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by L. M. Augustine

  “Even more than chocolate Oreo cake?” I whistle to myself. This is new territory. Cat loves chocolate Oreo cake.

  “Hmm. Maybe. Either way, you’re now officially on-the-hook to get me both for my birthday next month.”

  “I would expect no less.”

  “Good.”

  “Good?”

  “Good,” she reaffirms, nodding.

  The waitress returns about a minute later, takes our orders, grabs the menus, and walks over to the next booth. When she’s gone, I turn back to Cat. “I feel like we need to use your breadsticks to look Italian again. Did you bring the hats?”

  She reaches into her bag and holds up two white chef hats. “Of course. You doubt me?”

  I feign a gasp. “Never!”

  She smiles. “I’m glad. Now all we need is a fake Italian mustache and accent and we’ll be golden.”

  “YES! And then we can stand at the door saying, ‘ze pasta es deliciosa’ with our fingers cupped together when customers come in.”

  Cat takes a sip with her water and wipes her lips with her hands. “West,” she says, “you’re still terrible at this whole ‘don’t enforce stereotypes!’ thing.”

  I raise my eyebrow. “I’m Italian myself, so I have an excuse. Obviously.”

  “Obviously.”

  Our food comes a few minutes later, and we eat in silence for a long while. I listen to the conversation of the people behind us—a long rant about something political that I don’t really follow—and eat way too much of my spaghetti and meatballs. In my defense, the food tastes like it was brought directly down to me from the heavens.

  After a while, I sense Cat’s gaze on me. I look up at her, but she jerks away as soon as our gaze locks like she’s been slapped.

  “What?” I say.

  Her mouth is full of breadstick as she responds, “Nothing.”

  “It’s not nothing,” I say, leaning over to her and putting my hand to her forehead to check her temperature. “Why do you look so weird?”

  Color creeps across her cheeks, and she pushes my hand away. I stare at her, frowning some more. This is weird. Really weird.

  “Nothing,” she says too sharply. “No-thing.”

  “Okay,” I say. I don’t believe her, but I don’t press it, either.

  We don’t talk much after that, just finish eating, get the check, and converse briefly about my nightly vigils as a superhero and all of the hot girls I attract.

  After a while, Cat asks me what I’m doing tomorrow—she says she wants me to come over and study—and I’m almost tempted to tell her all about Harper and how I finally get to meet her, but instead I just shrug and say, “I’m busy.”

  I swear she doesn’t believe me.

  Chapter 5

  School the next day goes by painfully slowly. First Calculus, then Physics, then History—it’s like they’re trying to kill me. I can’t concentrate at all during class, either. All I can think about is Harper Harper Harper and how OMG I’M MEETING HER AFTER SCHOOL and AAHHHH YESSS I NEED THIS and that’s pretty much it. It’s not like this is abnormal, though, because the classes here don’t interest me much anyway—well, except for English. I’m the complete, shameless English nerd. My mom used to make fun of me for constantly correcting her grammar and even pulling that “Knock Knock. Who’s there? To. To who? Jeez, Mom, don’t you know anything? It’s to whom!” joke on her. I read a bit too, but not as much as I would want. I’m mostly into English so I can criticize people’s grammar and “lack of eloquent word choice” whenever possible.

  Anyway, worrying about Harper and how our meet-up will go keeps me well occupied throughout the entire day. I don’t think I could name one thing we did in any of the classes.

  Finally, after what feels like a century, the last class ends. As soon as the teacher dismisses us, I dart out the door, grab my bag, and race down the hall toward the school entrance.

  My pulse quickens. Holy shit. I finally get to meet Harper.

  “Where are you going?” Cat calls after me, but I just wave my hand and say, “A meeting.” Technically it isn’t a lie, although it isn’t much by way of honesty either. But really, I’m not exactly thrilled by the idea of Cat knowing about Harper. I don’t know why, I just want to keep it, like with my vlog, separate from her.

  As soon as I burst through the front doors of the school, I run down to the parking lot, hop into Dad’s car, and drive probably too fast down to the coffee shop. When I pull into the parking lot of the shop a few minutes later, all of my emotion seems to crash down on me at once. I’m really doing this, I realize, gripping the steering wheel too hard. Four months of waiting and I’m finally meeting Harper.

  Again, I repeat: holy shit.

  Slowly, I get out of the car and cool air blasts me from all around. I straighten up, taking a breath. Then, with my eyes locked on the coffee shop door, I start walking to the girl of my dreams.

  My pulse is pounding as I approach, and each step, each crunch of leaves underfoot, makes my ears ring and makes my whole body get tenser and tenser. I’m going to meet Harper, I tell myself. Oh my god oh my god I’m seriously going to meet her. In that instant everything that could possibly go wrong seems to race my through my head, and my heart keeps on thudding, thudding, thudding. What if she decides I’m too awkward for her? What if she hates me? What if she takes one look at me, laughs, and walks out? What if I screw up my one shot with her like I have everything else in my life?

  I shake my head, trying to push away the bad thoughts because this is supposed to be a happy time, but they just keep coming back.

  Above me, the sky is cloudy, and it looks vaguely like it’s going to rain. There are a few picnic tables bordering the pathway leading to the coffee shop, one of which is occupied by an elderly man reading a trashy romance novel. I grimace. There is something utterly terrifying about an old man reading those kinds of books. I half-expect him to turn out to be Harper in pedophilic form.

  When I reach the old coffee shop door, I take one final breath, pull open the brass knob, and step inside, my heart pounding furiously, my mind racing with the possibilities, knowing that there is a good chance I’m about to meet Harper.

  And… nothing.

  I scan the coffee shop with my hands completely clenched, but aside from a bored-looking cashier and a twenty-something couple feeding each other marshmallows and giggling in a totally non-discreet romantic way, the place is empty. My stomach drops a little and I can feel the disappointment creep in already. I mean, I’m five minutes early, but I still hoped… that I could see her now, I guess. See her for real. Hoped I would not have to worry, to wait any longer for her.

  I just want to talk to her already, face to face, so I can tell her how I really feel, so I can finally get it out. And yeah, I obviously want her to feel about me as I feel about her, but even if she doesn’t, just loving her is gift enough. She could hate me, she could run away and never come back and even though I’d be hurt, even though I’d spend my nights crying and lying awake thinking about her, it will all have been worth it, because I will have loved her.

  Sighing, I sit down, my gaze on the front door. She’ll be here any minute, I tell myself. It’s both a terrifying and exhilarating feeling: that I could look up any second now and lay eyes on the girl I’ve been falling for all these months. My hands have not stopped trembling, and as I sit there and stare, it’s all I can do not to imagine what will happen when I see her. Will everything go in slow motion like in the movies? Will her face light up when she sees me? Will she run at me and jump into my arms, or just awkwardly walk over, nod, and sit down? And what exactly am I going to say to her, anyway? “Oh hey Harper, you’ve never even met me before in real life but I’m in love with you and will you marry and while we’re at it, let’s have kids together!” does not sound like the greatest plan. Then of course my back-up plan is, “uh… hi,” which also is not very smooth.

  I close my eyes. God, what am I even doing here? It’s so much easi
er to talk through the internet than in real life. She’ll immediately realize what a freak I am and then I can kiss goodbye to all hope that I’ll ever be with her.

  Gaaah. Was this a mistake? Did I rush it? No, I tell myself. She suggested meeting up. Not you. Clearly she’s interested. I take yet another breath. Okay. It’s okay.

  After a while I lean back in my chair, listening to the sounds of the couple to my right, who are now done feeding each other marshmallows and have moved on to whispering into each other’s ears and kissing rather passionately for a coffee shop. It’s like they’re trying to taunt me about being here alone. Without Harper.

  I shift my gaze to my left, where a cashier snores softly on the counter. The whole place is painfully quiet.

  I just want Harper to get here.

  The thing is, I’ve never seen her before and I’m therefore not entirely sure how I’ll recognize her, but I have this gut feeling that I’ll know who she is the moment I lay eyes on her. I’ll know she’s my Harper, the one who I can’t get out of my head, the one who I don’t want to get out of my head. The one who, all this time, I’ve been falling in love with.

  I wait.

  My eyes stay glued to the door for several more minutes, but there’s still no sign of Harper. After a while longer I pull out my phone and start wasting my time on random apps and memes, as well as by constantly refreshing my vlog page for no real reason. Where is Harper? She didn’t strike me as someone to be late to something like this.

  Finally, forty minutes after she was supposed to get here, when I’m just about ready to call it quits and leave, she messages me through our chatroom.

  Hey Sam,

  Sorry I couldn’t make it. Something came up. I feel like an asshole, because I still DO want to meet. Can we try again? Tomorrow maybe? Ugh, still so sorry for not being there. I’m an idiot.

  My heart sinks a little further as I read it. I close my eyes, the defeat slipping in. I feel like a pouty five year old thinking this, but I want her here now.

  Yeah sure… I write. Okay. Tomorrow. Same time/place?

  Yes! I seriously feel terrible for leaving you. I hope you weren’t waiting too long. Tomorrow, yes. I’ll be there. PROMISE.

  With the Chewbacca glasses?

  Hell yes with the Chewbacca glasses. How could you doubt me? Also, I think next time we need to wear something so we each stand out to each other… How about I wear a “I <3 Sam Green” shirt?

  Yesss! And I’ll have on a custom-made “Harper Knight Is Cooler Than Pizza-Eating Cows” shirt.

  And by custom-made I assume you mean made with markers from your house?

  Of course.

  I would expect no less.

  They’ll be badass marker drawings, obviously.

  Wait, really?

  *waggles brows* Really.

  Good. I should never have doubted you.

  That is true. Now, promise to bring yourself tomorrow, too, k?

  Of course. Prepare to be blown away by my drop-dead good looks.

  Oh believe me, I am prepared, m’lady.

  Coolness. See you tomorrow!

  Bye!

  I start at my phone for a while after she logs off, re-reading the conversation again and again. After the third time, the reality sinks in. A smile flickers across my lips.

  Tomorrow, I meet Harper Knight. For real this time.

  Chapter 6

  I spend my night filming another vlog and thinking about Mom. When I get home, aside from commenting once again on my dad’s lack of contribution to the family, I run upstairs, slam my bedroom door shut, pull out my camera, and begin filming. I try not to get upset about Harper, but the sadness just pours out of me.

  My words come out in a jumbled mess. I sit on my bed and start talking about losing someone you care about, about death and hopelessness and being lost, and the next thing I know I’m staring into the camera, my heart pounding, my eyes fighting back tears, talking about Mom. “I remember when I was in fourth grade and my mom took Cat and me to the local playground,” I say. “It was a normal day—the sun was out, there was a nice breeze, and kids all around us were dancing and laughing and playing on the slides and swings. When we got there, Cat and I squealed about how incredibly awesome the whole place looked. Then, she ran to the playground. I turned to Mom before following her, though, not wanting to abandon my mom. When I hesitated, she said to go on, that we had the whole afternoon to play, that she’d be there waiting. So I raced after Cat, grabbed her hand, and we headed first for the sandbox, where we built a replica of cake and then destroyed it, a process that slowly devolved into a sand-fight. Next we ran to the swings, then the slide, and we laughed and played and laughed some more. It was a great day, full of life and more importantly, full of my best friend. But, after a while, I remember turning back to look at Mom. She was watching me, her eyes sparkling and trained on mine, a huge smile on her face. Then I asked her if she was coming too.”

  I shake my head and grit my teeth. What am I even doing? Filming this? Spilling out all my inner emotions into a freaking camera? God, I really am hopeless. Pathetic. Maybe Dad is right; maybe I am a waste of space. I mean, it’s been six months. Shouldn’t I be past the crying stage? Shouldn’t I have moved on by now?

  I take another hard breath.

  I don’t know whether I should be.

  I just know that I’m not.

  “She just smiled and shook her head like she knew something I didn’t. Then, she knelt down in front of me and said, ‘I love you, West. Now go on and play with Cat. I’m always going to be with you, watching and smiling from here. And even when I’m not here here, I’m still going to be with you. In here,’ she said poking at the ribs near my heart. At the time, I had no idea what she was talking about, but I still remembered it, and I think that was her point. It’s like she knew she was going to die on me and said that so that now,” I say into the camera, “whenever I think about her death, I remember that day, and I realize I’m not so alone after all.”

  I tap my heart.

  Then, my hands shaking, I reach out and turn off the camera.

  I don’t publish the vlog, though, and I know I never will. It’s not something that will ever go on my channel; it’s not funny. It’s just a video for me.

  As stupid as it sounds, sometimes I just need to let out what I’m feeling. I usually ramble like this to Cat, who hugs and comforts me and makes me feel all warm and tingly again, but sometimes it doesn’t feel right to tell her. I don’t know why, but it just doesn’t. Talking to my best friend about love? That’s weird, right?

  Point is, I don’t tell Cat everything. And since my therapist is a freaking idiot and my dad is useless, oh, and my mom is dead, I turn to my camera, the only thing that keeps me sane nowadays. I always feel my best talking into my camera, and I make a lot of vlogs I don’t post—they’re just there to make me feel confident again, happy and light inside.

  I shake my head as I put away my camera. Jeez, I really am insane.

  Strangely, though, as I finish the vlog and turn to my computer to distract myself with emails from Harper, I feel kind of… good. Relieved, even. Like for the first time in the six months since my mom’s death, I feel a little bit of closure.

  ***

  The stars are out as I walk a couple of blocks down the road to Cat’s house. The night sky is midnight blue, and there are no clouds shielding the moon. Aside from the distant whistle of a slight breeze through the tree branches and the chirping of crickets all around me, the whole neighborhood is silent. I walk slowly, calmly, letting the cool air brush against my skin, taking in the distant scent of fallen, rain-glazed leaves. A shiver races up my spine, but it’s a nice shiver, a calming one. I should be freaking out now, with that video I made and my meeting with Harper tomorrow, but I feel oddly calm, like the night has stripped me of all fear.

  When I reach the end of Cat’s street, I stop. Her house is three times the size of mine between its new coat of green paint, its three
stories of floors, and its—wait for it—working doors. It’s practically heaven compared to where I live. The grass in Cat’s front yard is entirely green, and her family even has a garden that’s blooming with roses, marigolds, and flowers I don’t even recognize. It’s a nice house, warm and safe and comforting. I know it like it’s my own home, and maybe, in a way, it is my own; I’m sure I’ve spent more nights here in the last year than I have in my real bed. Hell, I’m here so much that the Davenports even nicknamed their guest room “West’s room.”

  After a second, I turn my gaze back to the driveway where I lay eyes on Cat. She sits on the edge of her dad’s old red Mercedes, her long, slender legs hanging over the hood, her sparkling blue eyes trained on me. She’s dressed in ripped-jean short-shorts and an old white T-shirt. Moonlight pours down on her red hair, giving it a silvery glow. I let out a breath. If I weren’t her best friend, I’d think she looks really, well… attractive.

  I push the thought away as soon as it pops into my head.

  “Hey,” I say slowly, walking up to her.

  “Hey.” She cocks her head to the side when she gets a closer look at me. “You okay?” she asks, frowning.

  “Wha—” Automatically, I reach for my face, trying to figure out what she’s talking about. Then I remember the pink around my eyes—the dried tears.

  “Oh. That,” I say. I shake my head. “That’s… nothing to worry about.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah.”

  She doesn’t look convinced, but she doesn’t press it, either.

  I take a step forward. “You still fixing that up?” I say to change the subject, nodding toward the car.

  She gives a distant little half-smile. “Yep,” she says, patting the hood.

  Cat has been working on that car for three weeks now. When her dad owned it, it used to be a great car, sleek and slim and luxurious, but the years of wear her dad gave it left it in its current state: peeling paint, failed engine, damaged interior, and scratches all over.