“Seriously? I loved that show,” Noelle says. “Not enough queer couples, but then again, isn’t that always the problem with reality TV?”
“Agreed,” Julia says.
“What are they like in real life?”
“Victoria’s… pretty normal, actually. Nice. Funny.” I order an iced mocha, and while Noelle busies herself making it, Julia leans in close.
“Thank you. Thank you so much. I owe you.”
I wave this off. “Please. You can just paint me another portrait of Edith wearing people clothes.”
“Here you go!” Noelle chirps. Before we turn to go back to Julia’s table, Noelle says, “Wait. Um. There’s this movie I was thinking of seeing tonight. Julia, remember when you mentioned that documentary about the artist who painted those murals in San Francisco using only paint made from fruits and vegetables? It’s playing at the Uptown.”
Julia lights up. “I’d love to.”
“I have plans!” I say quickly, not wanting them to think I’d intrude when this is clearly a date. “But you guys should definitely go.”
The two of them coordinate from there. Julia looks thrilled, and I’m happy for her, even if it means I’ll be coming home to an empty house.
Not for the first time, I wish Asher still lived here. The fifteen minutes between my house and her apartment sometimes feel like fifty, but I text her when I get home anyway, asking if she’s free tonight.
At least I don’t have to hope for too long. Her response comes back in half a minute.
Asher: Sorry, Gabe had tickets to Avenue Q
Asher: I’ll see if he can get extras next time!
Sighing, I tell her to have a good time as I climb the stairs to the tower. If she were here, there would at least be someone to keep me from making any additional Bad Decisions with Boys. Because the first thing I do when I get up to my room is scroll through my thread with Tarek.
Since our late-night phone call, we’ve been texting again. Our messages are one step above small talk, very peppy, like we haven’t reached the point in our new friendship where we’re able to share anything that doesn’t paint us in the best light. It doesn’t feel quite like the friendship we had before, not yet. But it’s good to have an ally. Anything else I felt while we were dancing was likely just my horny, overanxious imagination.
I haven’t checked his social media in a while. Even after unblocking Instagram, I was making myself sick, scouring his updates for clues, wondering if he’d fallen for someone and they were laughing at my email together. Waiting for him to post a couple photo and bracing for it to destroy me.
Tonight, though, I allow myself to indulge in two things that might not be great for me: a microwavable mug cake and a little light stalking. There are a few more photos from the second half of his freshman year, photos from parties, including one he must have hosted, given the number of pastries it looks like he baked. It does something to my heart, seeing this kind of pure Tarek behavior. There are strangers commenting on how much they loved them, and here is this whole other mystery life he had.
I scroll back farther, back to his perfectly Instagrammable relationships. Bright colors and sunsets and Seattle landmarks. I didn’t meet any of his girlfriends, never saw them together anywhere but on this screen. Safiya and Chloe and Paige and Rooftop Sex Alejandra. They’re all cute and smiley and evidently loved Tarek’s over-the-top displays. Further proof he and I wouldn’t work—not last year and not now, and yet no matter how fiercely I try to convince myself of this, I can’t get him out of my head.
You didn’t matter enough for him to spend five minutes answering your email, I tell myself.
And because I’m still deep in my self-hating spiral, I navigate over to Gmail. The words might as well be tattooed on my frontal lobe at this point.
Subject: Good luck at college!!
Dear Tarek,
Am I emailing you because I’m too much of a coward to say this in real life? Quite possibly. If I’m being honest, though, even this feels pretty terrifying.
I hope what I said the other day didn’t go too far. This summer has been a lot of fun. You’ve been the only thing keeping me sane at these weddings, and I can’t tell you how much I need that sometimes. More than that, though… I’m just going to say it, because I’m not sure how else to do this: I like you.
Not just in a friend way, or in an our-parents-are-friends way, or in a semi-coworker way.
The other way.
So, there it is. It’s entirely possible I’ll regret this tomorrow, but for now I’m going to hit send and try not to overthink it.
College is going to be incredible, and I’m so excited for you. I can’t wait to see you when you come home.
—Quinn
Dear Lord. Now that I’ve had distance from it, the last line sounds like a threat.
I close the lid of my laptop, only to find Maxine Otto’s business card staring back at me. Ugh. Okay. I have to figure out what it is, and then I can get rid of it. At least it’ll fight my aimlessness. It’s not that I want to feel for someone the way Julia feels for Noelle—it’s that I want something in my life that feels right. Something where I’m not counting down the minutes until it’s over.
Googling Emerald City Harps brings me to a sparse landing page with the same phone number as the business card. The tagline: Custom-built harps in the Pacific Northwest. So she’s a harp builder. Not what I expected, and if only because I’m desperate for a distraction, I search Maxine’s name next.
This time I’m stunned by what comes up. There are thousands of results. Videos, links to albums, professional reviews. An article from a harp magazine called The Folk Harp Journal, musing on when she’ll
