“You like her,” she says. “You like her, and you don’t want her to be embarrassed or upset.”
“Sure, I like her.” The words are uncomfortable as I go on, “She’s a great friend.”
“She is,” Poppy agrees, “but that’s not what I meant, and you know it. Youlikeher. You have romantic feelings for her.”
“Of course I don’t.” I hesitate. “She’s off-limits.”
“Those things are not mutually exclusive,” Poppy says—sounding far too reasonable, I might add. “You can have feelings for someone who’s off-limits. I also happen to disagree about that part.”
My heart ticks up in speed. “About which part?”
“The off-limits part. I don’t think she’s off-limits, as long as certain conditions are met.”
Something deep inside of me jumps, hopeful, eager to hear more.
“Such as?” I try very hard to sound as though I’m only vaguely interested in her opinion. Casual—that’s what I am. I am casually asking a casual question, the casual answer to which probably has no bearing on me anyway.
“Such asif you were ever to pursue India, she would have to be your endgame. You could not pursue her lightheartedly. Ever.”
“Obviously,” I say without thinking. “But some things you can’t tell until you’re actually with someone.”
“I agree. You would have to weigh the pros and cons,” Poppy says. “Is the possibility of being with her worth the risk of Cyrus’s wrath if things go south? Is it worth potentially messing up whatever friendship you and she already have in place? Those are questions you would need to ask yourself.”
“I don’t like her romantically,” I say again, a parrot repeating the same thing over and over.
“Of course,” Poppy says sarcastically. “My bad. You’re friends. You feel the same way about her that you feel about me.”
My nose wrinkles without my permission. I smooth out my expression at once and thank my lucky stars Poppy can’t see me.
“Tell me,” she goes on after a second. “How did you feel when I said that just now? Did it feel gross to consider me the same way you consider India?”
What—now she’s psychic?
“I didn’t—it isn’t—” But I break off. Then, finally giving up the act, I sigh. “I don’t know if I like her, okay? I don’t know.”
“Well, you’d better be sure if you make a move.”
“I know,” I say heavily. “I know.”
But when I get home and slump down on my bed, racking my brain for my next step forward, I can’t help but feel like I don’t actually know anything at all.
INDIA
It should not takethis much time or effort to set up a simple dating profile.
To be fair, the version I’m using is the free trial version, which is probably not as user-friendly as the pro version. The free trial will last for one month; after that I’ll be suckered into paying for a subscription.
But I spent last night researching which sites are best for online dating, and so far, this one has the best reviews. The best dating site in the world couldn’t save me from myself, though, and right now, that’s what I need help with.
“A short biography,” I mutter, adjusting the pillows behind me so I’m more upright. It may be ten in the morning, but it’s also a Saturday, so yes—I’m still in bed. Or, rather, I’mbackin bed. I’ve gotten up and brushed my teeth and whatnot; I just haven’t put on real clothes yet, and I climbed right back under my covers when I decided to set up this stupid profile.
May as well be comfortable.
What exactly do they mean by a short biography? Something enticing? A background history? Something clever and funny?
I sigh, letting my head flop back against my headboard.
“What’s all this noise you’re making?” Juliet says as she waltzes into the room. She flits over to her side and sits on her bed—pink comforter, fuzzy throw pillows, pink-and-white-striped sheets.
