I quickly remove my hand.
“You were so sweet afterward,” I say.
He glances at me. “I was always so sweet.”
It chastens me.
“You were. You spoiled me. I’m not sure I ever thanked you for that.”
He shakes his head. “You don’t have to thank people for being nice to you.”
“Maybe you should when you’re bad at reciprocating it.”
I don’t just mean in high school. I mean in life. But especially with him.
“Youwerenice to me, Molly. You just have a different way of showing it.”
“Yeah. An alienating one.”
He gives me a long look. “Are you okay?”
“What do you mean? Yeah. Of course.”
“You seem like you might be depressed or something.”
“I’m actually not depressed,” I lie. “Which is a rare and momentous occasion for me.”
“Good.”
“I guess I’m just doing the thing you told me I do. Deflecting my feelings.”
“What are your feelings?”
Sadness that I let him get away.
“Oh, I don’t know,” I say. “Nostalgia for the past, perhaps.”
He nods. “I suppose we bring it out in each other. Talking to you is like fanning through my high school yearbook while listening to Dashboard Confessional.”
“Pretty sure that’s not a compliment.”
“Oh come on. You loved emo.”
“I did not! That was all you, Rubenstein.”
“Oh right. You loved NSYNC.”
“Don’t make me turn this car around.”
“You wouldn’t dare. Then you’d be stuck with me.”
Stuck with him. God, I wish.
I’m so stupid. He’s been here for days, and instead of trying to reach out I just looked at my phone a lot, wondering if he would text me. And now he’s leaving, and things are weird, and all I want to do is tell him the feelings he confessed all those months ago turned out to be mutual.
I’m carrying a torch, too.
We pass the first sign for LAX.
