It’s a little after midnight when we get back to the motel. Daniel seemed to have boundless energy as long as we were at the Cove, but he was so quiet during our five-minute drive back here that I thought he’d fallen asleep. Now he’s sitting on the edge of his bed—he chose the one by the bathroom—scrolling through something on his cracked phone, and I realize that he must be thinking about Darcy. I wish I knew what he was thinking about her. Is he missing her? Rehashing their last argument? Feeling relieved that it’s finally over? I’m debating whether I should ask him how he’s doing when he sighs and says, “I keep expecting her to text me.”
I try to suppress my twinge of disappointment as I pull my toothbrush out of my toiletries bag and ask, “Have you considered texting her?”
“She threw a burrito at my back.” He’s still staring at his phone as he says, “I’ve got my pride.”
I look over his shoulder at his phone. “Yeah, there’s heaps of pride in stalking her Instagram.”
He sets his phone aside, then leans back on his hands and looks at me. “What about your guy?”
“What?” I ask, my voice a pitch higher than normal. “What guy?”
“The one you told me about behind the Rowdy. The crush you’ve never confronted. When are you going to tell him how you really feel?”
I don’t have a great answer for that, so I just say, “Fine. Stalk her on Instagram. I don’t care.”
I’m trying to figure out how to segue into brushing my teeth when he drops his forehead into his hands and says, “God, I really fucked up this time.”
“Hey, it’s not your fault.” It occurs to me that I don’t actually know this for a fact, but it seems like the right thing to say.
When he doesn’t respond, I set my toothbrush down on the TV stand, then sit next to him, placing my hand on his back. I have never been so aware of my hand before; it feels like ice compared to the metabolic firestorm coming through his T-shirt.
“You two gave it a real shot. Three years—there are marriages that don’t last as long.” I wince, remembering that his parents are acrimoniously divorced, but he doesn’t seem to make the same connection.
“I know.” His voice shakes as he repeats, “I know.” He sits up, squares his shoulders. “Sorry about that. I promise not to spend the rest of the week crying myself to sleep over this.”
“I will happily banish you back to the boys’ room if you do that, anyway.”
That makes him laugh. My hand is still on his back, but now I slowly remove it. If this were Cameron or Flynn, then I wouldn’t be pulling away. Instead, I’d bring him in for a hug, guide his head to my shoulder, and tell him to cry it out. But this is Daniel, and my rules with him are different.
“It’s just—” He angles his face away from me. “She and I have known each other so long, you know? What if no one else ever gets me the way that she does?”
Irritation and sympathy war within me, but sympathy wins. “Hey,” I say. “I get you.”
“Yeah. You do, don’t you.” He doesn’t phrase this as a question, more like something he’s just realizing, much to his surprise.
Our eyes meet. Something like electricity passes between us, stealing my breath. We’re sitting so close that the sides of our legs are touching. I can feel the heat of his body through both his jeans and mine.
He surprises me when he says, “You should go for it.”
“Go for what?”
“Tell your guy how you feel.”
I’m balancing on the edge of something dangerous, one breath away from leaning in to kiss him. I struggle to get out, “That’s impossible.”
“No, it’s not,” he says. “I promise, any guy would be an idiot not to want to be with you.”
What sort of code are we communicating in here? It seems like he must know the truth. He must know that there is no mystery guy. I consider saying something like, Well, then he’s the idiot for not making the first move, maybe even adding, especially when I’m sitting right here. But I play it safe by saying, “No, he’s in love with someone else.”
“Oh.” His posture sags, and I realize that he was simply offering me advice about my nameless crush. “I’m sorry.”
The tension between us evaporates; our almost-kiss dissolves into the infinite ocean of could-have-beens. I don’t have to fake my sadness when I say, “Yeah, me, too.”
“God, we’re a pair, right?” He clenches his fists. “Some-times I wish I’d never met her, you know?”
“Don’t wish that.” The words come out easily, maybe because one of the things I love most about him is how thoroughly he’s capable of loving. Even though it hurts to see all the sweet little things he does for Darcy—the notes on her car, the quick kisses between classes, the love songs—if he didn’t do them, then he wouldn’t be Daniel. “Think about everything she gave you.”
“Like what?” he says. “Insomnia? Anxiety?”
“No, not that.” I close my eyes and try to imagine what my life would be like if Daniel wasn’t in it, if I didn’t have to struggle against this unhealthy, impractical obsession. “I mean, she taught you what love feels like, right? What this kind of love feels like.” I sigh. “If nothing else, she gave you a lot of good songwriting material.”
He laughs bitterly. “How’d you get so smart?”
I catch myself studying the lines of his cheeks, which are highlighted by the weak glow of the lamp on our bedside table. Maybe he’s in love with Darcy now, but he wasn’t always. At some point he fell in, and that means he can fall out again. And his feelings for me are more than nothing; surely, they could grow.
“Same way you did,” I say. “Disappointment. Heartbreak.”
He tilts his head to the side, as if to see me from a new angle. “Why don’t we hang out more, Bass Girl?”
The question catches me by surprise. Having a conversation with Daniel sometimes feels like playing along with a melody I’ve never heard before; the notes rise and fall and stop with no warning. He gets me to say things I mean, but I don’t mean to say, like, “You’ve always had better things to do.” I cringe when the words come out; to my ear, they sound petulant, childish. Luckily, he doesn’t seem to notice.
“Not better,” he says. “But it’s so easy to get stuck, you know? With bad habits, with the wrong people.” He looks up at me, and once again I feel a kiss sparking between us, suspended, tangible enough to touch. “You make me feel”—he takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly—“calm, comfortable.” The words are so tender; I imagine they’d bruise at the faintest whisper. He ruins it a little by adding, “Darcy never once made me feel that way,” but I don’t even care. Because what he means is, I make him feel better than Darcy does, which has to mean he’d rather be with me than Darcy, even if his heart is still knotted up with hers. And that’s something. Really, it feels like more than something; it feels like a promise.
My lips part, because I’m having a difficult time keeping my breath steady. We sway a fraction of an inch toward each other, and then there’s a knock at our door, and the space between us widens again. Or maybe I imagine this. Regardless, when I stand, my legs feel weak. I answer the door and find Cameron hovering outside in a white shirt and fleece pajama pants, looking worried. His voice seems unusually small as he says, “Hey, can I talk to you?”
Behind me, I hear Daniel get off the bed. He asks, “Mind if I take a shower?” and I answer, “Go ahead,” without looking at him. My heart is still pounding in my chest. I really hope that I’m not blushing, or that if I am, Cameron doesn’t notice.
Daniel disappears inside the bathroom as I follow Cameron out to the walkway, letting the door close behind me. I wait several seconds for him to speak. When he doesn’t, I say, “Look, Cameron—” but he says, “Nora, I’m—” at the same time.
Words are so stupid. It’s infinitely easier to communicate with music, but our instruments are in the car.
He takes a deep breath, and I wait for him to spit out whatever he came here to say. Eventually he says, “Thanks for not telling the guys.”
I fold my arms across my chest, not as a gesture of distrust, or discomfort, or whatever body-language experts would suggest, but because I’m cold.
“Yeah. Of course.” After a beat, I ask, “How are you feeling?”
“What? Like, am I still feeling it?” He laughs. “It was, like, three sips. Wouldn’t have affected a kitten.”
I know I saw more than three sips, but instead of dwelling on that, I ask, “Did something happen?”
Now he’s the one to fold his arms across his chest, and I think the body-language experts would probably be spot-on in their analysis of the gesture this time. “Like what?”
I wait. Because he knows what I’m talking about.
The first time I saw Cameron drunk was the summer before sophomore year. His parents had gone to a medical conference in Tokyo and left him home alone. They’d done things like that before, but this time they hadn’t warned him about it. Instead, they called him from the airport, apologized for forgetting to tell him they’d be out of town for two weeks, and asked him to please give the gardener and the maid the checks they’d left in the foyer. That’s what really stung, I think—the fact that they’d remembered to write checks for their gardener and maid, but hadn’t remembered to let him know they’d be gone.
When we all showed up at his house to rehearse, we found him passed out in his backyard. He’d broken into their wine cellar—because they actually have a locked wine cellar—and drunk as many expensive bottles of wine as he could stomach. I wanted to call 911, but Daniel and Flynn carried him inside and made him drink a bunch of water, then held him while he vomited it all up, then fed him and made him drink some more water. None of us knew what to do, really. We were googling it as we went along. I don’t think I’ve ever been as scared as I was when we found him there, facedown in the grass by his pool.
After a long pause, he steps away from me and leans against the wooden railing. He’s staring to the side as he says, “I didn’t ask my parents if I could come on this trip.”
I lean forward. “What?”
“Don’t worry,” he says. His gaze moves to his bare feet. “It’s fine. I didn’t ask because I knew they wouldn’t notice if I left.” I’m watching his face closely, so I catch how his mouth briefly contorts before he goes on, “And they didn’t. It just threw me tonight. I kept thinking they might call. I mean, I left my car at school and everything. But not a word. I had this whole”—he gestures tightly with his right hand, then tucks it back in under his left—“this whole speech planned for them, about how I would have asked them if I thought they’d care.” He laughs quickly, through his nose. “And then they didn’t call.”
“Cam—”
“It’s great, though. You know?” he goes on. “Because now I know where we stand. It’s like, I’m finally free.”
I don’t know what to say, so I just follow an instinct and close the distance between us, wrapping my arms around his waist as I press my ear against his chest. I hear his heart beating against his rib cage. He doesn’t move at first, but eventually he lets his arms relax around my shoulders. A moment later, I feel tension ease out of his body. When he steps away, he looks less terrified, more like himself. After he unlocks his door, he whispers, “Good night, Nora. See you tomorrow.”
His hotel room is dark. Flynn is probably asleep in there, wearing noise-canceling headphones and an eye mask, intent on getting his eight hours. Now I have a whole new set of reasons to regret not asking Cameron to be my roommate. If he and I were rooming together, we could have stayed up talking, laughing at the presenters on the QVC channel, messing around with music and our outfits for the Magwitch. The idea of him slipping into bed while Flynn snores on the other side of the room makes me slightly queasy.
Then I remember that Daniel needed me, too.
I turn back to our door, only to realize that I’ve locked myself out. While I wait for Daniel to get out of the shower, I lean against the flaking stucco wall and think about what almost happened between him and me. If Cameron hadn’t interrupted, would Daniel have kissed me? What would I have done if he’d made the move?
I should not kiss Daniel. That way lies heartbreak and all the worst kinds of drama. As soon as I resolve on this, a tiny, pleading voice inside me sings, But you know you want to. Also, What’s the worst that can happen?
When I hear the water turn off, I knock, and Daniel opens the door smelling like boy-soap. “What was that about?” he says, stepping aside to let me in. He’s toweling off his hair so it flops in semidried clumps in front of his eyes. He’s wearing a Sleater-Kinney T-shirt and black pajama pants that look appealingly soft.
“Nothing,” I say. “School.”
He nods, his interest immediately lost. I slip into the bathroom to get ready for bed. I wish I had something cuter to wear than loose cotton shorts and an enormous Reno Jazz Festival T-shirt, but that’s what I packed, so I change and then step back into the room, where Daniel is sitting cross-legged on his bed, once again scrolling through his phone. When he sees me, he sets it aside and says, “I’m coming with you.”
I force a laugh. “You have a habit of saying things out of context. It’s really confusing.”
He uncrosses his legs and leans forward. “I’m coming with you to look for your biological parents.”
“Oh.” I stare at him, not sure whether he’s serious. “You don’t have to do that.”
“But I want to,” he says. “Besides, you shouldn’t have to do it alone.”
That’s when I decide that if the moment comes, I’ll let him kiss me. Then I decide that’s the most idiotic thing I’ve ever considered doing, and promise myself I won’t let it happen. Then I remind myself that there’s a third option: I could kiss him first.
“So, where are they?” he says. “You have addresses?”
I hesitate, reluctant to let him in on this. Then again, I could use some backup. “Yeah. A couple for the woman in Reedley, and a potential business address for the woman in Watsonville.” I sit on the edge of my bed as I bring up the addresses on my phone, and he moves next to me in order to see the map. I force myself to sound calm, businesslike, as we talk about distances between our hotels and the addresses I’ve found. After we’ve come up with a sketchy plan for both cities, I put my phone down and say, “We should probably sleep.”
He lets out half a breath as he looks at me. “Yeah. I guess so.”
We both stand, and I expect him to retreat to his bed, but instead he steps toward me. My breath catches in my throat. His fingers lift to my cheek.
Suddenly, here I am, living the moment I’ve been dreaming about. Only, it doesn’t feel right. Everything between him and Darcy is so raw; it wouldn’t be wise to rush into something, not when my whole heart is caught in the balance. And I know, though I don’t like to admit it, that Daniel hates being alone under any circumstances. During previous breaks with Darcy, there’ve been other girls—nothing serious, just someone for him to hang out with—and this week, I’m the one who’s here.
With difficulty, I say, “Daniel, don’t—”
He lowers his hand, steps back.
The wiser half of my brain says, Good job, Nora. That was close. But then the levee of my self-control breaks, and I lean forward, closing the distance between his lips and mine. He hesitates, but then responds, wraps his arms around my waist, presses the length of his body against the length of mine.
“No, you were right,” he says, pulling away. “You know I’m—” His breath is hot against my cheeks. “I’m such a mess right now.”
“Me, too,” I say. This is true, but not for the reasons he’d imagine.
We hover there for a long moment, suspended in indecision. Then, slowly, he leans down and kisses me again, and I kiss him back. And just like that, the decision has been made. I know he doesn’t love me, but the fact that he wants to kiss me feels, in this moment, like enough.
My body seems to float, to disappear entirely. I feel electric, powerful, like I’ve manifested this moment through pure strength of will. Daniel’s lips are soft. Our breathing synchronizes, and we find an easy rhythm as he nibbles on my bottom lip, then moves his mouth against mine. I let myself believe that he couldn’t kiss me like this if he didn’t love me at least a little.
We sit on the edge of my bed, lips connected the entire time. Daniel peels back the covers, then lays me down gently before stretching out on top. Suddenly, my whole body feels tingly and awake. But just as everything inside me is accelerating, he pauses, lifts his face away from mine. He rolls off to my right, leaving his right arm draped over me and his left arm tucked under my head. Against my cheek, he whispers, “Let’s just sleep like this, Bass Girl. Okay?”
“Yeah,” I say, feeling vaguely disappointed.
Seconds later, he’s dreaming, but I lie awake until three in the morning, wondering what this means, wondering what will be different tomorrow.