So now you know. And, Bram, you don’t have to respond anytime soon. Just think about it, and sit with the idea, and then whenever you’re ready, we can talk about it. And I promise, B, I promise you can tell me if you feel weird about it. We can pretend I never even applied. We don’t have to mention it ever again, okay? I know how to be in love with you from Philly. Easy peasy. I could do it in my sleep.
Love,
Jacques
FROM: BLUEGREEN118@GMAIL.COM
TO: HOURTOHOUR.NOTETONOTE@GMAIL.COM
DATE: MAR 31 AT 11:20 PM
SUBJECT: RE: I MUST REALLY LIKE YOU.
Pressing pause. Saving the game. Calling you now.
Love,
Bram
Acknowledgments
I’ve spent five years swearing I’d never write this story, and here we are. All I can say is this: Maybe it’s a good thing, the way we never stop surprising ourselves.
This project has been pure joyful chaos, and I’m so grateful to the MVPs who dove in with me headfirst:
Donna Bray, Holly Root, Mary Pender-Coplan, Anthea Townsend, Ebony LaDelle, Sabrina Abballe, Jacquelynn Burke, Tiara Kittrell, Shona McCarthy, Mark Rifkin, Alison Donalty, Jenna Stempel-Lobell, Chris Bilheimer, and my teams at Balzer + Bray/HarperCollins, Root Literary, UTA, and Penguin UK. I’m in such awe. You made publishing miracles happen.
Isaac Klausner, Temple Hill, and everyone involved in Love, Simon and Love, Victor—especially Isaac Aptaker and Elizabeth Berger, who changed the course of Simon’s life in a single email.
Caroline Goldstein and Emily Townsend, for the Haver-wisdom.
Aisha Saeed and Olivia Horrox, who watched me stare at my Word document on many trains and planes.
Adam Silvera, Nic Stone, Angie Thomas, and Mackenzi Lee, who let me borrow their universes.
Jasmine Warga, David Arnold, Dahlia Adler, Jenn Dugan, Matthew Eppard, Katy-Lynn Cook, and everyone else who kept my panic at bay during the deadline-homeschool two-punch.
Jaime Hensel, Sarah Beth Brown, and Amy Austin, who proved that Creekwood kids never lose touch.
My family, especially Brian, Owen, and Henry (funny how the love letters write themselves when it comes to you guys).
The Trevor Project, for giving my readers a shore worth swimming to.
And the readers who, after five years of no, still showed up for my yes.
An Excerpt from Kate in Waiting
TURN THE PAGE FOR A SNEAK PEEK AT
Overture
It really feels like an ending, in every way possible. With the curtains pulled closed, the stage might as well be another planet. A well-lit planet full of giant foam set pieces, inhabited only by Andy and me—and Matt.
Coke-Ad Matt.
“It’s now or never,” whispers Andy. He doesn’t move an inch.
Neither do I.
We just sort of stand there, in the shadow of a papier-mâché Audrey 2.
There’s nothing sadder than the end of a crush. And it’s not like this was one of those distant-stranger crushes. Andy and I have actually talked to this boy. Tons of words, on multiple glorious occasions. No small feat, since Matt’s the kind of gorgeous that usually renders us speechless. He’s got one of those old-timey faces, with blond hair and pink cheeks. Our friend Brandie collects Coca-Cola merch, and I swear the vintage ad in her bathroom looks exactly like Matt. Thus the nickname. The ad says “Thirst stops here.” But in our case, the thirst doesn’t stop.
It’s basic Avril Lavigne math. We were the junior theater counselors. He was our cute townie vocal consultant. You truly could not make it any more obvious. And for a full six weeks, he’s been the sun in our solar system. But he lives up the road from camp, in Mentone, Alabama.
Which is just about a hundred miles away from Roswell, Georgia.
So Andy’s right. Now or never.
Deep breath. “Hey. Uh, Matt.”
I swear I can feel Anderson’s surprised approval. Damn, Garfield. Just going for it. Get yours.
I clear my throat. “So. We wanted to say goodbye. And. Um. Thank you.”
Matt slides a sheet of music into his tote bag and smiles. “Thank me?”
“For the vocal consultation,” I say. “And everything.”
Andy nods fervently, adjusting his glasses.
“Aww, Kate! You too. So cool meeting you guys.” Matt hoists his tote bag over his shoulder, shifting his weight toward the door, just barely. Exit posture. Crap. I’m just going to —
“Can we take a selfie?” I blurt. I’m already cringing. You know what would be cool? If my voice would stop shaking. Also, Anderson. My dude. Anytime you want to step up, be my guest.
“Oh, sure,” Matt says. “Let’s do it.”
Well then.
We squeeze into the frame, curtain tickling our backs, and I stretch my arm out at the up angle, just like Anderson trained me. And we smile. I mean, I’m trying to. But I’m so flustered, my lips are trembling.
It’s worth it. Even if I come out looking like a dazed fangirl, it’s worth it. Raina and Brandie have been begging for photographic evidence of Coke-Ad Matt’s cuteness, and God knows Instagram’s yielded nothing.
But this picture isn’t for the squad. Not really. Honestly, they’re both just going to make fun of us for having yet another communal crush. According to Raina, Anderson and I are enmeshed, which basically means we’re codependent. Apparently some people believe falling in love is a thing you’re supposed to do on your own.
And yeah, Raina aced AP Psych so hard, she’s practically a licensed psychologist already. But here’s the thing she doesn’t get. It’s not about Matt. Or Josh from last summer, who had very strong opinions about breakfast. Or Alexander from the summer before, who was really into being from Michigan. It has nothing to do with any of them.
It’s about
