finish reading, another text comes through:
“Yes I have a past, but I’d like a chance to explain. You are beautiful and I loved spending time with you. I want to know who you really are. Can we meet? Maybe just coffee or something like that? I think we need to talk.”
I read them both again.
Then one more time.
Butterflies, butterflies, more butterflies. I wait a minute then text back.
“Yes.”
Two hours later, we’re sitting across from each other in a crowded Starbucks. Dad has never grounded me before, so when I told him I was going to Cassidy’s, he didn’t even blink. Typical, oblivious Dad.
I take a drink of my tea and look across the table at Nate.
“Aren’t you going to order some coffee?”
He smiles gently. “Nah. I’m not really big on coffee.”
I grin and shake my head. “There’s tea too, you know.” He smiles, but doesn’t say anything. We people-watch for a few minutes before he breaks the silence.
“How are you?” He seems genuinely interested.
“I’m okay.” I look away. “Hangin’ in there.”
Another minute passes.
“How are you?” I ask.
“I’m okay. You know, not much going on. Just work.”
It hasn’t been long since I’ve seen him last, but it feels like forever ago. I feel like I have no idea what’s going on in his life—like he’s a stranger.
“So?” He looks at me expectantly.
“Sooo, what?”
“So, tell me more. Tell me more about Chelsea.”
“I’ve already told you. I’m still in high school. I’m only seventeen.”
“Yeah, I know that part.” Nate picks up my tea and takes a drink. “But like, where do you live? Where do you go to school? Why were you sneaking into casinos?”
I give him the short version. The truth, just not every detail. I tell him about dad, about cheer squad, about electric bills. I needed money.
He soaks it all in.
“Wow. Brave girl.”
“I had to do it, you know? I didn’t have a choice.”
He nods and looks at me silently for a few minutes, rubbing his hands together uncertainly as if he wants to reach for mine.
My turn.
“So, I hear you’re a player, huh?” I ask, laughing a little.
“Yeah, who told you that?”
“One of your coworkers.”
“No. I am not a player.” He’s serious. “I dated around a year or two ago. So what? I was young and having fun. But since I’ve met you, there’s been no one else. No one. Promise.”
“That’s what they all say,” I tease.
He gets firm. “Look. I promise you, Chelsea, I haven’t talked to anyone since we’ve been . . . seeing each other.”
For some reason, I actually believe him.
“Well, okay.” I look him right in the eyes.
We sit there for another hour because we don’t want it to end. Nate says he wants to still see me, but he’s worried about me being underage.
“I actually had a buddy who got in a lot of trouble for that. He ended up serving time.”
“Um, that’s not good. I turn eighteen in a few months.” I say, looking at him with hopeful eyes.
“Well, I guess we’ll just have to wait. I’m glad this relationship isn’t over. It’s just—”
“Postponed,” I laugh.
“Yeah, postponed.” Nate smiles. Dimples.
Just a few more months and maybe, just maybe, we can finally be something. No lies, just truth.