You Have a Match(64)

“Abby,” says Savvy, her voice low and encouraging. “I don’t want to waste a bunch of time telling you how untrue all of that is.”

“Then don’t. The last thing I need is one of your Instagram pep talks.”

She frowns but doesn’t back down. Instead she squares her shoulders, her resolve hardening. “It isn’t about Instagram. If you would just be receptive to a little advice—”

“Because that’s done wonders for me.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

What it’s supposed to mean is that I did listen to her. I worked up the nerve to tell Leo my feelings, and before I could get a word out he crushed them into fine dust. I got over my self-consciousness and tried to show my parents my photos, and they didn’t care enough to look. Every piece of “advice” Savvy has given me has led me down a path where I’m worse off than before.

“You act like you know everything, like you have the answers to fix everyone, but you’re just as messed up as the rest of us, Savvy.” Her eyes are wide from a blow I haven’t even landed yet, but it doesn’t stop me from throwing it. “I saw those old pictures. You used to be fun and hang out with your friends, but that stupid Instagram is your whole personality now. You’re just a control freak with nice hair.”

She blinks hard, hurt flashing in her eyes, and I’ve done it—cracked the impenetrable force that is Savannah Tully. All these years of holding it in, of not letting myself get angry, and now I’ve gone so far over the edge I don’t know how to get back.

“That’s not fair,” Savvy says, so quietly I almost don’t hear it.

Of course it isn’t. None of this is fair. But I can’t hold my tears back long enough to answer. I point myself in the direction of the nearest trail, wait until I am out of her line of sight, and start to bawl.





twenty-six




By the time I slink into the kitchen after dinner I am less of a girl and more of an emotionally derailed swamp creature, my face puffy, my hair in so many directions no tie could hope to tame it. I can’t decide how to be when I walk in—sheepish, defensive, or apologetic—but Leo’s there, with a plate of food next to him that has way too many Flamin’ Hot Cheetos on the side to be meant for anyone but me, and all pretense goes out the window.

“You heard our little sideshow?”

Leo nudges the plate across the counter. “Clear as Day.”

I’m too upset by everything else in my life that it eclipses any reason I have to be upset with him. Even when I am at my worst he knows exactly what to say to soften my edges, still looks at me like I am something precious to him.

I let out my usual groan, and our bit has played out, some tentative order between us restored. I’m bracing myself for Leo to try to make peace between me and Savvy, but he lowers his voice and says, “Do you want to talk about it?”

I do, but I don’t. I do, but not right now, when there’s really nothing to say that doesn’t lead me right back where I started: mad at everyone, but mostly at myself.

“I’m too hungry.”

He lets out a laugh and grabs the plate and walks over to me, but instead of handing it over, he sets it down on the shiny metal counter by the door. Then he puts his hands on my shoulders, this quiet beat of asking permission. I don’t even let myself look him in the eye. I lean in the rest of the way, because I’m tired. I’m so tired. My brain feels hollowed out and my heart hurts, and if I really do have to quit Leo, maybe I can put it off until tomorrow, when I leave camp for good.

I burrow my face into his shirt, into sweat and cinnamon, a little bitter, a little sweet.

“I’m sorry I ditched you for dinner,” I mumble into him.

There’s no way any regular human could decipher what I said, but Leo still manages. “When you didn’t come back I was worried something happened to you.”

I stiffen, only because it’s hard to tack the guilt of that onto the guilt of everything else.

“I know,” he says, misinterpreting the stiffness. “Yet again—what did you call it?—Benvolio-ing you.”

I pull away, nudging his shoulder with the heel of my hand.

“It’s probably my last night here,” I tell him.

Leo nods, pulling back to look at me. He tilts his head toward the door. We wander outside, wordlessly settling back on the bench where we watched the lightning streak—except this time the sun is only just starting to set, the sky clear enough that we can see the light gleaming across the water and the beginnings of yellows and oranges where mountains meet the sky.

Leo and I sit with a full foot of distance between us, an invisible barrier. I can’t decide whether it’s a disappointment or a relief, so I decide not to decide at all. Instead I tuck into the dinner Leo saved for me, only realizing just how hungry I am once I take the first bite and start coming at it like a lion.

“What is this?”

Leo glances toward the water. “Pork menudo. Another Filipino dish. Mickey taught me how to make it,” he says, embarrassed but pleased. “Except traditionally there aren’t Flamin’ Hot Cheetos crushed into it.”

I crack a smile. He knows me too well. “I’m glad you and Mickey laid down your spatulas and decided to make peace.”