And yet it waters the seed of doubt at the back of my mind. Makes it bloom into a doubt garden with little doubt topiaries. He didn’t miss me. Tarek didn’t miss me. Jonathan is… whatever Jonathan is.
I don’t understand how what’s happening between us grows into something that makes you spend five hundred dollars on a chocolate fountain. And suddenly my anxiety-brain is intent on making me think it’s because there’s something wrong with me.
That must be what makes me slide off his lap, still fully clothed, desperate for air. I smooth down the skirt of my owl dress, search search search for something in the room to anchor myself. Photos of Alyson. Okay. I can focus on those. Deep breaths in through my nose, out through my mouth.
And it must be what makes me ask, “What if we went to a movie sometime?”
He looks at me like I’ve asked him if we can play Kidz Bop as mood music. “I… didn’t realize you were a movie kind of girl.”
I put more space between us, unsure of the implication and immediately drawing the worst conclusion. “Because there’s no overlap between girls who like fooling around and girls who appreciate cinema?”
“You’re funny,” he says. He leans in to kiss me again, but I pull back so violently I nearly topple off the bed. “No, I mean—I didn’t realize you dated.”
“I haven’t, not really, but that doesn’t mean I don’t date.”
He beckons me closer, lowers his lashes to half-mast in that way he must know is catnip to me. “Sure,” he says. “We can go to a movie.”
It won’t happen. I’m sure of it.
I want to leave him here. Every feminist cell in my body is urging me to. But even though I’m sure it won’t calm me completely, I let him kiss me slow and almost sweet, then unbuckle his belt and reach my hand inside. I hate myself while I’m doing it, but I don’t hate the way he fists a hand in my hair. And right now that is enough to make me stay.
After we’re done—after he’s done, because I’m nowhere near it after the conversation we just had and yeah, I’m bitter—the sense of something clawing inside me is even worse.
I find Julia on the back porch with Noelle after refreshing myself in the bathroom, thumbing away the crumbs of mascara and reapplying the lipstick I left on Corey’s face. When I checked my phone, I had a half dozen texts from her. I can’t tell if she’s giving off ~vibes~ or if we’re just gals being pals. UGH HELP.
“Hey, Noelle!” I say, fully intending to give Julia some help, even if it’s not the kind of help she thinks she needs. I sit down next to them. “Julia and I usually go to the Ballard Farmers Market on Sundays in the summer. Her parents have a booth there.”
“That sounds like fun. I’d love to come if—wait, was that an invitation?” She claps a hand over her mouth. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry. I thought for a moment you were inviting me, but you were probably just casually talking about your plans, and wow, I’m going to stop now.”
“We were!” I say quickly to put her out of her misery. Noelle is anxious—whether it’s because of Julia or because of her brain chemistry, or some combination, I can definitely relate. “We were inviting you!”
Noelle lets out a long breath and considerably brightens. “Then yes! I’m working a few days a week at a coffee shop in Wallingford, but I’m free aside from that.”
“Great,” Julia says, and she nudges my shoulder in what I interpret as a thank you. “We’ll text you the details.”
The sky darkens as we continue talking on the porch, and I notice how close Julia and Noelle are sitting. When Noelle tells a joke, Julia throws back her head to laugh, and every time, Noelle twists her mouth to one side, like she’s trying not to let on how much she enjoys Julia’s laugh. It’s the kind of thing that could almost make me believe in romance.
Almost.
5
I know it’s a lot of work,” Asher says as she bends over her dining room table, calligraphy pen poised over a lavender invitation. “But this is so much more personal.”
I flex my fingers. “I get it. Just don’t be surprised if your hundredth invite also contains the blood from my seventeen paper cuts and counting.”
“Perfect. It’s more authentic that way.” Asher’s dark hair is loose, curling down to her shoulders, and we’re both in leggings and T-shirts. We might look more alike than we ever have.
I slide a finished hand-addressed invitation for Margaret and Hal Chapin, whoever they are, to my right. Up next is Danielle Ladner, one of Asher’s high school friends. Asher and Gabe’s apartment is cute, a newer building in Ravenna with a view of the mountains. But she’s only fifteen minutes from our parents, which I can’t understand. If I had that kind of independence, I’d put at least a couple hours between us, maybe a flight.
Asher so graciously gave my mom, who has the kind of penmanship studies associate with serial killers, permission to skip this, and my dad is off on a venue tour. The save-the-dates went out at the beginning of the year, but they still have to create a seating chart, go in for final fittings and meetings with vendors, and address about a hundred little details my sister handles for other couples on a regular basis. She’s had a vision board for this botanical garden wedding since she was fourteen.
“It’s not too late to uninvite my cousin Moshe,” Gabe calls from the kitchen, where he’s cooking dinner. It’s six o’clock on a Tuesday, and he just got home from work. Asher always talks about how she loves her job’s flexible schedule, but her weekends are nonexistent. Meanwhile, Gabe
