Leah on the Offbeat(42)

And the catch in her voice when I showed her my drawing. I love it so much. Leah. I’m going to cry.

She’d looked at me then, her eyes practically liquid. If I’d been just a little braver, I swear to God, I would have kissed her. It would have been easy. Just the tiniest lean forward.

But then she’d tucked her legs up onto the ledge and clasped her hands together. “Can I tell you a secret?” She studied my face for a minute, and then pressed her hands to her cheeks, smiling. “Wow, I’m really nervous.”

It was strange. She’d seemed breathless.

“Why are you nervous?”

“Because. I don’t know.” Then she poked the edge of my drawing. “God. I really love this. I know exactly what moment that was.”

“Okay,” I’d said quietly.

Then her hand brushed close to mine, and my organs rearranged themselves. That’s literally how it felt. Like someone stirred me up from the inside. I drew my knees up to my chest, feeling sharp-edged and awkward. Abby glanced at me for a split second, touched her mouth, and blinked.

“You know, my bus is probably here.” She swallowed. “I should get down to the loading dock.”

“So you’re just going to leave me hanging on the secret, Suso?”

She smiled faintly. “Maybe I’ll tell you tomorrow.”

But she didn’t. She texted me once. Happy birthday, with a balloon emoji. I wrote back, thanks, with a smiley face.

And that was it. No reply.

By Monday, everything was painfully normal. No more nervous glances. No weirdness. Abby and Nick spent all of English class jostling and play-fighting on the couch. At lunch, Abby and Simon yammered on about play rehearsal. It was like the secret had evaporated.

And now Abby’s staring at my face like I’m a movie in another language. Like she’s looking for the subtitles. “It’s just what?” she asks finally.

“Sorry?”

“You trailed off, mid-thought.”

“Oh.” I stare at my hands.

She pauses. “If you don’t want to talk about it—”

“Okay,” I say quickly.

“Okay what?”

“Okay, I don’t want to talk about it.”

And Abby rolls her eyes, just barely.

We spend our first evening in Athens eating popchips and watching Tiny House Hunters. There’s a young, white hipster couple featured today—though I guess that’s every day. They’re named Alicia and Lyon, and Lyon keeps using words like repurposed and sustainable.

“This can’t be real,” Abby says.

“Oh, it’s real.”

“How does this even work? Where are they keeping their car?”

“They’re keeping their old house. They’re putting the tiny house in the backyard.”

“My God,” Abby says, pressing her lips together. She shakes her head at the TV. Then, a beat later: “Hey, we should order those cookies that come in pizza boxes.”

“Dude.”

“Right?” Abby says.

And in this moment, it’s easy to imagine this working. This friendship. Maybe we really could be roommates. We could hang around in pajamas and Skype with Simon and eat cookies every night and make straight As all the time. She can have a boyfriend, I can hopelessly pine for some sophomore, and we’ll be legit best friends. At least I wouldn’t have to live with a stranger.

But then sometime around eleven, Abby yawns and stretches. “I think I’m ready to go to sleep.”

And suddenly, I’m very aware that Caitlin only has one bed.

“I can sleep on the couch,” I say quickly.

“What?” Abby looks at me like I’m speaking total nonsense. “That’s ridiculous. It’s a king-sized bed. It’s literally the size of Lyon and Alicia’s house.”

“That’s true.”

And okay. I’m being ridiculous. Abby and I have shared floor space this small dozens of times, at Simon’s house and Nick’s house and every group sleepover. Even the car ride here forced us closer together. We could probably have three feet of empty space between us if we wanted to.

And anyway, it’s just Abby.

But there’s something about it being a bed.

She watches my face, brow wrinkling. “Or I could take the couch.”

“No way. Caitlin’s your friend.”

“Well, she’s my cousin’s girlfriend’s friend’s sister.”

“Right.” I smile slightly. “Whatever. It’s fine.”

Of course it’s fine.





19


I WAKE UP TO THE patter of rain on Caitlin’s balcony. Abby’s already awake. She’s sitting cross-legged against the headboard, reading Harry Potter.

A wave of panic hits me. It’s hard to explain, but the thought of Abby watching me sleep makes me want to throw up. Not that she was watching me. I mean, she’s pretty absorbed in her book. But right now, my brain is dead set on reminding me how gross I look when I’m sleeping. My mouth was probably hanging open. I was probably snoring.

“Oh, you’re up!” Abby says, folding down the corner of the page.

I gape at her. “Did you just dog-ear Harry Potter?”