With a trembling hand, I click on the campaign feed. I never look at comments. I know better. But I can’t help it. When I start reading—my stomach drops. The comments under our picture churn into the four digits as I watch.
Yassss!
True love can’t be stopped!
She straightened her hair! It looks nice!
He is CUTE.
More like awkward.
Awkward SEXY.
He could do better tbh.
No way—she’s too hot for him.
Get a room.
Look at her skirt riding all the way up, im cringing
Each comment lands like a punch. Comments about my looks, my clothing. A couple of Islamophobic ones are in there too, because of course. I scroll down but I can’t keep up—more comments pop up each second.
I pause at one comment: I called it from the start, didn’t I?
Called it from the start?
My phone starts buzzing.
Text messages. Rania from Sunday school thinks Jamie’s cute. Serene wants to know if I want to have a talk about faith and sex. Acquaintances I haven’t seen since school ended are sending me shocked emojis. Heart eye emojis.
Kissing emojis.
The texts keep coming. A few are from Shelby—checking to make sure I’m all right. But so many are from numbers I don’t even recognize.
I want to scream.
I want to punch a wall.
But I’m too nauseous to do much of anything—and now that’s the least of my concerns, because the room has started spinning.
“Maya?” a voice calls out. It’s Jamie. He’s looking at me with unmasked worry. I don’t know how long he’s been standing there.
“You need to sit,” he says. “You look like you’re going to pass out.”
I sit down numbly on a folding chair by the wall. I don’t look at him. I can’t.
“Gabe left,” Jamie says. “I’ll find him. I’m going to handle this.” He kneels down in front of me. “Maya, please. Say something.”
But what is there to talk about?
He puts his hand gently on mine. I flinch. He quickly pulls it away.
“You have to breathe,” he says gently. “You’re literally going to faint.”
“How can I breathe? How could he? And the comments.” My eyes blur with tears. “The comments are endless—they won’t stop . . . everyone saying things,” I tell him. “The things they’re saying about us . . . it’s mortifying.”
“People can be the worst. But you can’t let it get to you like this, Maya. They’ve been saying stuff like that forever and . . .” His voice trails off.
“Forever?” I straighten.
Jamie bites his lip.
“What do you mean by that?” I look up at him.
“Nothing,” he says quickly. “I didn’t mean anything.”
“Jamie.”
“It’s just. Well. You and I have been in so many photos for the campaign, and I guess, people just . . . had opinions. . . .”
I pull out my phone and click on InstaGramm’s feed.
The Fifi Gets Flipped video.
Carmen’s Cupcakes, with Jamie, Grandma, and me posing with large smiles.
The Canvassing 101 photo. I’m holding the mic and side-eyeing Jamie with a smile.
Each and every photo, accompanied by hundreds of comments.
Her dimple is melt worthy.
They’re totally going to hook up soon.
They’ll have the cutest babies.
Comment after comment after comment.
About us.
“You knew people were talking about us like this?” I can’t even look at him now. All this time, people were dissecting everything about us—making up a love story that didn’t even exist—and he didn’t say a single word about it to me. “Jamie. That day when you were reading comments that people left about our video. Were people saying stuff like this, even that day?”
“I don’t know. I mean, does it matter?” Jamie blushes. “Who cares what they have to say?”
“It matters! Of course it matters! I can’t believe I fell for it. I mean, it explains everything, doesn’t it? Gabe didn’t care about us doing a Canvassing 101. He was using us for clicks and comments.” I stare at him. “And you knew.”
“I didn’t know that! I swear!” he insists. “These are just randos.”
“Randos?” My voice trembles. “These are thousands of people analyzing everything about us. They have been. For weeks.”
“But who cares, Maya?” he says. “I know it’s mortifying. I get it. But it’s not like these people know us or anything.”
He’s looking at me like I’m the one who needs to check myself.
“It makes sense you don’t care.” I wipe away tears. “I mean, you’re the same person who pretended to be your grandmother online.”
Jamie’s eyes widen.
“You know I even thanked her for following me? How stupid do I feel now?”
“I shouldn’t have followed you as InstaGramm,” he says. “I messed up. I’m so sorry. But I was too mortified to share these comments people were saying. And we don’t always share every single detail about everything with each other, do we? You didn’t tell me why you were so into canvassing, did you? That it was just for a car—”
“Just for a car?” I stare at him. “Is that really what you think?”
“Well, it’s true, isn’t it? I mean, it’s fine. I get it.” He looks down at the ground. “But that was the reason you texted me to go canvassing again after the first time, wasn’t it? Because you’d get a car out of it?”
I can’t believe this is happening. Yes. It’s true. For maybe a minute that was my motivation. But. If he honestly thinks all the work we did together—knocking on doors, drafting flyers, putting up yard signs, was for a stupid car . . . what more is there to say?
All our hangouts. Our conversations. It was meaningless. It was nothing.
I shut out of Instagram and click open my rideshare app. With a shaky hand, I type in my address and stand up.
“I’m going home. Tell Sophie I’m sorry I had to duck out early.”
“You’re leaving? No!” Jamie says quickly. “Let’s talk this through, Maya.”
The app chimes. A driver has been found. Felix. 4.8 stars. Four minutes away.
I walk out the door to the parking lot.
“Maya, wait!” He hurries after me. “Don’t go like this. Please. We can’t let all of this get in the way of how we feel about each other.”
“How we feel about each other?” I whip around. “I can’t date you, Jamie.”
“Yeah, okay.” He runs a hand through his hair. “That’s fine. Dating is so old-fashioned anyway. No one dates anymore. . . .”
“I’m not talking semantics. I mean we can’t be together like that. It’s not going to happen. Ever.”
“Oh.” Jamie falls silent.
And just like that, seeing his crestfallen face, my anger vanishes into the air. All I feel is sadness, instead. I don’t want to tell him. But it’s not fair to him. And I’ve put it off for way too long. I have to tell him the truth.
“It’s my parents, Jamie. I’m not allowed to date. I should have told you that from the start. I’m sorry.”
“Your parents?” Jamie repeats. His expression shifts. And when he speaks now, his voice is harder. “Can’t you own it at least?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re a senior,” he spits out. “You’re seventeen years old. If you don’t want to be with me, don’t hide behind your parents.”
“You know I’m Muslim, don’t you?”
“So, is it your parents?” he asks. “Or is it that you’re Muslim? Make up your mind, Maya.”
“It’s both, Jamie! It’s because of my parents, because we’re Muslim. Dating is a little more complicated for me.”
“We almost kissed!” His voice rises. “I told you I loved you. If Gabe hadn’t burst in, you were
going to kiss me back.”
“Yes.” I look down at the ground. “And it would have been a mistake.”
“A mistake . . . ,” he says softly. His eyes fill with tears.
“Jamie . . .” I move closer to him, just as headlights engulf us. A green Kia pulls up to the curb.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I’m sorry this is so complicated. . . .”
“But you see, it’s not.” A tear slips down his cheek. “You either like me. Or you don’t. It’s really as simple as that.”
“Jamie.” I take his hand in mine. “This isn’t how I wanted tonight to go. I’m not explaining myself well. . . .”
And for the first time ever—Jamie pulls away from me.
“You’ve explained well enough,” he says evenly. “Safe drive home. And you should ask your parents for that car now. You’ve definitely earned it.”
I get in the car. It pulls away and turns down the road. Jamie’s figure grows smaller and smaller, until it’s out of sight.
Until now I thought the word heartbreak was a cheesy poetic term—not an actual breaking that splinters down to the core of your being.
As the car pulls onto the highway, I sink my head into my hands.
Only now do I begin to cry.
Chapter Thirty-One
Jamie
I don’t even know if I slept. I feel so bleary and strange, like my head’s been stuffed with cotton.
It’s all one giant blur. I barely remember getting home from the venue. There’s a croissant on my nightstand—Grandma must have snuck in here before she left this morning. And Boomer’s curled at the end of my bed. He hasn’t left my side all night.
My whole face hurts from crying. I don’t think I’ve cried like this in years, maybe not since Grandpa died. Everyone says crying’s supposed to help. It’s supposed to get rid of toxins or release endorphins or recharge you or something. But I don’t feel recharged. I barely have the energy to lift my phone off my nightstand.
I’ve never gotten so many texts in my life. Texts from Nolan, old camp friends, Felipe’s sister, and this guy Peter from Academic Bowl. Thirty-six texts on the group chat with Drew and Felipe. Texts from literally everyone. Except Maya.
And they keep coming. A new one pops up from Alison, the campaign intern. Whoa, you and Maya are on Buzzfeed!!!! There’s a link, but I don’t even need to click it. The headline tells me everything I need to know. These two teens fell in love working on a local Democratic campaign, and my heart is too full. The preview photo is Maddie’s picture. Of us.
I shove my phone back in its charger, flipping it facedown.
I just can’t believe it’s all over. Everything. Our campaign work, our friendship, and everything else I was stupid enough to hope for. I thought this would end like a movie. I honestly thought that. Awkward nerdy guy gets the dream girl. I mean, Maya said she wanted to kiss me. And her coatroom cake smash. Hands down, the sexiest moment of my entire life. I can hardly believe that was yesterday. Twelve hours ago. I still have icing on my wrist. Not the shape of a heart anymore—just a few smudges remaining. I guess it’s fitting.
It’s barely eight when Mom knocks on my door, but who cares? I’ve been up for hours.
“Hey. I’ve got leftover bagels.” She sets a plate next to the untouched croissant on my nightstand, before nudging Boomer off the bed and stealing his spot. “How are you feeling, sweetie?”
I groan into my pillow.
“Not your best night, huh?”
I mean, that’s the crazy thing. Most of the night was good. It was incredible. The music, the hora, even the toast. And Maya. Who said she liked me. Who fit so perfectly under my chin on the dance floor.
One Instagram post ruined everything. Every single thing.
“Want to talk about it?” Mom asks.
I sit up slowly, rubbing my eyes. “Not really.”
Everything was fine. It was fine.
Yeah, the picture was weird. Obviously, I wasn’t cool with Maddie spying on us from the bushes, or wherever the hell she was, and Gabe putting it online was even worse. But Maya completely freaked out. I’ve never seen her go pale like that. She could barely speak at first. And the look on her face when she read the comments, like the idea of people knowing about us was too mortifying to stomach. Yeah. That felt great. Almost as great as when she said it’s not going to happen. Ever. In the most matter-of-fact tone. Like I was supposed to have already understood that. Like it’s obvious.
Cool. I guess I’m just delusional.
Mom scoots closer, resting her hands on my shoulders. “Honey, talk to me.”
I don’t know what she wants me to say. That I’m broken? Shattered? That I should have known it was too good to be true? Maybe Maya felt something for me, but it obviously wasn’t enough. If the situation were reversed, I’d have done anything to make it work. Anything. I would have toughed it out through any awkward conversation.
The way Mom’s looking at me makes my throat clench. “Hey,” she says, wrapping her arms around me tightly. “Hey.”
She strokes my hair like she did when I was eight, which makes my eyes pool with tears all over again. When I finally speak, my voice comes out choked. “I’m in love with her.”
“I know, sweetie.”
“And I told her. Like you said. I told her how I felt.” I catch my breath. “I’ve never said that before to anyone.”
“And she didn’t take it well?”
“I thought she did.” I straighten up, wiping my eyes with the heels of my hands. “She said she liked me. And she seemed like she was nervous to tell her parents, but—I don’t know. She didn’t make it sound like that was going to be a dealbreaker.” My throat clenches. “But then Gabe posted that picture, and everything just . . . collapsed.”
“Okay, well, first of all, if it’s any consolation, Gabe is in some deep shit with your grandmother. She’s at the campaign office right now.”
I wipe my eyes again. “Good.”
“But listen. Jamie. The stuff with her parents . . . I have no idea what it would mean in Maya’s family if she dated a guy who isn’t Muslim. Or if she dated at all.”
I shake my head. “If she knew she couldn’t date a guy who isn’t Muslim, why did she almost kiss me? You can’t do that. It’s fine if you can’t date, or you don’t want to date, or you don’t want to date outside your religion. But if your best friend tells you he’s in love with you, don’t act like his girlfriend all night and come this close to kissing him, and then turn around and call it a mistake.”
Mom just looks at me. “I’m so sorry, sweetie. I really am.”
“It’s whatever.” I rub the last bit of chocolate off my wrist, flicking little specks of it onto my bedsheet. I’m too tired to care.
“It’s not whatever,” Mom says. “Listen. I’ve got to run out and grab those centerpieces back from the event planner, but I’ll be around all afternoon. Let’s do something special. You, me, and Sophie.” She leans forward, pressing her hands to my cheeks. “We’re going to get through this. I promise. And Jamie?”
I look up half-heartedly.
“You should be really proud of yourself,” she says. “For everything. For your speech. For your advocacy work. And for having the guts to tell Maya how you feel. That was incredibly brave.”
“I don’t feel brave.”
“I mean it. Jamie, I know you have this idea of yourself as this awkward kid who never knows what to say, who screws everything up—”
“Negative self-talk. I know.”
Mom smiles wryly. “I won’t get on your case about it. But can I ask you one question?”
“Okay.”
“Why do you think you’re so awkward?”
I furrow my brow. “What do you mean?”
“What’s your evidence? What makes you such a screwup?”
“Um.” I look up at her. “I mean . . . I vomited on your boss.”
“Okay, but look at all the people you didn’t vomit on.”
I nod slowly. “That’s a low bar for success.”
“I’m just saying. This is your narrative. You get to pick the framing. Why does that one interview have to define you? Maybe it was just a shitty morning. Maybe you ate something weird for breakfast. Whatever! Look at everything you’ve accomplished since then. The canvassing, the videos, the toast. You know that toast was amazing, right?”
“Amazing? Yeah, right—”
“Hey, you’re smiling.” She pokes my cheek. “Because you know you killed it up there.”
“Okay.” I roll my eyes. “I killed it. I’m amazing. I’m an amazing speaker who inspires the masses and hardly pukes on anyone. You happy?”
“You did,” Mom says firmly. “And you are. And I am.”
I don’t want to cry again. I don’t even think my eye muscles have enough strength left for round three. But a tear breaks free anyway.
“Love you, Mom.” I swallow thickly.
She kisses my forehead. “Love you too.”
She leaves, Boomer trotting out behind her, and my whole body deflates. But the moment I settle back onto my pillow, my phone buzzes. And then buzzes again. I tug it out of my charger, my heart lodged in my throat—
It’s Grandma. Of course. Not that I thought . . .
Yeah.
Grandma: Hi, lovey! Just wanted to let you know that a certain picture is officially gone from Rossum’s page! All I had to do was threaten to delete every single piece of Rossum content from my personal account, and your cousin was very reasonable about the whole thing. Apparently there’s an election in two days he’d like to promote. Who knew? And I’m emailing Buzzfeed, Hypable, and Upworthy right now.
I shove my phone under my pillow. God. The picture made it to Upworthy too? Hypable?
There’s a knock. “Let me in.” Sophie’s morning voice, husky with sleep.
I sit up, cross-legged, yawning.
“It’s open.”
Sophie’s in pajama pants and a tank top—half loosely curled bat mitzvah hair, half bedhead. There’s an open cardboard box tucked under her arm.
“Dad sent stroopwafels,” she says. “Global overnighted them. Probably cost a million euros. Here.” She sets the box by my feet on the bed, and then plops down beside it. “I guess we should eat them. Or something.”
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