What I Like About You

by Marisa Kanter

  Bye, Kels.

  SEVENTEEN

  Fireflies and You fandom is the definition of extra.

  It’s ten-thirty p.m., and the line for the midnight premiere nearly wraps around the building. It’s mostly tweens and teens, all dressed in F&Y swag from the official Alanna LaForest Shoppe. Some even have brought the book with them and are rereading it in line. It’s a sea of book covers—both the original and movie tie-in editions—everyone counting down the moments until their favorite book comes to life.

  All the tension on Book Twitter? In this moment, it doesn’t exist.

  “I hate you,” Autumn says.

  Okay. So much for no tension. Her voice is muffled because she has a thick purple scarf wrapped around her face. It’s January in Connecticut, meaning waiting for anything outside should be illegal. We’re all huddled together like a cluster of penguins, trying to steal each other’s body heat.

  “I keep my double pinky swears,” Molly says. “Autumn and I were obsessed with Fireflies and You when it first came out.”

  “Obsessed is a strong word,” Autumn says.

  “Obsessed,” Molly reiterates. “It’s kind of the reason we’re best friends.”

  “I’d prefer not to give Alanna LaForest credit for our friendship, k thanks.” Autumn shivers. “She doesn’t even want us here. Every opportunity she has, she says that her books aren’t for us—that this movie shouldn’t be for us.”

  “Can’t you just, like, separate the art from the artist?” Molly asks. “And remember the good times? This means something to me.”

  “Me too,” I whisper.

  Autumn looks at me and her expression softens, then she turns back to Molly. “Halle gets a Grief Pass. You don’t. Alanna acts like her teen fans are less than. Look around. Look who’s here and who she’s profiting from. Doesn’t that piss you off?”

  “Yet here we are,” Sawyer says, as the line inches forward.

  “It sucks,” Nash says.

  “Tell that to your girlfriend,” Autumn says.

  Nash takes a step backward as if the wind has been knocked out of him.

  I bury my face in my scarf.

  “Autumn,” Molly says, her voice low.

  Autumn crosses her arms over her chest. “What? Kels has a platform to call out Alanna, but instead chooses to post Twitter chats and fifteen feelings about fireflies and you, in memes, or whatever. I don’t know if she’s afraid to speak out because Alanna’s fandom is ruthless—or if she’s still very much a part of the ruthless fandom and doesn’t want to alienate the critics. Either way, she’s playing both sides like we’re too stupid to notice.”

  Oh my God—Autumn reads OTP?

  Nash opens his mouth to speak, but I cut him off. “Maybe Kels doesn’t know what to say.”

  I don’t.

  “That’s not an excuse,” Autumn says. “Kels’s silence? It’s so loud. She’s a total coward, Nash! Like, she can’t not have an opinion.”

  “Autumn.” Molly’s voice lowers. “I think we can all agree that Alanna is gross. But she’s not even affiliated with the movie so—”

  “So what?” Autumn cuts Molly off. “You know what? I’m not giving my money to this movie, to her, especially not when there’s a new Barry Jenkins film that deserves support playing across town.” She picks her backpack filled with contraband snacks off the ground, tosses it over her shoulder, and marches toward the parking lot.

  Molly chases Autumn and Sawyer follows Molly and somehow, only Nash and I are left in line.

  “I get why you want to see this movie,” Nash says. “I do too.”

  Do I want to see this movie? For the first time, I let myself think about this—what I think, without all the contributing factors and interests. Even without Grams.

  Do I want to see it?

  Not really. It hits me all once. Alanna has had every opportunity to apologize to the teens she has hurt. She has not. Alanna brushed off my cupcakes in an interview like it didn’t matter. I didn’t let it hurt until Autumn called out a truth that’s so painfully obvious, even Grams would agree. This is just wrong. This whole time I let myself be caught in the middle, believing I didn’t have a choice. But I can love Fireflies and You as Halle and criticize Alanna as Kels. That’s supposed to be the whole point of Kels! Clearly, Halle has influenced One True Pastry just as much Kels has complicated my real life.

  We’re not the same—but maybe we’re not as distinct as I’ve always believed.

  So it’s clear to me now that Kels would never see this movie.

  And as for me, I can love the book that Grams helped create, but that also doesn’t mean I have to see the movie either.

  “Autumn is right,” I say. “If Alanna doesn’t think her teen audience is valid, why are we throwing the little money we, as teens, actually have at her?”

  “I guess I don’t think about it like that,” Nash says. “I think I loved the book, the creative team behind the movie is awesome, and I want to support them—not Alanna.”

  “I know,” I say, digesting this.

  Our phones simultaneously light up with a text from Molly.

  Molly Jacobson

  There’s an 11:30 showing of the Barry Jenkins movie at the Omni. I can’t see F&Y when A’s like this. You coming?

  10:57 PM

  Tonight is supposed to be sharing popcorn and staying out too late with Le Crew. Part of me wants to stay, to be with Nash, to pretend like it’s a date. But it’s not. And I know now I can’t give my money to this film, not when Autumn slayed me with the truth like that. I’ll deal with the Kels consequences in the morning.

  I look at him. “I’m going to go.”

  His eyebrows rise, surprised. “Really? Okay.”

  I shoot Molly a text before I change my mind. “Yeah. Let me know if Grams would’ve approved, okay?”

  I walk away from Nash before he responds, heading toward the front of the theater, my arms wrapped around myself because it’s so cold. Molly says they’ll wait for me at the curb and, wow, I am having a Feeling—because I’ve never had people like this, people who will wait up for me.

  “Halle. Wait!”

  I turn around at the sound of Nash’s voice. He’s here, not in his spot in line. And it was a decent spot, too, only maybe a third of the way back. He’s here, his hood fallen in his haste to catch me, revealing a green-and-white knitted Celtics hat. Under the streetlights, his nose is bright red, and I see his breath every time he exhales.

  “I’m coming too,” Nash says.

  Now it’s my eyebrows that rise. “Really?” I think back to his offer to see this with Kels. The Kels who isn’t speaking to him. The Bye, Kels.

  “Let’s go,” he says.

  “Are you sure?”

  Nash stuffs his hands in his jacket pockets and nods. “Yeah. I want to see a movie with my friends. I want to see a movie with you.”

  I want to see a movie with you.

  We wave to Molly to go ahead and I follow Nash to his car, processing what this means, thankful my face is already red from the bitter cold.

  * * *

  Damn you and your beautiful movies, Barry Jenkins.

  Seriously, the way he’s able to capture the smallest moments is breathtaking.

  How I’m even paying attention when Nash’s arm keeps brushing against mine is a testament to his cinematic skills, honestly. It keeps happening—every time Nash whispers an observation in my ear or offers me more popcorn or a sip of his cherry slushee. During a tense moment between the main character and his father, Nash’s arm is against mine for ten whole seconds.

  Yeah, I counted.

  Ten-second arm touching is not an accident. It’s definitely a lot more than not awkward.

  To my right, Molly and Sawyer are holding hands. Autumn is on the end crying into her popcorn and thank goodness I’m not the only one wiping away tears.

  By the time the credits role, we’re up to thirty-two arm-brushing incidents.

  We exit the
theater, Autumn, Nash, and I trailing behind Molly and Sawyer. They’re always holding hands, and I hate how much I want that. Despite all the friend zone conversation, I would reach out and hold Nash’s hand right now if I could. I hate that in an alternate universe, I could.

  Nash bumps against me on the way to his car and my God, why can’t he stop touching me? I’m going to pop a blood vessel before this night ends. My heart rate spikes and my palms start to sweat and it’s a rush of blood to the head every time Nash’s skin brushes against mine.

  I know he’s not going to take my hand, even if he’s feeling what I’m feeling, because of Kels. Even if he’s mad at her, mad at the silence, those feelings don’t just go away.

  I know I should want it to stop. But I also know that I don’t.

  We say goodbye to the rest of Le Crew and the drive home is filled with car karaoke, film banter, and thought spirals. Every time Nash looks at me and cracks a joke, I think about brushing my arm against his one more time, or running my fingers through his messy hair, or holding the hand that’s resting against the gearshift. The thirty-minute drive back to Middleton passes too fast.

  Nash can’t maneuver up my snowy driveway in his tiny Prius, so he shifts the car into park at the sidewalk. Middleton was slammed with a blizzard over New Year’s—and I never want the snow to melt. Snow means puffer coats and knitted mittens, learning the shape of my breath, and vats of hot chocolate.

  I open the passenger door even though that’s the last thing I want to do.

  “Thanks for the ride.”

  Nash opens his door too. “I can walk you up, um, if you want.”

  I nod, even though Nash has never, not once, walked me up. “Okay.”

  We walk along the snow-covered grass, avoiding the icy driveway.

  “Sorry, but I still can’t believe you cried.” He laughs.

  “And my tears are funny to you because—?”

  “It wasn’t a sad movie?”

  I swat his arm with my hand, because if Nash can do flirty touching, so can I.

  “Can’t I just cry because something is beautiful?”

  Nash smiles. “You can. But I will laugh at you. Always.”

  The way Nash says always, well, my heart actually skips. Because I have tried so hard to justify my secret, to write Nash off as just a boy, as transient, to avoid doing the hard thing—and then he uses words like always and reminds me that whatever this is doesn’t have to be temporary if I can just figure out the right words to explain everything. Even if we’re only ever just friends.

  But the way Nash looks at me, I don’t think he wants to be just friends. I have no clue what’s changed. What about Kels? I know it should matter, but I think of what Ollie said. I’m Kels. I can explain that to him in a way that makes sense. Everything will change, but for the first time, I’m not afraid.

  So I stand on my tiptoes, close my eyes, and kiss him.

  Because I can. Because I want to. Because I’m going to tell him everything.

  It’s a quick kiss. I press my cold lips against his and … Nash just, like, becomes a statue. I mean, I am getting nothing from him and oh my God what did I do?

  I step back.

  Nash blinks.

  Embarrassment slays me.

  “Can we talk?” I blurt out.

  The cold air whips through the space between us. If I were Kels, I’d delete that last sentence before I hit send. Come up with something witty. Actually, it doesn’t even need to be eloquent or profound or witty. Not a cliché will do.

  “I really, really don’t want to just talk to you, Halle.”

  His lips smash against mine before I even have a chance to process the words. Lips that are ice cold, but the kiss is fire and I melt into him. Nash’s hands are on my hips and mine are in his perfect hair and oh my God, I am kissing Nash.

  Nash is kissing me. Halle.

  When the kiss breaks, it’s like coming up for air, except I don’t want air anymore.

  “Wow,” Nash says.

  “Wow,” I say.

  I know I should say something, but now I really, really don’t want to talk either. And then Nash kisses me again and my mind goes blank. I forget who I am, where I am, and how to be a rational human. All sense of dignity flies out the window because I taste the want in Nash’s kiss. I get lost in that want, in his hands on the small of my back and my hands on his face, pulling him closer to me, if that’s even possible.

  It’s possible.

  Until he pulls away.

  “Is this okay?” he asks.

  “Kels,” I say.

  I mean to form a full sentence. To blurt it out, lay it all on the table while my head is still foggy from Nash’s kiss, in this moment when we are so close.

  I am Kels.

  Nash’s mouth parts in a perfect O and his arms drop. “We should—”

  I step back. “Yeah, we should.”

  It’s almost two-thirty, according my cell phone. If we go inside, Scout will a hundred and ten percent wake the entire house up. Don’t wake me up was literally what Gramps said when I asked if I could go to the movies tonight, when I told him it’d mean I’d be out past curfew. But we can’t leave it like this, so we walk back down the driveway to Nash’s car. I don’t realize I’m shivering until he cranks the heat. We sit side by side in the front seats, looking straight ahead. There’s an awkwardness to this moment, like the weight of what just happened slaps us in the face, but there’s somehow still a charge in the air between us, too.

  Nash chews on his bottom lip.

  I play with my hair.

  “So,” Nash says at the same time I say, “Kels, I—”

  “I’m so into you,” Nash blurts, followed immediately by his deep blush. “Kels doesn’t matter. It’s just imaginary internet bullshit I’ve held on to since I was, like, fourteen. I spent so much time waiting for her to give me a hint, but it’s never going to happen. Seriously. Kels isn’t real. This—you, are. Real, I mean. This is real.”

  Kels isn’t real.

  “I can’t believe I just said that out loud,” Nash says.

  Words, Halle. Form words.

  Nash waits for me to say something, but I can’t. Nash chose me, but Kels isn’t real. And I get it, but she also is. She’s half of me, half of us in a way—but now she’s reduced to just a series of zeroes and ones sending messages to a boy who loves graphic novels. For Nash, this supposed “hiatus” isn’t temporary. Kels and Nash? That’s over.

  Truth is a bomb; it’ll desecrate this moment.

  I don’t know how to form the words, so I lean forward and kiss Nash.

  Because it’s easy. Because I’m Halle, and I’m so into him, too.

  Because Kels isn’t real.

  From: Alyssa Peterson

  To: Kels Roth

  unique cupcake inquiry!

  Hi Kels,

  Thank you so much again for the FANTASTIC cover reveal for Read Between the Lies. Ariel just about died when she saw your #CupcakeCoverReveal—and this might sound crazy, but we were wondering if you do catering?

  Okay, hear me out. Ariel is launching Read

  Between the Lies at Central Square Books in Boston on April 6th—we would LOVE to have OTP cupcakes at the event! Obviously, we don’t know where you’re based or how realistic this is. However, if there’s any way this can happen, we believe that it will bring amazing publicity to both Read Between the Lies and OTP. And of course, there will be compensation.

  Let me know if this is something you’d be

  interested in!

  Best,

  Alyssa Peterson

  Senior Publicist—Spark Books

  apeterson@sparkbooks.com | 212-555-5059

  EIGHTEEN

  I wake up to the smell of bacon and eggs.

  Gramps is at the stove, frying the turkey bacon. Ollie is chopping veggies to the beat of Fleetwood Mac’s “Go Your Own Way.” Scout runs around in circles, sniffing our s
craps. I pause in the hallway to watch the well-oiled machine that is Gramps and Ollie making breakfast together and wow, my heart is so happy.

  “Morning, Hal,” Gramps says. “How was the movie?”

  I hope my lips don’t look as raw as they feel.

  “Fun,” I say. “Super fun. Yeah, so fun!”

  “Sounds … fun,” Ollie repeats.

  We lock eyes and I hope mine scream, We need to talk!!

  He gets the message and his look replies, My room after omelets!!

  Gramps smiles. “I’m glad. Breakfast?”

  I plop into my chair at the kitchen table. “Please.”

  Gramps slides a plate in front of me and I basically inhale the fluffy egg, cheesey turkey bacon goodness. Not as good as regular bacon, but Gramps keeps the no pork part of kosher, which means we can’t have the real deal. Usually, I have a jab or two in me to complain about it, but this morning I’m too famished/anxious to care.

  Ollie’s eyebrows ask, What’s going on?

  My pursed lips scream, News! News, I have!

  I don’t know how I’m so calm because my insides are exploding with all the gooey shit that comes with kissing someone for the first time. It’s the aftereffects of the kiss that remind me it happened, it was real, I didn’t dream it or read it or make it up. I kissed Nash and he kissed me back and I am already thinking about kissing him again.

  I’m dying slowly through the longest breakfast ever, I swear. When we’re finished eating, we help Gramps clean up, thank him for the awesome breakfast, and then bolt upstairs to Ollie’s room.

  “Tell me everything!” Ollie whisper-screams.

  I don’t speak until the door clicks shut behind me. The moment it does, I spill the details of the entire night, from the flirty beginning, to the awkward middle bit, to the perfect ending. I love telling Ollie stories because he is the best listener—he animates at all the right moments.

  “Finally!” Ollie says.

  “I know.”

  “I told you so.”

  “You did.”

  Ollie plugs his laptop into the TV monitor on his desk and opens Toy Story because it’s the only appropriate thing to do when something major happens. Toy Story is one of our many things—we got in heated toddler fights about Woody vs. Buzz.