Shuffle, Repeat(38)

“You’re a good listener or something,” Oliver says, mime-driving us toward our imaginary school.

Because it was a lot to say, because it was brave, I think carefully before I speak again. “In case you didn’t know, you’re pulling it off,” I tell him. “You seem like nothing bothers you and everyone’s your friend and the world is your oyster, so you’re totally pulling it off.”

“Thanks,” says Oliver. “I don’t know if I believe you, but thanks.”

“Hey, I think being perceived as a rock of teenage solidity must be nice, especially considering my own personal angst is pretty much broadcast loud and freaking clear twenty-four/seven—”

“What are you talking about?”

“Life. College and whatever.”

“No, I mean about your own personal angst.” Oliver drops his hands and turns to face me.

“Careful,” I tell him. “You’re going to run us into a ditch.”

“I parked by the side of the road.”

“In the snow?”

“There was a conveniently located parking lot.” He leans toward me. “June, for the record, you don’t broadcast any of that. To all onlookers, you’re stable. You’re the most stable….You’re like…a castle of stability.”

“You’re a liar.” I know damn well I’m much more like a crowd of rowdy peasants rioting in the streets outside a castle.

“I’m not.” Oliver tilts his head, and now that we’re this close and alone, I can again see the charcoal lines circling his brown irises, and the enlargement of his pupils as he peers at me, and the faintest scatter shot of freckles across his cheekbones. I know—I’ve known for years—that Oliver is gorgeous. I know because he’s popular and all the girls want him, and because he has a fancy car and a letter jacket and muscles. But I never liked that kind of boy. I liked boys with messy hair, boys who played guitar or who refused to wear leather or who didn’t believe in God. Boys who wouldn’t conform. Oliver’s particular brand of all-American never did anything for me.

Until now.

Now I’m struck by how good-looking he is—and not just objectively, but how good-looking he has become to me. And how nice and complicated and interesting. And I’m reminded that although Oliver hasn’t defied society’s expectations, he has defied mine, and maybe that’s a thousand times more compelling.

And a million times more dangerous.

Because I’m already there, and because this moment is fleeting and fragile, I take a tiny step further into the danger. “You know my castle of supposed stability?” I ask him. “It’s surrounded by a moat.”

“What’s in your moat?” Oliver asks.

Insecurity. Self-doubt. Fear.

But I’ve already said too much. I look at my wrist like I’m checking a watch and then gesture toward the Ping-Pong table. “We’re going to be late for school.”

Oliver gazes at me, his eyes roving over my face, before he pulls away and turns forward. “Let’s get moving,” he says, and swings our imaginary car back onto our imaginary road.

? ? ?

We’re in the kitchen again, completing the re-bundling so Oliver can walk me home. “Ready?” he asks.

“Almost.” I pull my jacket sleeves over the cuffs of my mittens.

We’re heading toward the foyer when we hear Marley calling for us to hold on. She scurries into the kitchen and sees us stopped under the arch. “Oh, good. You’re still here. June, I have something for your mom. Wait just a second, okay?” She darts off before I can answer.

I look up at Oliver. “It’s not going to be a sewing machine or a pair of heavy bookends or something, is it?”

“If so, I will carry your burden,” he says in a (bad) British accent and then he bows, which I think is intended to be gallant. I laugh, and when I do, I catch sight of what’s hanging above us.

Mistletoe.

Oliver sees two things: my glance and also the way my laughter cuts off abruptly. I start to step backward, out of the minefield, but he takes hold of my upper arms and I allow it. I let him keep me there, under the mistletoe, looking down into my eyes while my boyfriend is in Florida and Oliver’s girlfriend is…

Actually, I have no idea where Ainsley is.

Oliver must see the turmoil on my face, because he gives me the gentlest of smiles. “It’s okay, June.” He leans over and grazes my cheek with his lips. They’re softer than I would have guessed. Warmer. Sweeter.

I suddenly realize I’ve closed my eyes, and I pop them back open. Oliver’s smile morphs into a grin. “Nailed it.” My eyebrows rise in a question, which he answers. “Tradition.”

He’s turned it into our playlist. Lightened the mood. Changed the meaning of the moment.

It’s the right thing to do.

“Mistletoe is an American cultural tradition,” I inform him, playing along. “Not a high school one.”

“Still,” he says, and I relent.

“Fine. You can have a song.”

“Cutting Crew or Heart?” Oliver taps his chin in mock consideration, and I give an overly dramatic sigh. “I’m torn. What do you think?”

“I found it!” Marley rushes back in, waving a paper at me. “It’s the gift certificate for a massage that I traded your mom.”