Analee, in Real Life

by Janelle Milanes

  Me: You say that, but I’m pretty sure I won’t be. When I have to talk in front of people, I tend to sweat. A lot.

  Me: Like, I have to wear those antiperspirants for male athletes that Harlow preaches against because they’re full of aluminum

  Harris: sexy

  Me: So sexy

  Harris: you’ve had all that practice at the library, though

  Me: But those are kids

  Me: They’re too naive to realize I’m a human disaster

  Harris: what if you looked out onto the crowd and saw a friendly face? would that make you less nervous?

  Me: I’m not going to look at the crowd. I’d pass out.

  Harris: okay, i think i’m being too subtle

  Harris: what if i were there with you?

  Me: Harris, I’m sure you have a very friendly face, but I’ve never seen it

  Harris: you could, though

  Me: You know the wedding is tomorrow, right? It’s not like Seattle is a hop, skip, and a jump away from Nowheresville, Florida

  Harris: i’m not in Seattle

  Harris: not at the moment, i mean

  Me: ?

  Me: Then where the hell are you?

  The doorbell rings downstairs, and I almost fall out of my chair.

  It can’t be. That would be ridiculous. It is, quite simply, a total coincidence that the doorbell rang right at this exact moment.

  It’s Avery, back from her friend’s house. Or maybe Seb, looking to escape his stepmonster’s clutches. I make all kinds of rational excuses, but it doesn’t explain why I feel like my blood has been replaced with ice water and my social anxiety gag reflex has been activated.

  “Analee!” Harlow calls up. “There’s a young man here to see you!”

  Oh God. No. This isn’t happening. I’m not ready. I lunge for my men’s clinical-strength deodorant and reapply it under my shirt.

  Me: Harris

  Harris: yes?

  Me: that’s not you

  Harris: it is, actually

  Harris: surprise! i’m messaging you from my phone right now

  Harris: don’t freak out

  Somehow I manage to yell, “Be right down!” and my voice comes out entirely normal.

  Me: You’re here? Right now?

  Harris: do you want me to leave?

  I have to pull it together. I have no choice. The boy who might be the love of my life is standing in my living room.

  Me: No.

  I start walking. I let my natural instincts take over, because my brain has officially stopped cooperating. One step at a time, out of my room, head low, inching down the stairs, eyes on my feet so that I don’t face-plant.

  Harris is here. In person. A flesh-and-blood Harris, not a stream of words on a computer screen.

  I don’t look up until I reach the bottom step.

  I take in his appearance, little by little. A mop of brown hair. Medium build but slightly round. An overlap between his two front teeth when he smiles. Which he is. He’s seeing me for the first time, and he’s smiling.

  Shit. I forgot about my nose. I clamp my hand over it, and Harris smiles wider.

  “It’s kinda cute,” he says, his first ever in-person words to me.

  His voice is higher than I imagined in my head. Not abnormally high or anything, just not like Seb’s lower baritone.

  “How are you here?” are my first ever in-person words to him. Blech. I deserve to get hit in the nose again. Who says that?

  “Cutting right to the chase, as usual,” he says. “Don’t worry. I’ll explain everything.”

  I do cut to the chase. I have to remind myself that he knows things like this about me.

  “Want to take a walk?” I ask. I have to escape Dad and Harlow, who have become eerily silent in the kitchen. This will be fun to explain later. The social outcast who went from no relationship prospects to two boyfriends at once.

  Harris nods, motioning for me to lead the way.

  There is nothing to see around my neighborhood except identical Spanish-style houses painted in nondescript shades of beige, pinkish beige, and yellowish beige. I also forgot to take into account how goddamn miserable it is outside. Sweat begins to dot my hairline.

  “I’m sorry if this is weird,” Harris begins. “Me showing up at your door without warning.”

  “It’s . . .” What can I say? Romantic? Maybe in theory, but out here in the unforgiving sun, with sweat dripping from my pores, the reality says otherwise.

  “It’s a little weird,” I admit. “Just . . . talking to you like this. In person.”

  It’s more than a little weird. It’s scary. It’s like my security blanket has been ripped away from me.

  Harris grimaces. “I thought it might be too much. But Seb gave me your address and told me how much you wanted to meet—”

  “Seb? You talked to Seb?” I stop dead in my tracks. Why the hell is Seb talking to Harris? And how could he think I’d be okay with this? Is he trying to call my bluff? He doesn’t even know Harris. For all he knows, he gave my home address to some sick Internet predator.

  “Well, yeah,” Harris says. “We were on a quest, and we got to talking.”

  This is a lot to take in. I’m trying to focus on Harris, sweaty and real in front of me, but my mind boomerangs back to Seb.

  Why is Seb encouraging this? Does he want me to end up with Harris? Is this his way of saying he’s effectively finished with this thing we have, whatever it is?

  And then I realize that this is Harry Potter at the library all over again. Seb knew I was too scared to meet Harris in person, so he pulled the trigger for me.

  Fine. If he wants me to be with Harris, I can be with Harris.

  “I’m glad you came,” I say.

  “Analee, you don’t have to bullshit me.”

  He said my name right. He’s only ever seen it online, but he said it right.

  “I mean it.” I laugh. “I just had to get over the initial shock.”

  “I know. You weren’t expecting me to be this devastatingly handsome. Go ahead. Breathe it in.”

  I laugh and push him away. In that moment it stops feeling weird. It’s only Harris. And honestly? Harris is cute.

  We circle the block, talking about Seattle. I complain about the humidity in Florida.

  “Are you wearing your heavy-duty ultra-strength men’s deodorant?” Harris asks, pretending to lean in and take a whiff.

  “As a matter of fact, I am.”

  It would kill me to admit this to most people, but I know Harris won’t judge me for it.

  He recommends his brand of antiperspirant and says, “As a fellow sweat monster, I know what I’m talking about.”

  “Sweat monster?” I repeat. “Really? You’re a level five at best.”

  Harris lifts both arms, revealing pools of sweat soaking through his shirt. I expose my own sweat stains in return. It is utterly unromantic.

  “Tie,” he decides after comparing.

  “Um, no? I clearly won. You never could admit defeat.”

  “I seem to recall you trying to beat the Baroeks seven times in a row before I had to force you to give up.”

  “That was different. I had those fuckers, but you kept screwing me up.”

  It boggles my mind that Harris and I met fifteen minutes ago, not fifteen years ago. We walk around my block a few more times. I see Dad’s face poking out from behind the curtain in our front window. Just when he started relaxing about Seb, a new mystery boy shows up on his doorstep. The worry must be killing him.

  “Where are you staying?” I ask Harris.

  From the embarrassed look on his face, I expect him to give me the name of the seedy motel on Franklin Street. Or worse, ask to stay at my house.

  “Tampa,” he says instead.

  “Aren’t we vague.”

  “A hotel in downtown Tampa.”

  “Which hotel?” I ask.

  He scratches his head and stares at a dog barking through a chain-link fence. �
��Ocean Palms?”

  “Ocean Palms?” I push him again. I can’t help it. He’s been dropping bombs on me all day. “As in the luxury resort with the wraparound pool and spa center?”

  “I haven’t been to the spa center.”

  “Damn, Harris.” We pass by the dog, who goes ballistic at the sight of us. Harris gives him a whistle. “I didn’t know you were loaded.”

  “My parents do well for themselves,” he says. He still doesn’t look at me.

  “Wait a sec,” I say. “How did you get to my house? Did you cab it from the hotel?”

  He rolls his head back, closing his eyes for a brief moment. “I may have hired a driver for the weekend.”

  “Let me get this straight,” I say. “Your parents let you fly to Tampa to meet some random girl for the first time. They book you at the only five-star resort near this town, and they hire you a personal chauffeur for your visit?”

  And then I remember that I may know Harris, but I don’t totally know Harris.

  “I know,” he groans. “It’s sick. I have money. A lot of it.”

  “Gross,” I say. “What good are you now? All bourgie and preppy . . .”

  In truth I’m somewhat flattered that Harris finds me worth all of this. The plane ticket, the hotel, the private car. Unless he’s regretting it now.

  I look at him, and his eyes finally meet mine. His scrunch up when he smiles. He takes my hand, and we continue walking. I feel pretty confident in the assumption that he’s not regretting meeting me.

  “I wanted to ask you something,” he says, and my stomach flips over. Not in the swoony, lovey-dovey way. In the terrifying, twin-girls-at-the-end-of-a-dark-hallway, clown-in-the-woods way. I’m just getting used to Harris away from the computer screen. The idea of adding another component to our relationship is too much for my body to handle. It’s moments away from completely shutting down.

  “I was thinking,” he says, “if you’re open to it, that I could . . . possibly . . . be your date to the wedding tomorrow?”

  “My date,” I repeat.

  “We could go as friends. Or more. Whatever you want.”

  “It’s just . . . It’s not going to be fun,” I say.

  “It will be if you’re there.”

  “I’ll be so nervous about the toast, though. And I hate dancing. And Harlow’s friend Liz will be there. She buys her clothes off Gwyneth Paltrow’s website and pays, like, two hundred dollars for a cotton T-shirt. And—”

  “Okay,” Harris says, letting go of my hand. “I get it. Clearly you don’t want to go with me.”

  “It’s not that,” I protest. Even though it is, kind of. It’s not something I can explain to him, or to myself. I should want him there with me. But when I picture walking down the aisle in my unflattering bridesmaid dress, I imagine Seb’s face smiling back at me. Not Harris’s.

  I hate myself right now for screwing this up. Here in front of me is everything I ever wanted, except somehow I don’t want it anymore. Instead I want Seb and his dopey shoes. Obviously it’s the wrong choice. If my life were a movie, audiences would be shouting at the screen for me to wise up.

  Maybe I’m just not giving Harris a fair chance. Seb and I have been physical for a while now. I’m sure there’s a scientific explanation for my attachment to him. Something related to pheromones or dopamine. Maybe I need to try to make that part work with Harris, or I’ll regret it forever.

  “Harris,” I say. I take both of his hands in mine. I step closer to him, tilting my chin up to his face. Yes, I’m doing this. Yes, I feel ready now. I’ve had enough hours—no, weeks—of practice with Seb to feel like I can kiss a boy. Having your first make-out session with the best-looking, most popular boy in school is like skipping peewee football and heading straight to the Super Bowl.

  I lean up on my tiptoes to graze my lips against his. He responds. His movements are tentative. He cups his hand around my waist, then removes it. He slides his tongue near my lips. Then it retreats back into his mouth like a scared turtle. He’s gentle, though. And he’s not bad at this.

  I want so badly for it to feel like it does with Seb, because Harris is obviously a better fit for me. We have practically everything in common, he’s cute—but not in an out-of-my-league, scary way—he’s sweet . . .

  And I feel nothing. My reaction is all head, no heart—brain waves that quickly compare his kissing style to Seb’s, calculating the amount of time we’ve been at it, wondering if Dad and Harlow are worrying about us. Harris brings that out in me. Seb shuts it down.

  I pull away to catch my breath. Neither of us says anything, until finally Harris offers me another smile and says, “That was nice.”

  “It was,” I say. Once more, Analee, with feeling. “It was really nice.”

  Harris lets out a laugh, a big squawk that makes me jump. “You are a terrible liar.”

  “I’m not lying! It was nice!”

  “You’re bullshitting me again. I know you better than you think.”

  We’ve circled back to my house. Dad’s and Harlow’s heads pop back behind the window curtain as it falls into place.

  I sigh and lower myself onto the front step. “It’s . . . It wasn’t bad. . . . I mean, it was good. I just—”

  He sits beside me. “Is it all happening too fast?”

  I nod slowly. “Maybe? A little?”

  “It doesn’t have to. I’ll take this as fast or slow as you want.”

  I don’t want to go fast or slow. I need everything to come to a screeching halt.

  “You’re still upset about something,” he says.

  I pull my sweaty hair off my neck and gather it into a knot on top of my head. How am I supposed to do this? I’m not built for this crap. Boys aren’t supposed to like me; they’re supposed to ignore me. Never in my life did I think I’d have to figure out how to let one down. “I’ve had a lot on my mind.”

  “Like what?”

  “You don’t want to know,” I say. An ice cream truck makes its way down the street, bleating out that song. What song is that anyway? Does it have a title? Did it ever serve a purpose beyond working sugar-addicted kids up into a frenzy?

  This is the kind of thing I would type to Harris. He loved to waste his time by looking up the answers to my random, meaningless questions. I don’t ask these questions now, in person. I sit in silence, watching kids and belabored parents popping out of their houses.

  “Maybe I can help you with it,” Harris says.

  “That’s the problem,” I reply slowly. “It’s not an it.”

  I can feel him looking at me. The heat from outside slowly works its way into my cheeks. “It’s a him.”

  “Ah,” is all he says.

  I desperately want to switch places with one of the kids out here. Let them have the difficult adult conversation while I eat a chocolate-vanilla swirl covered in rainbow sprinkles.

  “The soccer-star lab partner,” he says quietly to himself.

  I hide my face in my hands. “I’m so sorry, Harris.”

  “Why are you sorry? You can’t help the way you feel.”

  “I don’t know why I like him. I can’t stand him most of the time.”

  I’m scared of how Harris will look at me after this revelation, so I peek at him through my fingers. He’s not smiling at me anymore. But his face is earnest, open.

  I lower my hands. “He doesn’t even feel the same way. I mean, he practically bought your plane ticket to come see me. Why would he do that if he had . . . you know, feelings for me?”

  “Does he know you have feelings for him? You’re not exactly an open book.”

  “I’m not sure,” I say. “I mean, he should know.”

  “He could be wondering the same thing right now.”

  I shake my head. “Seb isn’t the type to sit around and wonder. If he wanted answers, he would ask me.”

  “Then why don’t you ask him?”

  “Because,” I say. “I’m afraid to know the answer.”

&
nbsp; “Kiri of Eromar is afraid to talk to a boy?”

  “In real life I am the anti-Kiri.”

  “I don’t believe that,” Harris says, drumming his fingers against my knee.

  “I hate that I’m obsessing over a boy.”

  “Me too,” he says, laughing.

  “Oh God. I’m so sorry,” I say again. “I shouldn’t be talking to you about another guy. That’s so insensitive.”

  “Hey. I may not be gung ho about this Seb thing,” Harris replies, “but I’m still your friend. You can talk to me about anything. Like always.” He peers at me. “Are you about to cry?”

  “Shut up,” I say, wiping my face with my sleeve.

  “Aww. Kiri.” He throws an arm around my shoulder. “You’re such a sap.”

  We both lean in toward each other, our heads clinking together like champagne glasses.

  “Ow,” I whimper, and he laughs, and I don’t know whether I’m laughing or crying, but it feels good, like something inside me is expanding.

  A car pulls up to my driveway, and for a second my mind whispers hopefully, Seb? But it’s Avery who hops out of the passenger side, a frown creasing her face.

  “Who are you?” she asks, stopping right in front of Harris.

  “Don’t be rude,” I scold. “This is a friend of mine.”

  “Just a friend?” Avery looks Harris up and down with a face like she just took a whiff of Harlow’s colon-cleansing vegetable juice.

  “Just a friend,” Harris confirms.

  “She has a boyfriend, just so you know,” Avery says. “And it’s not you.”

  I see the hurt flash across Harris’s face.

  “Avery, go inside,” I snap.

  “Avery,” Harris says in a softer tone, “I promise that you have nothing to worry about.”

  Her eyes dart from me to Harris before dropping to the ground.

  “Okay,” she relents.

  “Nice shirt, by the way,” Harris says. “I love Wonder Woman.”

  “Me too.” Avery looks up, matching his smile. She’s so easy.

  “I’ve seen the movie twelve times,” Harris says.

  “I’ve seen the movie twelve hundred times.”

  “Wow,” Harris replies. “You must be a super-fan.”

  “I am,” Avery says. She beams with pride.

  Behind us the front door opens a crack. Harlow peeks out.