When I get home from the bakery, I find my mom home early from work, crying on the phone. She hangs up after I walk in and pulls herself together pretty quickly, immediately focusing on what we’re going to eat for dinner—making it clear she doesn’t want to burden me with whatever that phone call was about.
But it doesn’t take much to guess.
It also doesn’t come as much of a surprise when my parents sit me down again a few days later to tell me they’ve decided to file for divorce.
“We want you to know that we both tried really hard to make this work,” my father says from his favorite chair in the living room. “But after a lot of talking and thinking, we’ve decided this is what’s best for our family.”
“Sounds about right,” I say.
They share a look and Mom turns back to me. “I’m sorry?”
I shrug and glance between them. “It makes sense. You guys don’t get along. You tried to make it work, but...you shouldn’t be married.”
They’re both quiet for a moment. Then Mom says, “We want you to know how sorry we are to have put you in the middle of all this. None of it is your fault.”
That part is a little harder to believe. I’m not positive Mom told Dad about David from work. But it was only a week ago I forced her hand—and now here we are.
My eyes well up and Mom moves to sit next to me. She holds my hand between hers and that just makes it even harder to breathe evenly. “I’m sorry, honey,” she says in a soothing voice. “I know the past couple of months have been hard on you—”
“The past couple of months?” I lift my free hand to wipe my cheek. “This has been going on for years. You get that, right? I mean, you say you’re sorry for putting me in the middle. But that’s what you both have done, over and over again, for as long as I can remember. I’ve wished for you guys to get divorced more times than I can count. And I feel bad about that, but I just—I can’t do it anymore.” I pull my hand away and look at both of them. “I mean it, I’m not going to be your middleman. I’m not going to be your therapist.”
“No,” Mom says. “Of course not. We don’t want to put you in that position.”
Dad’s eyes are red-rimmed, his forehead creased. He runs a hand along his five-o’clock shadow. “Your mother and I have both made mistakes in the past. With each other, and with you. But we never meant to hurt you.”
My chest is clawed out, each breath scraping against raw lungs. But at the same time, I’m lighter than I’ve been in a long time, because I feel like they’ve finally heard me. They understand how much their relationship has affected me.
We talk for a long time, my parents outlining the logistics and answering my questions—even though some things don’t have answers yet. And I realize I’m just going to have to be okay with not knowing exactly how the future will unfold.
The next couple weeks are an adjustment, while Dad officially moves out and Mom and I both get used to navigating the house now that his stuff is gone—the empty space in the living room where the reclining chair he took with him used to sit, the tools that cluttered the garage my entire life now cleared away.
And through all of it, Webster is there.
After our trip to Susie’s, Webster and I started driving to school together every day. And it wasn’t long before we started hanging out after school, too. Some afternoons it almost feels like the past year of drama never happened. Spending time with Webster is just...easy. He’s always willing to listen when I relay any divorce-related drama, or commiserate when I just feel crappy about it all. It’s easy to talk to him about that sort of thing, because he’s been through it before. He knows exactly how it feels the first time you see your dad’s side of the closet completely empty.
Usually we drive around for a bit or grab some food before heading home. Last week he brought me to the movie theater where he works and got us into a matinee for free—though that guy Henry he went out with was working, which was slightly awkward (though possibly only for me). But even when we just head back to one of our houses to do our homework or bake together, it’s never boring. No matter what we’re doing, I’m just happy to be near him. Happier than when I’m on my own.
Today we still haven’t discussed any plans as we head out to the student parking lot. This was one of the rare mornings Webster managed to get his shit together before me, so we took his car. His Cadillac is old, ancient actually, and doesn’t have an automatic lock. He stops on the passenger side and unlocks my door first. He holds it open for me, and I slide my backpack off one shoulder and pull it around to my front as I sink into the low seat. Webster gently shuts the door after me, and I track him as he lopes around the front of the car, flipping the keys back and forth over his knuckles. When he angles himself into the car and turns over the engine, Taylor Swift’s latest album blasts from the speakers, and he lunges for the volume knob.
This is something I’ve had to get used to, the days we take Webster’s car. Another piece of information I folded up and tucked into the Webster file in my head. Webster listens to Taylor Swift at top volume in the morning. I reach for my seat belt and click it into place.
For the first time maybe ever, the traffic lights heading home are all timed perfectly. We hit every green. Beside me, Webster seems perfectly relaxed, slouched a bit in the driver’s seat with one hand on the wheel. Meanwhile I can’t stop touching things—flipping through his preset radio stations, pulling the visor down and then pushing it back up. When I start fiddling with the latch on the center console, Webster can’t hold it in anymore.
“Why are you so fidgety?”
“Sorry.” I slide my hands under my thighs. I’m not sure why I can’t sit still today. It’s not like today is different from any other day the past few weeks. But sometimes, when we’re in close quarters like this and I can smell his grapefruit shampoo, I suddenly find myself daydreaming about holding his hand or leaning in against him and then something swells inside my chest and it becomes impossible to ignore the fact that I like one of my best friends as more than a friend.
I keep telling myself it will pass. Either that, or he’ll give me some kind of sign—confirm he feels the same way—only he hasn’t. And that’s probably smart, because we’re still rebuilding our friendship after all, and I should just cool it and enjoy spending time with him, but oh my god he looks good in that shade of green.
We finally catch a red light, right outside our subdivision. Webster slides his hands off the wheel and turns his head toward me. “Are you hungry?”
“A little.” My stomach is in knots, actually, but if I tell him that he’ll ask why, so I keep my mouth shut.
“What do you want?”
It’s a valid question. One I’ve been asking myself a lot lately. And honestly, I’m not sure I know what I want. I know how I feel, but if I tell him, and if he feels the same way... What we have right now is so good. I’m not sure I want to change things, risk ruining it again.
“I’m kind of craving a Slurpee,” he says.
“Yes. Slurpee. That does sound good.” I shift in my seat. “Wait. Does this mean you’re finally going to let me eat in your car?”
This is another thing I’ve learned—Webster keeps his car impeccably clean and has a strict no-food policy.
The light turns green and he side-eyes me as he accelerates. “Depends on what you get.”
“What are the rules, exactly?”
“Nothing sticky that isn’t contained with a lid. So, no ice cream. No fried food, either, unless it’s warm enough to keep the windows down.”
“That is very specific.”
“I don’t want Klaus to smell like French fries forever.”
I hold my hand up. “Klaus?”
“Yes.” He looks at me, straight-faced. “He’s German.”
“Sure. Of course he is. So do you ever make exceptions to these rules, or...?”
He shoots me an amused look. “You mean for you? Who do you think you are, anyway?”
Heat floods my cheeks because I know exactly who I am. I’m the girl riding in Webster’s car, the girl who can’t seem to get enough time alone with him lately.
I turn my gaze out the window until we pull up to the 7-Eleven. Webster holds the door for me as we walk in, and we head straight for the Slurpee machines. Both of us reach for large cups. I opt for the cherry flavor, while Webster manages to fit all eight varieties into his cup.
“See, the trick is to start with the one you like the least,” he says as he moves to the last machine, “and then finish it off with your favorite. So that’s the last one you drink.”
“Why don’t you just fill the whole thing with your favorite?”
He grins. “I’m sensing a lot of judgment from you right now, and I’m going to have to ask you to check your tone.”
“But like...by the time you get to the end, it’s all melted and the flavors have run together. If you’re gonna layer, you should start with your favorite.”
“This is my process,” he says with a shrug as we head to the register. “You don’t have to understand it, Aubrey. You just have to respect it.”
I roll my eyes behind his back. At the register, he reaches for his wallet and I swat his hand away. “I got this. Besides, I still owe you that celebratory drink for getting into MSU.”
He smiles in a way that doesn’t seem all that authentic. “Right. Thanks.”
“Did I tell you I finally sent in my deposit?”
“No—that’s great, though.”
“Yeah,” I say, and take my first sip of Slurpee. “I just realized it’s where I always wanted to go, and none of the benefits of the other schools really topped it.” I sigh happily. “I can’t wait to find out who I’m rooming with. And sign up for classes.”
We walk back to his car and while putting my seat belt on, I demonstrate how very careful I will be not to spill.
“You want to find somewhere to park to drink these?” I ask.
Webster chews on his straw the same way he does the cap of his pen. “I should get home.”
“Oh. Okay.”
Something is definitely off with him. He fiddles with his phone, which is hooked up to the stereo through a series of adapters. Once he’s finally satisfied with his music selection, he puts the car into Reverse and backs out of the spot.
I suck down another sip, and ice-cold cherry flavor coats my tongue. I stir my Slurpee around with the straw and watch the way his throat moves when he swallows. He catches me staring as he pulls out of the parking lot.
“What?” he asks, automatically wiping his mouth like he’s got food on it.
“Nothing.”
He doesn’t say anything for miles. When we’re nearing our subdivision again, I finally call him out. “You’re just kind of quiet.”
He checks his blind spot and changes lanes. “Sorry. You can put on different music if you want.”
I shake my head. That’s not even close to what I want. I take a drink and try not to overanalyze things, but Webster hasn’t interacted with anyone else in the last five minutes, so this shift in his mood must be because of me.
We’re turning onto our block when he finally looks at me again. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“If you had ended up at NC State instead, do you think you’d ever get back together with Holland?”
Hearing Holland’s name come out of Webster’s mouth is like hitting my hand on a hot oven rack. I flinch back, pull my hair over one shoulder. I look out the window and jab my straw into my drink.
“Or what about if you’d met him later. In college. Would things have turned out differently?”
“No? I mean...” An exasperated noise crawls up my throat. “I don’t know. Why are you asking me this?”
“Because that’s your type, right? Future doctors. Guys who are good at Scrabble.”
“I hate Scrabble, actually...”
“Crossword puzzles, then. Whatever.” He pulls into my driveway and throws the car into Park. Keeps his gaze on the gearshift. He seems annoyed with me, and I wish for once he’d stop talking in code and just tell me what’s really going on inside his head.
I can’t keep the edge out of my voice. “If I recall, you were the one who kept pointing out all the ways Holland and I weren’t right for each other.”
“Yeah. Well. What do I know, right?”
I stare at him for a long moment. Give him the chance to say something to make me stay. To prove I haven’t been imagining our connection all this time, prove the past couple weeks have meant anything to him at all.
His hand moves to his plastic cup, bending the chewed-up straw. His mouth stays in a straight line.
“Apparently less than I thought,” I say as I throw the door open. I grab my bag from the floor and slam the door behind me. I don’t make it five steps before Webster is out of the car.
“Aubrey—”
“What?” I whip around—Webster is much closer than I expected, so close the toes of our shoes touch. All the harsh words I had locked and loaded get lodged in my throat when he catches my waist. Time stills. His free hand reaches up, tucks my hair behind my ear. My backpack slips off my shoulder. It dangles in the crook of my elbow for a second, then drops to the ground as he leans in and I lift onto my toes to meet him halfway.
He kisses me with a gentle kind of intensity. Like this is something he’s wanted for a long time, but he’s afraid of taking what I don’t want to give. My hand wraps around the back of his neck, pulls him closer. We’re both breathing heavy and fast, his grip tightening on my waist when I part his lips with mine.
The tingle that runs through my whole body when our tongues first touch, his hips pressing hard against mine—already this is a feeling I don’t ever want to live without. And I’m almost angry with myself, because maybe if I hadn’t said that stupid thing to Reese when we were juniors, I could have had this a year ago.
Webster’s hand shifts down to my neck. He slows our kiss and pulls back, though only far enough to look at me. “So is now a good time to mention I like you?”
I laugh and grip the front of his shirt. “I kind of picked up on that.” I tilt my face up toward his again. “It’s a little bit mutual.”
“Oh, good, then I don’t have to avoid you for the next few weeks.”
“Please don’t.”
He smiles and dips his head to give me another quick kiss. Then he reaches down to pick up my forgotten backpack. “I should probably go. From the weight of this backpack, I can only assume you were planning to spend the rest of your day studying, and I wouldn’t want to interrupt that.”
I snatch the bag from him and hoist it over one shoulder. “You are supremely annoying.”
“Yeah.” He grins broadly and starts walking backward to his car. “But you like it.”
He’s right. God help me.
Reese crouches by my bedroom window, peering through the blinds at Web’s house like a total creeper.
“Would you stop that?”
She sits back on her heels and looks at me. “Okay, I need way more details. What kind of kisser is he?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“Come on. Describe it to me.”
The fact that we’ve already been over every detail of my encounter with Webster is apparently irrelevant. I called Reese as soon as Webster backed out of my driveway, so she already asked a million questions on the phone. But for once, I’m okay with her unwavering enthusiasm and intrusive questioning about my love life. Especially since I can’t seem to stop reliving the kiss anyway.
“Was it, like, slow, soft, and lingering?” she asks. “Or hot, heavy, and full of tongue?”
“It was definitely hot...but not full of tongue. It sort of started out soft and slow and then built up to more. But we were standing in my driveway, so we stopped before it got too intense.”
“So school got out at two thirty, and then you went to the 7-Eleven. How long do you think you spent there?”
“Um...I dunno, like ten minutes?”
“And what time was it when you got back inside?”
“I have no idea.”
“Didn’t you look at a clock?” She seems personally offended when I shake my head. Then she pulls out her phone. “Well, you called me at three nineteen. So factor in driving time...”
My eyes narrow. “Are you trying to figure out how long our kiss lasted?”
She grins broadly and nods.
“Stop.”
“Okay,” she says without dimming her smile even a little.
“I’m serious.”
“I can see that.” She bites her thumbnail. “But does approximately nine minutes of kissing sound right?”
“That seems...long. But I guess time flies when you’re having fun?”
Reese rocks all the way onto her butt and crosses her legs. She cups her chin in her palm and looks at me with this pinch at the corners of her mouth like she knows something I don’t.
“What?”
“You loooove him.”
“You can see yourself out.”
She hops up and onto my bed. The mattress bounces under her weight and I bury my face in my furry throw pillow.
“Hey.” She waits for me to lower the pillow before saying, “Have I mentioned I’m really happy for you?”
I cover my cheeks with my hands, then spring off the bed. I have too much energy to sit still. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. It was just a kiss.”
“A kiss and a declaration of loooove.” Reese wiggles her shoulders and makes a heart with her hands.
“Not love. No one said love.” I stop pacing and look at her. “I feel like I’m still bracing for him to take it back. Like...” I think back to the conversation Webster and I had at Susie’s. “Maybe this is too big a risk.”
I’ve wondered lately if my parents think it was worth it. If their good years outweigh everything they’re going through now. All of that compromising and investing so much of yourself into someone else, only to have your plans fall apart. Maybe they would have separated sooner, if it wasn’t so hard to untangle themselves from the life they built together.
Reese relaxes her posture and gives me a small smile. “You know what they say. The bigger the risk, the bigger the reward.”
My mom calls up the stairs to let us know she brought dinner home. And as we leave my room, I glance once more toward the window that faces Webster’s house. “I hope you’re right.”