What I Like About You
Page 11
1:28 PM
It’s always been possible for you.
1:28 PM
i appreciate the optimism on my behalf
1:31 PM
My face flushes. I can’t talk to Nash now without picturing him here, in front of me, speaking words. I used to spend so much time wondering who Nash is offline, if the real him could possibly live up to the profile. I can’t do that anymore, because Nash isn’t an internet persona. I don’t get to imagine who he is—he’s exactly who I thought he was, maybe even more.
I like who he is.
So even though these DMs are like every other conversation we’ve ever had, they feel off. I want to tell him about the paint, about Gramps and things getting an incremental step better.
Nash wouldn’t have tried so hard if he didn’t at least like Halle- me enough to want to be friends, right?
I stare at my phone, rereading our most recent messages until my vision blurs. We could have this—the banter, the real conversations, all of it—IRL. For the first time, I let myself imagine it and it’s not so scary anymore.
I owe Nash the truth.
But first, I owe him an apology.
I can’t tell him the truth when he’s mad at me. If I open up to him and he doesn’t take it well, all it takes is one tweet to shatter the persona I’ve crafted. I’m not ready to be Halle online and open myself up like that. The trolling about Alanna has been bad enough—if they make the connection that I’m Miriam Levitt’s granddaughter, I’ll be even more in focus. And it’ll influence the BookCon decision.
Kels needs to get the BookCon panel first.
It’ll prove to NYU that I’m enough without Grams’ editorial legacy.
But the original plan to keep my worlds separate? It’s not working.
The truth is, if the BookCon gods want me, Nash is going to find out. If we can exist as Nash and Halle once I stop pushing him away, maybe he’ll be excited if I tell him I’m Kels.
Before I can overthink it, I text Nash.
Hi
11:13 AM
Embarrassment slays me as soon as I hit send. He’s not going to respond. I wouldn’t respond to me either. This is a terrible idea. How have phones not invented the ability to unsend a text yet?
When my phone buzzes, I almost drop it.
Nash Kim
Wrong number?
11:16 AM
Right. Molly plugged Nash’s number into my phone after I declined bowling invite number three with a casual Text him if you change your mind, since she can’t get texts on Shabbat. She said it almost like she believed I would. It’s the first time I’ve ever put Nash Kim’s number to use. Of course, he doesn’t have mine.
Oh! Sorry—it’s Halle.
11:17 AM
Not funny, Sawyer.
11:17 AM
I’m positive I don’t want to know what that means.
No! It’s really me! The girl who assured you that you’re not a vegetable and then was a total jerk.
11:18 AM
Yeah, you kind of were.
11:19 AM
The jerkiest jerk. That was me.
11:19 PM
… And you’re texting me now because?
11:20 AM
Ugh. I deserve that.
11:21 PM
I’m just confused.
11:21 PM
Are you free today?
11:21 AM
…
11:25 AM
Seriously?
11:25 AM
I type and delete and type and delete. The amount of tension conveyed in a … Seriously? is nauseating. Every interaction between Nash and Kels is on the same page, whether light or serious.
It’s never like this.
Can we hang out? And by “hang out” I mean can you help me paint my room?
11:28 AM
I thought I’m supposed to be leaving you alone.
11:29 AM
Maybe you should ask Molly?
11:31 AM
a) It’s Shabbat.
11:33 AM
b) I want to hang out with you.
11:33 PM
Fifteen minutes pass without a new notification.
Thirty.
Forty-five.
I am in a staring contest with my phone. My cheeks flush with embarrassment even though I am one hundred percent alone in this ugly AF more-orange-by-the-minute bedroom. I feel like an idiot for texting Nash out of the blue like this.
The rejection stings more than I expect, even though I deserve it.
My phone battery is running on empty, so I plug it in and place it screen-down on the night table. I will not obsess over it. Instead, I drown out the endless loop of anxiety with a new Lola Daniels book, because romance novels are perfect escapism. I get lost in the world of hockey boys and skater girls—until a knock on my door snaps me out of it.
“Hal?” The door swings open and it’s Ollie, dressed head to toe in his Middleton Market uniform. Khakis, forest green polyester shirt, and a matching green visor. At fifteen, he’s legally only allowed to bag groceries, but he likes having money of his own as much as I do.
I’m not sure what Ollie needs from me before his shift, but he looks pretty freaked out. His mouth is a straight line and his eyes are all bugged out like I’ve never seen.
“Ol?”
He shuts the door behind him and presses his back against it.
When he speaks, his voice is low.
“Gramps asked me to come get you. Nash is in our living room?” Ollie’s voice goes up at the end like it’s a question.
The hockey boys and skater girls fall to the floor.
“What? Why?”
“You tell me, Hal, since you’re allegedly the one who invited him.”
I grab for my phone, grab for any explanation—but the only notifications that light up my screen are for Kels.
“I did invite him. He never answered, though.”
Ollie raises his eyebrows. “Why?”
I shake my head. “I just wanted to, I guess.”
“Are you going to tell him?” Ollie whispers.
I shake my head fiercely. “Not yet.”
Ollie sighs. “This is a terrible idea and I do not condone it one bit. Nope.”
“What if he blasts me online?” I ask. “He’s pretty pissed at me right now.”
He crosses his arms over his chest. “Seriously?”
“I don’t know, Oliver. It’s a risk I can’t take—not before BookCon announces their panelists and my NYU application is in. Not until I’m sure.”
He flips me off for using his full name, like I knew he would.
“Oh, so that’s still the plan? Wait until you graduate and hope he doesn’t find out?”
I bite my lip and shrug. “It won’t be that long.”
He rolls his eyes and I can’t remember the last time his frustration has been so palpable. “But you like him, yeah?”
I feel my cheeks flush.
Online, Nash is my best friend. In person, though? When he’s nearly falling off swings, or blushing when his friends gush about REX, or joking in terrible book puns? It’s kind of impossible to ignore how cute Nash is.
I’ve been trying so hard to ignore how cute Nash is.
“He’s my best friend. Of course I like him.”
Ollie shakes his head. “That’s not what I meant.” He checks his phone. “I really need to go. I’ll tell him you’ll be down in five—enough time for you to change?”
I look down at my Snoopy PJs. Even when we’re tense, Ollie is always looking out for me.
“This sucks—I hate lying, Hal. If he’s going to be around more, you legit have to tell him.”
“What if I can’t?”
Ollie puts his hand on the knob and twists. “You’ve read this book before. It’s going to blow up, and it’s going to be your own stupid fault.”
He doesn’t get it, I think as the door slams behind him.
I change quickly into a cute bu
t not trying look of leggings and a long T-shirt. Brush my hair. Hide my books in the closet because my collection screams Kels. Pick up my phone and read a message from Nash to Kels. The last one he sent says I guess you’re busy, talk to you later and it makes me laugh and hate everything all at once because, if only he knew.
* * *
Operation: Rebrand this Orange Hellhole has commenced.
Problem: I, Halle Levitt, have forgotten how to speak in the presence of Nash Kim.
“So first, I think we need to tape the walls,” Nash says.
“Okay.”
I pick up one of the rolls of blue paint tape and toss it to Nash.
It bounces off the floor a few feet away. Fail.
Nash’s eyes are on the tape. “So you invited me over to throw things at me. Got it.”
“I didn’t—”
He turns his back to me and starts taping before I can finish my sentence. I can’t stand the awkwardness, so I pull up Spotify. We spend half of Hamilton’s first act taping the room—because Hamilton is universal.
Once the room is sufficiently taped, we dip our roller brushes into lavender and start painting.
Time to permanently delete orange from my life.
Except, the orange isn’t completely disappearing under the lavender.
“Are we doing something wrong?” I ask. “I think we’re doing something wrong.”
“Seriously?” Nash asks, annoyed.
“Is that your new favorite word or something?”
If Nash is going to be passive-aggressive to me, I can give it back. I don’t know why he’s here if he’s not even going to give me a chance to apologize. We step back from the wall and assess the work we’ve done so far. Something is definitely wrong.
This isn’t the lily lavender I was promised on the swatch.
“Primer,” Nash says after a beat. “Duh. We didn’t prime first.”
“That’s important?” I ask.
“When the new color is lighter …” Nash walks over to the corner of my room where the second, unopened paint can is. He picks it up and brings it over and it’s actually not paint at all. It’s primer. “Of course, it’s been right here the whole time.”
“I thought they were both paint,” I admit.
Nash scrunches his eyebrows. “You thought you needed two cans of paint for one room?”
“I haven’t exactly done this before,” I say.
“Clearly,” Nash says, opening the can of primer.
I want to note that Nash didn’t exactly point this out before we started either, but instead I stand beside Nash and try to roll primer in sync with him—though his reach extends much higher than mine ever will. I jump to try to make up the difference. If I look ridiculous, he doesn’t laugh. My thoughts swirl trying to figure out how to bring up Rosh Hashanah, how to say I’m sorry. I’m not prepared to interact with this version of Nash.
“I get that you’re still mad at me,” I say. “I get it and I deserve it. But I don’t get why you’re here.”
“I’m not sure either, tbh,” Nash says, and even though we’re tense, a part of me dies because he says text-speak out loud too. “I mean, to be honest.”
“Got it,” I say.
His exhale almost sounds like a laugh. “Sorry—bad habit from the blog. My friends give me so much shit for it.”
“AF is my weakness,” I admit.
“Well, don’t say it in front of Molly. You’ll never live it down.”
“Noted.”
I prime walls with Nash and for a moment we are okay.
I don’t know what to say next, so I start rapping along with “Satisfied” and Nash smiles his real, one-dimpled smile. I don’t know if he’s laughing at me or with me, but honestly, I don’t care.
The song ends and I’m out of breath.
I step backward, so ready to launch into Lafayette’s part in “The Story of Tonight—Reprise”… that my right foot lands in the container of primer.
I look down at my primed foot. “Well.”
Nash chews on his lower lip. “This is going well.”
“We could do this professionally.”
Nash laughs. “Totally. Kim and Levitt Painting. Don’t worry, we’ll realize what primer is for eventually—”
“—and definitely step in it.”
“We also rap, and not just the furniture!”
Tears are streaming down my face and I don’t even know why because this is easily Nash’s worst pun yet. “We’ll charge extra for the rapping.”
Nash considers this. “I’ll add ‘rapping not included’ to the fine print.”
“Perfect. I see no flaws in this business plan. But I … need help,” I sputter through my laughter. I am ankle deep in the thick white primer, which might as well be Super Glue.
“You’re a mess, Upstate,” Nash says.
And suddenly, Nash is, like, right here—his face is inches away from mine as he stands up and holds out his hands to help unstick me. He’s so close I see the gold flecks in his eyes. Those eyes are the reason that avoiding Nash indefinitely will never work.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
He shrugs. “You confuse me, Upstate.”
“I confuse me too.”
“I never know what you’re thinking. For all I know, I’ll get the cold shoulder at school tomorrow.”
I chew the inside of my cheek and shake my head no.
“It’s either cold shoulder or this. It can’t be both.”
“I like this,” I admit.
It’s as close to saying I like you as I’ll ever get. If I were the right combination of brave and stupid, I’d tell him the truth.
Instead, I swipe my paint roller across his right cheek.
Nash gapes at me. Did I go too far?
He picks up a brush and flicks it so paint splatters all over my shirt. It’s so on. I dip my hands in the fresh lavender and press them against Nash’s chest, leaving handprints on his shirt.
The wildest part of all of this is that I am the one who is stuck in a container of primer. Nash can run away whenever he wants. But he doesn’t move. It’s like a challenge almost: What will Halle do next? How far will she go?
This isn’t a text message. I can’t change the subject. And for the first time I don’t want to.
Nash paints my nose lavender, grinning.
Then the door swings open and Nash jumps back two steps.
“Am I interrupting something?”
Gramps’s voice jolts me out of the moment. He’s smirking in the doorframe, Scout tucked under his arm.
“I can’t be trusted with paint,” I say.
Nash is trying to be serious in front of Gramps but he can’t stop laughing.
“I had too much faith.” Gramps laughs—he laughs, and wow, I’ve missed that sound so much. “Paper towels?”
“Please,” we sputter through giggles.
It’s fun, letting myself just be around Nash.
I want to know him, but I also want him to know me, Halle. I want to build a friendship with Nash, IRL, so when I’m ready to tell him the truth, he’ll understand the full picture. Kels comes with expectations, with almost three years of history. Kels, who always knows what to say, who gets cited in major publications and thrown in the middle of YA scandals, who manages to run One True Pastry like it’s a full-time job.
I know he likes her, but she’s the branded version of me—she’s not me.
Could Nash like this version of me?
I actually want to find out.
November 1
From: mad@madandariproductions.com
To: halle.levitt@gmail.com
can’t wait to hear your voice!!
Hi Halle!
Just wanted to remind you that Dad and I are calling tomorrow at 10 AM eastern. Did you get my emails? I know you’re busy, but you can’t even humor your parents and shoot us a few messages in the group chat? I know you see those!
Gramps says you seem overwhelmed by college
apps. Are you working on your personal statement? I know this whole process is stressful—I wish we could be there to help you navigate it! We might be far away, but we’re still here for you, Hal. Don’t forget that!
Talk soon!
Love,
Mom
Halle’s Inbox
Mad Levit
Ollie has assured us you’re still alive
Oct 27
Ari Levitt
camels
Oct 21
Mad Levitt
update #4: a genealogist and a minor tech disaster
Oct 17
Mad Levitt
where are my children? i need details!!!
Oct 12
Ari Levitt
more baby goats
Oct 5
Ari Levitt
baby goats
Oct 5
Mad Levitt
look what you’re missing out on!!
Oct 1
ELEVEN
You can’t put so much pressure on yourself, Halle,” Mom says.
Her voice cracks when she says my name and it makes me feel like trash re: the collection of unopened emails accumulating in my inbox. I’ve been so overwhelmed with my double life, I honestly haven’t even checked my Halle email in the two weeks since I became friends with Nash.
Ollie reminds me we have parents who miss us, but I’ve been positive they’re too busy for that.
Now that I’m on the phone with them? Well, I’m wrong.
“How’re the interviews going?” I ask.
“Great!” Mom says. “But I’m not letting you change the subject.”
“It’s time for a pep talk!” Dad says.
“I was leaning toward reality check,” Mom says.
I drum my fingers on the kitchen table, waiting for whatever is coming next. Currently, the table is a command center of application checklists, essay drafts, and SAT prep books. The math section is the worst. I’ve only improved thirty points from when I took the test the first time in Charlotte, last spring.
I need fifty more points to hit NYU’s median score, but right now that feels impossible.
Dad jumps right in. “Here are the reasons why NYU will love you. You’re smart! You’re tech-savvy! You’ve been building a brand since you were fourteen! Publishers reach out to you for publicity opportunities. We’ll have a talk another time about how it’s maybe time to try to start monetizing this thing, because I have feelings about free labor—but regardless! Instead of thinking about all the things you aren’t doing, maybe take a step back and be proud of everything you’ve accomplished.”