I sit and glance out the cafeteria window, awed by a vast landscape of yellow and orange leaves caressing the stone building of Fallbrook.
“Here.”
I jump at the sound of Zayne’s voice. Or maybe it’s his voice, combined with the giant thud of the enormous text he drops on the table.
“What’s this?” I gape at the book, tilting my head to read the upside-down words.
“Emma,” he states. “Jane Austen. You’ll love it.”
I frown. “How do you know?”
“I thought you said you were versed in the classics.” He shakes his head. “You love the movieClueless. AndCluelessis a modern retelling ofEmma.”
My lips part. “You’re kidding.” I touch the cover with my index finger. “And that was a lie, Zayne. Obviously, I’m notfamiliar with the classics because I don’t like to read.” I point to myself. “Phony, remember?”
“Well, that changes here and now. Yale, here you come.” He tries not to smile. So serious.
Zayne starts to walk away, but I stand up and shout after him. “Do you really expect me to read this? I haven’t even finished reading our script!”
At that, he turns. “Yikes, Dot.”
“It’s not that I don’t want to. But it’s not the same, reading it alone. Maybe we should run lines together soon so I can get through it faster.”Becauseapparently, three rehearsals a week after school aren’t enough for me. I just have to torture myself with his presence more than necessary.
He shakes his head. “Why don’t you just come over after school? We can run lines all week if you want. My grandma will be home, so you don’t have to worry about whatever it was you were worried about last time.”
At that I blush. “Alright.”
“Alright.” He looks at me pointedly, like I might forget to actually show up even though I just said I would.
After he leaves, I sit back down and glance at the book he left me on the table.Emma.I touch the creased paperback cover, then pick up the book so I can read the back. The spine looks like it’s been cracked over and over, and the image of Zayne reading this book pops into my head. It makes me smile. Especially because I’m pretty sure Jane Austen strictly writes romance.
Before I can read the summary on the back of the book, Carlton plucks it out of my hand. Where did he even come from?
“Reading this for school?” he asks, scanning the cover as he sits beside me.
“No.” Wait, why did I say no? Now I’ll have to tell him Zayne gave it to me! “It’s—uh,” I pause like I’m distracted instead ofclamoring for the words that will save me. “My favorite movie is based on it, apparently.”
“What movie?Bridesmaids?”
“No.Clueless.”
“Oh.”
An awkward silence falls upon us. I cross my ankles. Uncross them. Recross them again. It’s strange sitting here with Carlton after basically texting Zayne all weekend. Even when Carlton came to drop off the soup on Friday, I’d barely uttered a word to him. Just thanked him for the soup and he left. Now, it feels like I’ve distanced myself from him. Whether intentionally or not, it’s practically palpable between us.
A strange, sudden instinct overtakes me—a desperation to see if the connection I had with Carlton at the start of the summer is still here, or beginning to dwindle away, like the leftover sparks from a burnt-out flame. I stand. “Carlton?”
“What?”
“Kiss me.” The words sound ridiculous, and Carlton must think so too because he stares at me with his brows in a deep V.
“Why?”
I huff out a sigh. “Are you seriously questioning a kiss?”
The V melts away and he laughs. “No, I guess not.” He stands up, too, until he’s right in front of me. Leaning in, he touches his lips to mine, anchoring me in place with his hand on my waist.
I shut my eyes. I await the usual fluttering in my stomach at his affection, the yearning in my veins. Something.Anythingto prove that I’m overthinking things, that my connection with Carlton isn’t disappearing.
