He flips through the pages and opens to panels I’ve never seen before, upcoming REX pages. An establishing sketch of a skyline—oh, so Rex is going to look for Terry in New York City next. Rex tries to interact with pedestrians, but they’re all either indifferent or unhelpful or scared of the timid dinosaur.
I run my fingers over the pages because it’s amazing seeing the beginning stages of art. Each line is drawn with care and every word of dialogue is written by hand, with intention. Nash explains the process of creating REX. Every panel is hand drawn, scanned, and filled in with Photoshop. A single panel is a full day’s work from beginning to end. It’s why he only posts once a week now—he couldn’t keep up with it twice a week once AP classes became a thing.
“This is top secret stuff, Upstate.”
A tear—my tear—splashes on REX #224.
I don’t know when everything between Nash and me got so real.
Nash looks at me, eyes wide. “Whoa, hey. Why are you crying?”
“It’s beautiful,” I say. “You’re beautiful.”
Then I lean forward and kiss Nash because I want to remember this moment, this feeling while I still live in a world where Kels isn’t real. It always starts off innocently, our kisses. Slow and sweet, until I’m tired of slow and sweet. Then I deepen the kiss and twist my fingers in his hair—did I ever mention how much I love his hair? His hands slide down to my hips and we rotate so I’m now straddling him and his lips are on my jaw, my neck, and oh my God I want.
I want, I want, I want.
Every week, I find that I’m the one initiating the next move, I’m the one pushing the boundaries closer and closer to the point of no return. I’ve kissed boys—I’ve even fooled around with some boys. Temporary flings with other temporary doc kids. We’d just make out and okay, maybe my bra would come off at some point—but that’s as far as it’d go. I never let it go further, because I never wanted to.
With Nash, I want to. And it’s so unfair, because I kiss him and touch him like I’ve known him for years because, well, I have. Sometimes when I’m like this, I forget that for him, it’s only been six months, that we’ve only been officially a thing for thirty-four days.
Caught up in the moment, in Nash showing me, Halle, REX, I take his shirt off for the first time.
“I’m—I mean, I haven’t …” Flustered Nash babbles, unable to find the word.
“Me either,” I say.
I’m not exactly surprised, but I am relieved.
“Should we slow down?” I ask.
“Probably,” Nash says.
We don’t.
In between kisses, Nash slips my cardigan off my shoulders.
Then he pulls my T-shirt off over my head.
It’s cold, so I pull one of the fleece blankets over us. I’m still on his lap, kissing Nash, his skin hot against mine and oh my God this is so good. Nash’s fingers graze my lower back and his hand slides slowly up, up, up to the clasp of my bra. I don’t even feel self-conscious, not for one second.
But then his hands are gone and his lips are too far away from mine. I push forward to kiss him more but he pulls away.
“Oh my God.” Nash pulls the blanket off and it’s too bright. I blink to readjust to the florescent basement lights. When I do, Nash is putting his shirt back on. Inside out.
“Nash?” I ask.
He doesn’t say what? or offer, like, any sort of explanation.
He just throws my shirt at me.
I’m not even joking. It lands on my head.
“My parents,” he says. “They’re, like—right upstairs. What if they—and we were … ?”
“Oh,” I say. Oh.
I got so wrapped up in Nash, in us, I totally forgot about that. Andrea and David upstairs while we were … well, Nash is right. Oh my God. I pull over my T-shirt and button every single button on my cardigan. Brush out my tangled hair with my fingers. Sit up straight against a chair, like how we started, and let my breathing steady. I look at him, my cheeks flaming.
It’s okay, though, because his are also on fire.
“That was the opposite of slow,” I say.
“I wanted to.”
“Me too.”
“I just don’t want our first time to be in my parents’ basement while they’re upstairs watching Seinfeld reruns.”
Oh my God, you can legit hear Jerry’s voice through the ceiling. I cover my hand with my mouth and laugh so hard.
“So romantic,” I say.
Nash joins my laughing fit and we are okay. More than okay.
We restart the episode of Stranger Things and cuddle until I have to be home for curfew. I can’t focus on the show because I can’t stop thinking about Nash and me. How did we get so intense, so fast? I’m not sure.
But I am sure that I want to keep kissing Nash forever. Getting carried away with him forever.
I’m sure that I’m falling for him, and not only for a moment.
And I’m sure, I am finally sure that I can’t keep this up. Nash shared REX sketches with me, Halle—and I said I know because I do know. Because I’m Kels. And as much as I’d like to continue to compartmentalize and pretend it doesn’t matter now, it does. Of course it does. I can’t keep doing things like this. I can’t keep waiting for the right moment or finding reasons not to tell him.
I know I can’t lose him; I don’t know why I ever thought I could.
I know I might lose him, and if I do it’s my own fault.
He was never going to wish Kels was someone else because she couldn’t be. She’s real. It’s all been real.
He’s not going to hurt Kels online or any of the other million excuses I’ve come up with.
If he hurts me, well—I probably deserve it.
March 1
BookCon @thebookcon 1hr
We are SO EXCITED to announce the fantastic lineup of our very first Bloggers IRL panel:@BooksOnTape,@LilahClarkRead, @OneTruePastry,@AnnalieseWritesYA, @MGPete,
@IambicPentara.
[101 comments] [584 ] [2k ]
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Elle Carter @ellewriteswords 45min
WHAT. CC @AmysBookshelf @s_lee244 @Nash_Stevens27 PLEASE CONFIRM I AM NOT HALLUCINATING. HOW CAN A GHOST BE ON A PANEL? I’M SHOOK.
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Amy Chen @AmysBookshelf 40min
… you are definitely not?! this is WILD.
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Samira Lee @s_lee244 37min
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Nash Stevens @Nash_Stevens27
mI thought I’d never be more confused. I was wrong.
TWENTY
If Grams were still here, she’d be laughing so hard.
I’d tell her everything, the whole Nash situation, and she’d become the laughing tears emoji.
Not everything has to be this hard, she’d say.
I can still hear her voice, her laugh.
How has it been almost a year since we lost her?
It’s a quiet ride to Stamford, to the Jewish cemetery where Grams is buried. Rabbi Goldman would say laid to rest, but I hate that phrase. Rest is a temporary action. Grams is stuck at the Stamford Jewish Cemetery forever.
Breathe.
I did not want to do this.
Cemeteries are the worst. The necklace that rests against my beating heart is more Grams than a plaque with her name on it and her decomposing body six feet under. I haven’t been to a cemetery since my uncle’s funeral, which triggered my first panic attack. So I can’t understand how doing this is going to help anything. It’s going to be horrible.
Ollie said we had to do this for Gramps. Gramps’s voice broke when he asked us if we would come. And it’s not just a trip to the cemetery—it’s the unveiling ceremony, a Jewish custom. It’s a small ceremony that occurs usually in the final months of the first year of mourning. Gramps says we’ll say some prayers and the headstone with Grams’s name on it will be unveiled.
How could we say no?
The minute I step out of the car, I wish I had. Tears start to fill my
eyes and we haven’t even left the parking lot. Spring emerges in a vision of cherry trees in bloom and freshly planted tulips. It’d be pretty if this weren’t so terrible. Cemeteries shouldn’t be beautiful.
We follow Gramps uphill toward the grounds where the rabbi will be conducting the ceremony. I fixate on the yellow and purple bouquet in his hand. He replaces her flowers every week, a Sunday morning ritual. Most grandpas read the newspaper. Mine goes to the cemetery. Today he leaves his fifty-second bouquet.
It scares me, loving someone that much.
When we arrive at Grams’s covered placard I need to close my eyes and remind myself she’s not here. Ollie holds my hand and I squeeze it so tight because I cannot cry. Today is not about me. I can do this for Gramps; I can be here for him. I can give him the biggest hug and say I still miss her too.
Gramps replaces the old flowers with the new before the rabbi starts the prayers.
“Still miss you, Mir,” Gramps says. “Every day.”
And … I burst into tears.
“I—I’m so sorry,” I cough.
“Halle,” Gramps says.
“I can’t—”
I choke. Choke on my words, as always, and my tears. All I see is Grams in a box, Grams being lowered into the ground, strangers giving their condolences. Someday it’ll be Gramps in the box. Then it’ll be Mom and Dad. Eventually it’ll be me, just gone, like I was never here. I’ll be a was instead of an is. We all become past tense. Everyone. So what’s the point of—
“Breathe,” Ollie says, exerting pressure on my hand.
“It’s okay, Hal,” Gramps says.
“I can’t be here,” I say.
“Okay,” he says.
He looks at Ollie, who nods, and we descend backward, just the two of us. Away from Grams, away from the plaques announcing the bodies buried underneath. Sometimes I squeeze my eyes shut and let Ollie lead me. He takes me down the hill and through the parking lot and into the back seat of the car. I reach for my cell phone in the cup holder, scroll through my apps without looking at anything, and I can breathe again.
I wipe running eyeliner from under my eyes.
“I’m the worst,” I say.
Ollie shakes his head. “I am.”
“No,” I say. “You’re so strong.”
“I’m numb,” Ollie says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I miss her. But not like you do.”
“Oh,” I say, surprised by Ollie’s confession. I always think my baby brother has everything together. Maybe he doesn’t.
“I suck,” Ollie says.
“No.” I shake my head. “I’m pretty sure you’re the best thing that happened to Gramps this year. Actually, no. I’m positive.”
Ollie presses his back against the seat and closes his eyes. “If I let myself think about it, I get so angry. Grams ran marathons and she still got lung cancer. You can do everything right … and what? It doesn’t even matter? She’ll never get to see us do anything—graduate or go to college or fall in love or try and fail our way to success. It’s bullshit.”
I wrap my arms around Ollie. “Totally bullshit.”
We stay like this for a breath.
When I let go, Ollie presses the heels of his hands against his eyes. “So much for numb.”
We spot Gramps in the distance coming down the walkway, returning to us. I relocate to my spot in the front passenger seat, already wording and rewording all the variations of what to say next in my brain. Starting with I’m so sorry and ending with I love you. The words that fill the space between are still to be determined.
Gramps gets in the car and closes the driver-side door.
“Are you okay, Hal?” he says.
“I’m so sorry—”
“Stop,” Gramps says. “Let me talk.”
I swallow.
He twists the key in the ignition.
“You’re allowed to say no to me,” he says, surprising me. “Really, I promise. You kids never come, and I thought it was because of me, because I never thought to ask. You’ve been so strong for me since the start, so I didn’t think it was because maybe you didn’t want to, maybe you’re not ready. That’s okay.”
“I hate cemeteries,” I say.
“Me too,” he says. “But someone’s gotta keep the flowers fresh for her, you know?”
I take a deep breath, willing my heart not to shatter into a million pieces.
“I know.”
Gramps backs out of the parking lot, because it’s time to leave this sad place. I shift in my seat, reclining a few extra inches. Close my eyes because emotions are exhausting.
“I’m going to miss this,” Gramps says in the quiet.
My eyes pop open.
“What?” Ollie asks.
“It’s March,” Gramps says. “This, our time together, it’s almost over.”
I blink.
Ollie blinks.
I’m pretty sure it’s the first time this has occurred to either of us. He’s right. School ends the beginning of June. Then, Ollie and I are supposed to spend the summer in Israel with our parents, until they wrap in August. Then it’s college for me. For Ollie? It depends on Mad and Ari’s next project.
“I’m shook,” Ollie says.
Gramps frowns. “What?”
“Reality, Gramps,” Ollie says.
“Reality,” Gramps repeats. “Reality is I don’t know what I’m going to do without you kids. Seriously. It was so hard being in that house alone.”
It didn’t hit me because my goodbyes have always been inevitable. Graduation, a stretch of summer, and then leaving for New York, fingers crossed. I am leaving Middleton regardless.
It’s not simple for Ollie and Gramps—they’ve built a life here.
Ollie looks like he’s going to be sick.
“Can I stay?”
He asks so softly I’m not sure I heard him—and Gramps most definitely did not. Ollie clears his throat and repeats the question, louder, with more confidence.
“Can I stay?”
“Oh,” Gramps says. “Um—”
“Please? I don’t want to move again.”
“That’s not up to me, Oliver,” Gramps says.
“But you’d let me? If Mom and Dad say yes?”
“Of course.” Gramps doesn’t hesitate in his reply. And judging by the stupid smile spreading across his face, he likes that idea too. I hope it works. I hope Mom isn’t too stubborn to say yes. Ollie and Gramps are the most adorable duo, and staying in one place will be good for Ollie, I think. Middleton will be his home.
A Nash text buzzes in my lap.
See you at 6?
I text back, Duh! But my stomach twists.
We don’t talk about the future of us, if there is a future of us. For Nash, it can’t really be a conversation until the college emails fill our inboxes in two short weeks. For me, it can’t be a conversation until Kels is a conversation. Dread flutters in my stomach, because Gramps has got me thinking about goodbyes, how they sneak up so quickly, and how it’s the first time I’ve even had a home to say goodbye to.
* * *
I shake off the cemetery visit with a batch of buttercream frosting.
I dip my pinky finger in the bowl for a taste test.
It’s too sweet.
Into the compost it goes.
Time for take two.
I ended up in the kitchen of Maple Street Sweets without quite meaning to. I knew I needed to bake, and I knew I couldn’t bake at home. Not because Gramps won’t let me. Because I can’t. Not today. I asked Gramps if I could borrow the car and drove straight to the bakery on my Sunday off.
So here I am, baking trial cupcakes for the Ariel Goldberg event. It’s three weeks away and I’ve been so caught up with Nash, I haven’t even planned for it, like, at all. I scroll through One True Pastry’s Instagram, back to when I did the epic cover reveal. The event cupcakes can’t be identical to the cover reveal—there’s no way, when I need to bake three hundred—but I can use it
as inspiration.
How did I make the cupcakes look like a crime scene? I can’t remember.
I spend too much time experimenting with food dye like I’m a scientist in a lab, until I achieve the exact swirl of red and gray frosting I need. I fill piping bags and practice swirling frosting until I’m convinced they’re perfect. Because they have to be perfect. These aren’t just cupcakes to post on Instagram, they are Ariel Goldberg cupcakes. They need to be the most epic, perfect cupcakes. A mix of flavors that will satisfy all cupcake lovers and frosting that is too pretty to eat. Almost.
Everyone knows me for my cupcake aesthetics.
Now, the taste has to match up.
I didn’t think about that when I agreed to do this, but now it’s all I can think about. What if everyone hates my cupcakes? What if the cake tastes like cardboard and the frosting is too sweet and I thought I could do this, but it’s a disaster?
Also Alyssa Peterson wants three hundred cupcakes. I didn’t even consider how I’d make three hundred cupcakes or how to transport them. I didn’t think about getting it all done by myself or the risk of not living up to my brand—I just said yes.
I’m transferring my first batch of practice cupcakes to a plastic airtight container when the kitchen door swings open behind me. I don’t even bother to turn my attention to the door—Diana and Max have been in and out all afternoon to refill the shelves with the overflow pastries on the cooling racks.
“You okay, Upstate?”
I spin to face Nash and the cupcake in my hand falls to the floor, frosting down.
“Sorry,” Nash says. “I didn’t mean to—um, sorry. You weren’t answering your texts, so I called Sawyer. He said you’ve been here all afternoon—he sounded worried. And I know Miriam’s unveiling was this morning and that was probably really hard. So I am here! Hi!”
He picks my cupcake off the floor and he is so close to me as Kels right now. He could recognize my cupcakes, recognize the specific frosting colors. He retweeted my Read Between the Lies cover reveal. If he took a step back and saw me, I mean really saw me and the cupcakes, he could put the pieces together.
For the first time that doesn’t make me tense or panic. This time I want him to.
What I Like About You Page 20