“Whoa.”
I look up and Ollie is there. Even though I know he’s pissed at me, he holds out his hand and I take it, letting him pull me up to my feet.
“This was the super-secret Halle project?”
“You knew?” I ask.
Ollie shrugs. “Sort of. Not really; he wouldn’t say. But I didn’t think he’d be able to do this.”
I know what he means. Every day, I worry that Okay Gramps will revert back to Super Sad Gramps. But maybe I haven’t been giving him enough credit.
Downstairs, Gramps is watching Jeopardy! on the couch, Scout curled up in his lap.
I sit down next to him. If I look at him, I’ll sob and make it awkward.
So I say, “Thank you.”
Gramps just squeezes my hand, then asks me if I know the question to a Hamilton answer before someone buzzes in and says, “Who is Lin-Manuel Miranda?”
We spend the rest of the night shouting the questions to Alex Trebek’s answers.
Nash to Kels, at the dance
Nash Stevens
So. I don’t think Halle’s gonna show.
7:15 PM
This is why I don’t go to school-sponsored programs …
7:15 PM
The music blows.
7:16 PM
This blows.
7:16 PM
Sometimes I think it’d be cool if, like, we went to the same school.
7:16 PM
We’d totally make fun of this together.
7:17 PM
Maybe I’d even dance with you.
7:17 PM
FOURTEEN
With my red pumps and matching lipstick, I look fierce.
Except all the lipstick in the world isn’t going to make me feel fierce.
The Middleton High School gym has been transformed into a winter wonderland. We enter under a blue balloon arch to a cacophony of white noise humming beneath the boom of the deejay’s speakers. Everyone is in the middle of the gym floor, dancing to a new Beyoncé track that is absolute fire. Teachers and parent chaperones line the perimeter of the gym, and it must be awkward for them to watch their students and children dancing like one giant mob.
Even off the dance floor there are too many people. Too many voices and bodies.
Nash and I are meeting here. He offered to pick me up, but Gramps wanted to drive Ollie and me together and, well, how could I say no to that? Turns out, Gramps is so soft when it comes to his dressed-up grandchildren attending school-sponsored events. He spent way too long taking way too many pictures. Seriously, it took five minutes just for him to realize his camera was in selfie mode.
Except now I’m twenty minutes late and I can’t find anyone.
I need something to do, so I make a move for the snacks table while the line is still relatively short. I bypass the chips, veggies, and cookies, and go straight for the beverages.
“Hal-lee! Hey, we’ve been looking for you.”
Of course, Sawyer is at the snack table. This should’ve been my first move, really.
“Hey! Where is everyone?” I ask as I grab a bottle of water.
The song changes to a loud rock ballad.
“What?” Sawyer yells.
I lean forward and yell into Sawyer’s ear.
“Molly and Autumn haven’t left the dance floor! Nash is over at the table!”
Sawyer points to Nash. He’s hunched forward with his elbows on the table, typing into his phone. Mine is on silent, but I can’t help but wonder if those texts are for Kels or for me.
“Cool! I’m just gonna—catch you later!”
My fingers itch for my cell phone as I approach Nash, but I figure I’m already anxious enough. It’s probably better that I don’t know whatever he’s saying to Kels or me. Away from the speakers, the music isn’t deafening anymore, and though I might have partial hearing loss, I can at least now speak at a normal level.
“Hey,” I say.
A flustered Nash immediately stands up and stuffs his phone in his pocket.
“Oh, hey. I was just going to—”
“No need to stand on my account.”
He’s dressed in a light blue button-down shirt and black dress pants, no tie. His hair is styled with the lightest touch of gel. He’s seriously leveled up from his typical sweatshirt-and-jeans combos.
He looks really cute.
“You look nice,” he says.
I don’t know if that’s a compliment or not. Nice is a terrible word. A non-word really.
“You too,” I say.
“Thanks.”
I sit down and take a sip from my bottle of water. Nice? Nash is being so weird. I’m not sure why. Ever since the night of the storm, Nash and I talk pretty much every day. But now we’re at a stupid high school dance and we can’t even say hello without fumbling.
“Are you going to dance?” he asks.
“Oh. I don’t.”
Nash raises his eyebrows. “Really? Me either.”
It’s almost as though Nash doesn’t want to be here just as much as me.
“Halle!”
Molly and Autumn appear from the crowd of dancers, faces shiny with sweat. Yet somehow, their makeup hasn’t moved. I need to learn what this magic is. Autumn looks amazing in her compromise dress, and Molly glows in gold.
“Come dance!” Molly says.
She grabs my hand and pulls me up so I’m standing.
“No, I don’t—”
“Tell me if you’re feeling anxious and we’ll disengage. Promise,” Molly says.
She takes me by one hand and Nash by the other. Nash just looks at me and I hope he can read my face, because it says, I am getting the hell out of here as soon as Molly lets go of my hand.
Molly pulls us toward the dancing, but we barely graze the perimeter of the sea of bodies. Everyone is jumping around to the music, hands in the air, singing along to the lyrics. Molly bops her head to the music and raises our hands in an attempt to make us dance with her. Nash moves his shoulders in the most awkward fashion. My feet stay planted firmly on the ground. I shift my weight as I count the beats of the music, making sure my heart isn’t beating faster.
Sawyer joins our awkward non-dance circle.
“Wow, you two are the life of the party,” Sawyer says to Nash and me.
I fold my arms over my chest. Nash flips Sawyer off.
But Sawyer just pulls Molly away from us and twirls her like a ballroom pro. Or at the very least, like he’s seen a few episodes of Dancing with the Stars. Molly laughs so loud amid the twirls. She lands in a dip just as the song’s final notes sing through the speakers.
They are kind of couple goals right now, and Sawyer is our savior for taking her attention away from us. High-energy pop transitions to a slow song, one of Ed Sheeran’s many ballads, and Nash and I make eye contact. He gestures toward the tables and I agree, grateful. We make our grand escape, with a pit stop at the drinks table.
“Boring,” Molly shouts, her arms draped around Sawyer’s neck.
Nash sighs. “She is too much sometimes.”
I sip on a Sprite. “She thinks she wants to see me dance,” I say. “I promise that’s something nobody needs to see.”
Nash laughs. “Hey, do you want to get out of here?”
“What?” I ask.
“Well, I don’t want to be here. You seem to be having second thoughts. Why are we here?”
“Second thoughts?” I say, feeling my face get hot. “This wasn’t my idea.”
“What?”
“Molly said …” My voice trails off because suddenly, it clicks. “Oh my God.”
It clicks for Nash too. “She told me—”
“—that I wanted to go with you?” I ask, eyebrows raised.
We have been totally, completely, duped by Molly Jacobson. This is all an elaborate setup orchestrated by Molly to—what, exactly? Help Nash realize whatever feelings he thinks he has for Kels can’t be real?
Kels. Thinking about her sends my tho
ughts spiraling and oh my God, the gym is too hot. My dress is too tight; the lace sleeves scratch against my skin. My hair is too curly; my lips are too red. Everything is too much. Too Kels.
Nash never wanted to go to the dance with me, Halle.
“Ugh. Molly.” Nash runs his hands through his hair. “Not that this is terrible or anything, I just don’t do dances.”
“Me either. Okay, yeah, let’s go,” I say.
I text Ollie that Nash and I are heading out and to text me if he needs a ride home.
Ollie
I’ll be fine. TELL HIM.
7:45 PM
I slip my phone into my purse and Nash and I exit out the back door before Molly notices we’re gone. We run to his Prius like this is a prison break, like we’re moments away from getting caught and dragged back into the hell that is a school-sponsored party.
In the car, I ask Nash where we’re going.
“It’s a surprise,” he says.
We drive to the tunes of our car karaoke choices and I have no idea where we’re going, but it’s okay if it means I’m no longer suffocating in a high school gymnasium.
* * *
An hour later, I’m sipping the best chai latte I’ve ever tasted.
Nash brings me to the Main Street Café, his favorite coffee shop in downtown Westport. It’s a fusion between coffee shop, bar, and live music. The bar stretches along the entirety of the back wall, displaying a variety of sandwich and pastry options. Dark wood tables fill the space, each with their own display of succulents as the centerpiece. Nash and I sit at one of these tables, with a perfect view of the corner stage. It’s open mic night, and on the stage currently is a woman with dyed red hair, singing what I am convinced is the entirety of Alanis Morissette’s Jagged Little Pill album.
I keep my hands wrapped around my mug, the heat warming my cold fingers.
“This is so good,” I say.
Nash sips on his flat white.
“Yeah, this place is great. I came here a lot during my ‘musician’ phase.”
“Oh? Tell me more,” I say. Kels knows nothing about a musician phase. Nothing.
Nash laughs. “Not much to tell. I’m a self-taught mediocre guitar player, and Kat, the manager, was nice enough to let me play at open mic, so I’d take the bus in on weekends when my parents thought I was getting lessons. I sing decent enough to offset my terrible guitar technique.”
I nod to the stage. “So you brought me here to show off your skills. I see.”
“No way. It was a dumb hobby,” Nash says, laughing.
“In fourth grade, I started a knitting club. Mind you—I only knew how to knit scarves out of fuzzy yarn. But I was committed. That’s a dumb hobby,” I say.
“It’s practical?”
“Twenty-five fuzzy scarves are not practical, they’re a problem. By the end of Gentrify, U.S., I had every doc kid knitting their own scarves.”
“You were quite the trendsetter.”
“Us doc kids had to stick together.” I nod.
“That must’ve been so cool,” Nash says. “Being on the road like that. Going place to place. I’m jealous.”
I shrug. “It’s cool. But it’s lonely, too, you know?”
Nash nods. “Yeah, my friend—Kels—it’s the same for her. She’s an army brat, but she says that too.”
My brain screams, You are a lying liar.
I ignore it.
“Okay, I’m sure you get this a lot, and I don’t want to be that person. But I’m totally going to be that person. Have you met any, like, celebrities?” Nash asks, leaning forward in his seat.
“Not to brag, but I went to the Academy Awards last year,” I say with a hair flip.
“No way,” Nash says.
I nod. “Way.”
“That’s so cool,” he says.
“It’s great at first. But you can’t skip through the boring parts when you’re sitting in the audience.”
“Ouch.”
“It’ll be cool when my parents finally win. But also kind of scary. They’ve been working toward their Academy Award for, like, literally my entire life. If they win—when they win—what happens next? Will it be enough?”
Of course, it’s a question without an answer.
Nash takes a long sip of his coffee and Alanis Morissette transitions into a pitchy Jason Mraz.
“I’m jealous of you, you know.” I say this so softly I’m not sure Nash hears me at first.
He looks up at me from the brim of the flat white.
“Why?”
“You have people,” I say.
“So do you,” Nash says.
“I don’t have anyone’s embarrassing diaper pictures or falling off bikes or classroom inside jokes. I don’t have history, not with anyone.”
Nash shrugs.
“You’re lucky,” I say.
“Yeah,” Nash says. “History is relative, though, right? Like someday you’ll look back fondly on your first and only winter formal, in which you lasted approximately thirty minutes before ditching for a chai latte. This’ll be history.”
If my life were a novel, I’d totally kiss him right now.
Instead, I lean back in my chair and listen to the music. Nash’s phone vibrates again on the table, once, twice, three times in a row. Molly, Molly, Molly. He scans through the messages, blushes, rolls his eyes, and then stuffs his phone into his pocket. In that order.
I don’t know what to say next, so I check my own silenced phone. There are a million Molly texts too, ranging from the calm where are you? to the panicked where are you?!?!? to omg please don’t hate me please don’t hate me please—
I lock my phone and toss it in my purse.
We’re quiet through the next few sets, enjoying the mash-up of singer-songwriter and bluegrass music. It occurs to me in this moment that I’ve never had a friend like Nash, not in my entire life. Nash the person, not Nash the pixels. Nash doesn’t make me feel like I need to have something to say all the time. This friendship isn’t based on words.
I can just sit back and listen to the music.
We sit until the lights dim and the music has faded into tomorrow. I need to make a playlist of acoustic covers from tonight and carry it in my pocket. Songs that will remind me of winding up in a coffee shop in lace sleeves and red lipstick, of Nash and Halle in real life, of the most perfect chai latte in the entire world.
* * *
I wake up in the passenger seat of the Prius, Nash shaking my shoulders.
“Halle,” Nash says.
I jump. “What the—?”
“You fell asleep as I was giving my grand moonlight tour of Westport. Can’t say I’m not a little bit offended, but you’re forgiven,” Nash says.
I yawn. “Time?”
“Like, quarter to seven.”
“In the morning?”
I rub my eyes—mascara flaking off from the night before—and blink some moisture back into my sticky contacts. I wipe the drool from the corner of my mouth—oh my God. I try to orient myself. It is tomorrow morning, and I am in Nash’s car. Why am I still in Nash’s car? It’s still dark outside and we’re parked in a spot overlooking the ocean. Ice-gray waves crash against the shore, and not going to lie, my breath catches in my throat when I see that we’re at a beach.
I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen the ocean.
I’m kind of in this half-awake ocean trance, until I catch my reflection in the rearview mirror and see the residue from my once-perfect red lips smudged around my mouth. Instinct—and embarrassment—makes me swipe the back of my hand over my mouth, which admittedly does little to fix the situation.
Nash pops open the center console and hands me a napkin.
I take it, wordless. What do I even say, seriously? Sputter one of my many questions? Why didn’t we go home last night? Why are we at the beach, in December, at dawn? Why do you still look so perfect and I’m, like, a zombie with a half-melted face?
“My parents think I’
m at Molly’s,” Nash says. “But I really didn’t want to go to Molly’s.”
It’s tomorrow. I didn’t come home last night.
I reach for my phone. “Oh my God, Gramps.” I’m going to be grounded until graduation. At least.
“I texted Ollie. You’re at Molly’s too.”
Ollie is going to give me so much shit.
“Where are we?” I ask.
“The beach,” Nash says.
I roll my eyes. “Thanks.”
Nash laughs. “We’re still in Westport. Sherwood Island, technically.”
“Okay. But why—?”
“Give it, like”—he glances at the dashboard clock—“thirteen more minutes.”
“That is specific,” I say.
“Well, sunrises are kind of like that, you know,” Nash says.
That escalated quickly. With the word sunrise, my heart does this weird thing in my chest, like it’s constricting with all its might so it doesn’t explode. I try to decode Nash, his expression, his body language. He can hear my heart, I’m sure of it.
“I haven’t been here in a while, actually,” Nash says, looking toward the ocean. “We used to come here when I was little. Every summer solstice, I’d fall asleep in my bed and wake up at the beach. Nick would try to drag me out of bed. That’s the part I remember the most. But it was also peanut butter banana sandwiches my mom packed in a Goofy cooler and watching the sunrise, the four of us. Together.”
Every time Nash opens up to me, I’m a confusing mix of elation and guilt.
“I love that,” I say.
“Yeah,” Nash says. “It’s one of the few memories of us that I know is mine, so I try to get down here whenever I can. To remember. Molly and I sometimes still make the solstice trip. My mom tried, for a while, but I think it hurts her being here just as much as it helps me. I don’t know if that makes sense.”
“It does,” I say.
“Thanks for being here,” Nash says.
“I mean, it’s not like I had much of a choice,” I say.
Literally, I don’t know why I speak most of the time.
Nash just laughs. “Shut up.”
What I Like About You Page 15
