by Elise Bryant
She giggles, but it’s quieter than before. She must be getting tired. “Well, it’s fluid. You don’t have to follow them in order. That’s the brilliance of my plan. Let’s strategize after you eat lunch with him on Monday.”
“Okay, yeah, sounds good.” I yawn, and then, a second later, she does too. I know it’s silly, but it makes me feel connected with her, even though we’re so far away.
“Tonight with Nico went so well. Do you . . . do you feel like writing?”
“Not yet.” But I know it’s only a matter of time.
Chapter Twenty-Four
When I go outside Monday morning, Sam isn’t outside by his car like usual, and after five minutes of waiting around, there’s still no sign of him. Maybe he overslept? Or got caught up in some complicated recipe?
I mean, I don’t want to bug, but I need to know soon if I have to find another ride. I wait a couple more minutes before walking up his steps and knocking on his door—quietly, just in case his mom is still sleeping. But to my surprise, it’s her standing there as the door swings open, not Sam.
I’ve seen Audrey Weiner on TV. She has her own show on Food Network, and I’m pretty sure she was even a guest host on The View once, one day when I was home sick. So, like, I know what she looks like and all, but actually seeing her in person—here, just across the street—is still strange. Instead of the perfectly tailored fit-and-flare dresses she normally wears, she has on a burgundy-and-blush floral-print kimono over polka-dot pajamas, and her iconic curly auburn bob is pulled back with a thick headband. Familiar, but not. It’s like catching Mickey off duty from Disneyland.
“Oh, Tessa!” she says, her eyes lighting up with recognition. “It’s so good to finally meet you! I’ve heard so much about you from Sam and your lovely mother.” We’ve lived here for months now, but Audrey Weiner and I have never actually met—even though I’ve shamelessly tried to catch sight of her ever since finding out that Sam’s mom wasn’t just Sam’s mom. Which, by the way, I’m still very curious why she lives here in Long Beach, and not even in the biggest house on the street.
“Ms. Weiner, hi, yes—it’s nice to meet you.” I feel a little nervous, like because she’s on TV, suddenly I’m on TV right now.
“Oh, call me Audrey!” Yeah, I don’t think I can do that. “We need to have you over for dinner soon, one of these nights when I don’t have to work late. I know Sam is just so fond of you.” She reaches out to squeeze my shoulders, like we’ve known each other for years. “I’m so happy he’s found such a good friend.”
“Yes, dinner. I would love that. That’s very kind of you.” I shift awkwardly from one foot to the other. “Actually, I was coming here because, uh, where is Sam?”
Before she can answer, though, he appears at the door behind her. I almost gasp. Because he looks . . . different. Way different. Sometime since I saw him last, Sam got a haircut. It’s short now, and polished, and it’s transformed his whole face. His jaw, which was pretty much hidden with his shaggy mop of hair before, is strong and prominent. He looks put together, more confident somehow. But also like Sam. It’s weird.
“You cut your hair,” I say, stating the obvious.
“Yeah, his biannual haircut,” Ms. Weiner says with a snort, and I laugh. But then I stop immediately, seeing Sam’s pink cheeks. That was maybe not a joke.
“You . . . I mean, it looks good.”
“Thanks,” he says, flashing a dimple. But then his face turns serious. “So, we’re still driving together?” he asks. But it doesn’t sound snarky. There’s genuine concern and . . . something else there. Ms. Weiner looks between us, her brow wrinkled in confusion.
“Um . . . I thought so,” I say slowly.
“Okay, yeah. Okay,” he says, his eyes squinted like he’s working out some complex math problem. “I just thought—I was worried, I don’t know, that you were still mad at me or something. I was . . .”
“You were what?” I ask.
“I don’t know. Just, uh, yeah . . . it’s nothing. Never mind.”
Sam’s face burns red, and now Ms. Weiner is looking at us like she’s trying to hide a smile.
He picks up his things. “Let’s go.”
We’re in his car driving down Pacific Coast Highway when he brings it up again, his eyes looking straight ahead instead of at me.
“So, we’re okay?”
“Yeah, we’re good,” I assure him. I didn’t realize that it was this big of a deal—that he cared this much. I don’t think I’ve ever had someone check in with me this many times, except maybe my mom.
“I’m sorry if I’m being annoying,” he says, rubbing his cheek. He sneaks a quick glance at me. “I just wanted to check because . . . I like being friends with you.”
My whole body feels warm.
“I like being friends with you too.”
Sitting with Nico and his friends doesn’t make me a bad friend to Sam. That’s what I’m telling myself when I walk outside for lunch. What if he was drunk or something when he asked me to sit with him at lunch—or, like, joking? What if he woke up the next morning and immediately regretted being so nice to the social charity case? What if I imagined whatever that was between us?
I sit down in my designated rocker between Theodore and Lenore, happy just to be here with my friends and not having to stress out. But when I look up, Nico is shading his eyes against the sun and looking right at me. He starts to wave me over.
“Uh, Tessa?” Lenore says.
“You see that?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“So it’s not a mirage?”
“Nah,” she laughs. “I think he wants you to go over there.” Theodore actually looks up with vague interest. Luckily, Sam isn’t here yet.
“Okay . . . should I do that?”
“Yes! Go get him, sis!” She slaps my butt when I stand up, like a coach sending me off to the big game.
As I walk across the lawn, I feel like all eyes are on me, even though they obviously aren’t. It’s just lunch. Why am I making this such a big deal?
But as I approach their spot, it feels like the biggest deal, my heart beating about a million miles an hour as I try to imagine every way this could go.
“Hey!” Nico says, giving me a sleepy smile. “Your friends are welcome too.”
I look back at Lenore and Theodore, just to catch the tail end of their necks whipping around and the two of them all of a sudden developing intense interest in Lenore’s can of LaCroix. I think them watching me up close would only make me more nervous.
“No, they’re good.”
Rhys waves, and Grayson, leaning back on his elbows all cool, sticks out his chin in my direction. “Sup.”
Okay, this is going to be all right. Maybe I’m freaking out for nothing. But then Poppy, not even hiding her disgust, looks me up and down and turns to Nico. “What is she doing here?”
“She’s my friend,” Nico says, shrugging his shoulders.
“Since when?” Poppy asks. Her voice is ice, and her lip curls up.
Grayson calls out, “Oop!” and reels his head back, and Rhys starts to look at me with a little more interest. Nico doesn’t look bothered at all, though. He grabs Poppy’s hand and pulls her up. “One second, Tessa. We need to talk real quick.”
They go off to the border of the lawn by the sidewalk, and Nico laces his fingers in Poppy’s and pulls her into a tight hug. Her head fits perfectly under his chin. I look away.
“I remember you from the party now,” Grayson says, nodding. “You and that other Black girl came together.”
I guess technically nothing that he’s saying is wrong, but it makes me bristle nonetheless.
“Her name is Lenore. And yeah, we were there.”
Rhys snaps his fingers. “Hey, yeah, I remember seeing you too, coming down the stairs with Nico. What exactly were you two doing up there?” He waggles his eyebrows.
I shrug. “Talking about Harry Potter.”
“Oh,” he says, looking disappoin
ted. “Well, that’s good, I guess, that he found someone to talk about his nerd stuff with.” He pulls his phone out of his pocket, and I’m pretty sure he’s just looking at his own reflection in the camera from the way he’s fluffing his hair and smoldering.
“Okay, well, I think I’m gonna go,” I say, standing up. This isn’t really what I thought it would be.
“Tessa!” Nico calls, making his way back to the group. His smile is just as big as it was before, which is a stark contrast to Poppy, who’s a few feet behind him. She gives me a death glare before heading toward the building.
“Sorry about that,” he says, sitting down, and I can’t help it. I follow. “She’s just . . .” He gestures his hand like he’s shooing something away. “She’s upset about something, but she’ll be over it when you’re here tomorrow.”
I can’t help but notice the look that passes between Rhys and Grayson.
“Can I ask you something?” Nico’s face is a little more serious now, even somber.
Will you actually not have lunch with us tomorrow? Because my very much on-again girlfriend knows what you’re up to, and we both want no part in this desperate little ploy.
“Sure.”
“What is Turkish delight, anyway?” Nico asks, easing himself down in a spot next to me. That definitely wasn’t what I was expecting. “I’ve been thinking about this all morning. You’ve read the Chronicles of Narnia, right? Of course you have. They just talk about Turkish delight like it’s something all kids are supposed to know or whatever. And it must be pretty fucking good to make Edmund act like such an asshole.”
It’s clear he’s trying to lighten the mood, and it works.
I laugh. “I’m pretty sure we could Google that, but I always pictured it as, uh . . . fudgelike?”
“Maybe fudge with a little something extra,” he says, miming taking a hit from a joint.
The lunch period takes a turn for the better from there, Nico and I falling into the same easy conversation that we had Saturday night. And Rhys and Grayson end up not being as douche-y as I thought. Rhys asks me all these questions about Northern California, still interested when I tell him there’s a big difference between Roseville and San Francisco. And Grayson offers to throw out my trash at the end of lunch, which is pretty nice.
By the end I’ve almost forgotten the little exchange with Poppy. Or at least I’ve done my best to push it out of my brain, because she was definitely pissed—but that worked to my advantage.
Does it make me a terrible person if my love story can only exist by taking down someone else’s love story?
Does it make me a terrible person if I want it anyway?
Chapter Twenty-Five
“Are you going to sit with us today, or are you headed to your standing invitation with the Chrysalis bourgeoisie?” Theodore asks, scooting his chair toward my desk. We have US history together with Mr. Gaines, who went from the high-energy Hamilton rapping on the first day to just putting on movies vaguely related to American history while he sits at his desk. So we don’t even have to be stealthy.
“Hey!” I whisper-yell.
Theodore’s lips curve into the most subtle of smiles to let me know he’s kidding. Sort of. “I just want to know if you’ll be gracing us with your presence. Not that I care or anything.”
“You say it like I never sit with you guys anymore!” That actually comes out as a real yell, earning a halfhearted stern look from Mr. Gaines. We both turn our attention back to the front, pretending to pay attention to the movie.
I’ve started sitting with Nico and his friends two days a week. Maybe three, tops. Enough to fall into their rhythm and get a feeling for these people who I used to just watch from across the lawn. Like, Rhys’s constant creation of “casual” videos for his Instagram stories and YouTube (I guess he’s semi-famous there), even though he does at least four takes. And Grayson’s speech, peppered with an embarrassing amount of slang (like, “Dead-ass, that dress is low-key dope, Tess!”), but somehow only to me.
And Nico. He drinks a green juice every day—the actually healthy kind that’s all vegetables. He doesn’t like to wear socks because they make his feet feel claustrophobic. Sometimes he likes to just be quiet, lying out in the afternoon sun like a lizard on a rock, his sleepy eyelids weighed down by his heavy lashes. And he’s also constantly making sure I don’t feel left out, always asking my opinion about things and making obscure Harry Potter references that only I will get. I find myself cataloging each piece of information like I’m studying a rare bird.
It’s thrilling to be accepted into their inner circle, to be someone Nico searches for across the lawn. But Lenore cemented her status as a friend I want to keep forever the first day I met her, and Theodore and Sam have become equally indispensable. I have no interest in ditching them for a new group or throwing the gift of their friendship in their faces.
“I’m sorry if I’ve been over there too much,” I say when Mr. Gaines is distracted again. “That’s not cool.”
“You’re not,” Theodore says quickly, letting out a snort that’s almost a laugh. “I’m just giving you a difficult time for my amusement. Maybe I’m just bitter because you’re sitting with my nemesis.”
“You know, I’m pretty sure Poppy is totally unaware that she’s your nemesis,” I say, and Theodore rolls his eyes. “And it’s not like I’m sitting with her. She hates me probably as much as you hate her.”
Even though I’d rather not, I’m getting to know Poppy too. How she brings a cup of nonfat Greek yogurt every day even though they all complain about the smell, and how, when it moves into October, she’s the type of girl who layers on faux fur jackets and socks under her Birkenstocks even though it’s still a million degrees. Also, her incredible skill at ignoring my presence—even when I’m just a few feet from her.
“Well, that’s just because you’re trying to steal her boyfriend,” Theodore says matter-of-factly.
My eyes bulge and my mouth drops open.
Before my brain starts to spiral, though, he gives my arm a quick squeeze—a first—and looks me in the eye, another rare occurrence. “Hey, no judgment. There’s no shame in going after what you want.”
I smirk at him. “Well, now that we’ve thoroughly discussed my love life, let’s dissect yours. You know, I talked to Lavon during—”
“Oh, shut up,” he says, waving me away and scooting his chair back to his desk. “Why don’t you go sit with my nemesis today? I’m sure you two will be very happy together.”
So, I have Theodore’s blessing, and Lenore is all about Plan Get Yo Man, as she’s taken to calling it. She practically pushes me along to Nico at lunch and whenever we run into him in the hallway.
But Sam never bridges the gap. I usually don’t even see him outside when I’m sitting on the lawn. When I asked him about it once, he says he’s busy working in the class kitchen with Giancarlo. They’ve apparently resolved their mise en place drama.
Which is why I’m surprised when he comes striding over one afternoon, a determined look on his face. He is wearing a Hawaiian shirt, unsurprisingly, but he has on some black jeans that actually fit. I noticed them this morning as soon as we got out of the car. They make his usual dorky ensemble look almost okay.
“Weiner!” Grayson whoops when he sees Sam approaching, and it’s almost imperceptible, but I notice Sam wince.
“Hey, Sam,” I say extra cheerfully, trying to make up for Grayson.
“Sorry, I don’t mean to bother you all—”
“You’re not bothering,” I cut him off, firm. “You want to sit down?”
“Join us, man!” Nico says, putting his arm out. I don’t look around to see everyone else’s faces, because if they do have a problem with it, I don’t want to know.
“That’s okay,” Sam says, waving his hands. “I just wanted to check with you, Tessa. Is it okay if we make a couple stops on our way home? It’s for homework.”
“Yeah, definitely.”
“‘On ou
r way home,’ hmmm?” Poppy asks after Sam walks away. “You and Weiner would make a cute couple, Tessa. You should go for it with him. I think you two would be really happy.”
It’s more than Poppy has said to me probably ever, and that throws me off for a second. But then Nico jumps in before I can even craft a response.
“They’re just friends,” he says, and maybe I’m reading into it a bit, but he sounds a little testy. He looks at me for confirmation, and his gaze lingers on me for a half second longer than necessary.
When I’m driving with Sam later after school, I want so badly to download the tiny—but significant—interaction with Nico, to dissect exactly what that look meant. But I can’t call Caroline in front of Sam, and I don’t want to send Lenore a wall of text. Luckily, though, Sam’s stops provide an easy distraction.
“This is homework?” I ask when we pull up to the white and bubble-gum pink building on Atlantic, not too far from our houses. A spinning cupcake sign makes it clear what’s waiting for us inside.
He grins, showing his signature dimple. “It is in my conservatory. How do you feel about tasting some desserts?”
“I mean, I guess I can help you. If I have to.”
“You are a true saint.”
Inside there are milk-glass cake stands filled with not just cupcakes but cake pops, tarts, and French macarons too. Sam orders an assortment of each, and then we sit at a tiny table, splitting each treat in half. It occurs to me when I’m cutting into a chocolate cupcake piled high with thick, sweet frosting, that this probably looks like a date to anyone watching us.
“What do you think of that one?” he asks, watching me after I take a bite.
“Can I marry a cupcake?”
He laughs. “Yeah, I think the peanut butter cream cheese frosting and salted caramel balance out the richness of the chocolate ganache.”
He makes a few notes in his notebook, and I find myself watching him just like I did when he was baking at his house, a flutter in my chest. I don’t know why, because it’s just Sam—I guess maybe because it’s, like, a privilege to see someone so passionate about their art. It makes me miss what I used to have.