Begin Again(59)

“Nice try, but you’re not getting all the Flynn family secrets out of me today.”

He produces a scrunchie that looks older than we are and hands it to me. I pull the cloth from my forehead and Milo leans in to peer at it, the pale green of his eyes so close and so focused that I don’t even bother to stop myself from staring at them.

“This is gonna sting.”

I wince when Milo dabs at my forehead with the alcohol wipe, but the adrenaline is still too loud in me to really feel all that much. Another gust of wind hits the shed and rattles the walls and the doorknob like a giant is trying to smash the place down. Milo doesn’t even seem to notice, pressing a bandage to my forehead with such careful precision that even I stop breathing for a moment.

“Thank you,” I say.

Milo just shrugs, taking a seat next to me on the box and frowning at the tiny little window next to the door.

“I can’t believe how hard it’s coming down out there. That was like something out of a movie.”

“And yet you were willing to get squashed by a tree for a ribbon anyway,” says Milo, his tone a mix of exasperation and the kind of familiarity that feels deeper than it should, with the two of us so close together.

I close my eyes, the embarrassment swooping in faster than the wind outside. “You probably think I’m an idiot, huh?”

Milo just stares at the floor thoughtfully. “You want to be in one of these societies that bad?”

I grab at the damp fabric on the knees of my jeans. “Yeah. I . . .”

It’s not a secret, but it’s still mine—mine and Grandma Maeve’s and even my dad’s. A piece of my mom that doesn’t belong to anyone outside of us, at least not anyone I’ve ever known. But it doesn’t feel strange to tell Milo, once the words start spilling out. It feels like a relief.

“My mom was in one of them. I don’t know which. You don’t get to find out which society alumni were in unless you qualify for them, and I’m just . . . so worried I won’t have enough.”

Milo watches my hands, still clutching at the denim like I’m holding on to the ribbons themselves. “You’re on track to get plenty.”

“Yeah, for me. But I need more for Connor.” I bite my lower lip to stop myself from saying it, but it doesn’t work: “Not that it matters now.”

“What’s that mean?”

I’m almost grateful for the sting of my forehead. It’s just the distraction I need to keep myself from tearing up again. “He’s failing some classes. I don’t think he’ll be able to transfer back.”

Milo seems to have taken that argument we had in his car to heart, too. “So you’ll just be long distance,” he says.

I don’t answer because I know if I do, it’ll be some way of dancing around the truth. And the truth is that Connor and I are no good at long distance. I probably knew it last semester. I still didn’t want to believe it when I was giving advice about it on the broadcast. I know it for certain now. If we’re going to have a future together, we have to be together.

And if Connor can’t be here—if that future is really gone—then every other part of it shifts, too. The same way it did when my mom died. The same way it did when I lost the nerve I used to have for talking to crowds. I don’t know what losing Connor would look like, but I’ve lost enough now to know it will leave a mark.

I swallow hard. I don’t want to think about transferring back. I don’t want to think about giving it up: not Shay and Milo and Valeria, not our friends at Cardinal, not Bagelopolis or the radio show or even this moment right now, stranded in the middle of a thundersnow storm with a boy who has an uncanny knack for cutting through the things I don’t say to the things we both know.

“Wait,” I say, sitting up straight. “Why were you knocking on my door earlier?”

“I . . .” Milo blows out a breath. “It’s not important.”

I bump my shoulder into his. “C’mon. It’s not like we’re going anywhere anytime soon.”

Milo sighs. “I have to put a deposit down soon if I’m going to California.”

I can’t help myself. “And you wanted my advice?”

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t get too cocky about it, new kid.” The words are undercut by the decidedly fond look on his face. “But you’ve been known to have a level head about things.”

I look down at my boots so he doesn’t see my smile falter. I usually do have a level head—when it comes to strangers, that is. When it comes to giving advice to people whose decisions won’t affect me. And at some point in the last couple months, the decisions Milo makes became exactly that.

“Well.” I clear my throat, stalling for time. Most of the time the advice just snaps into place. If I have enough information I can bird’s-eye-view the whole situation, look at it wholly and objectively and compassionately before I say anything at all. But all I see is Milo chugging Eternal Darkness and Milo coming to life in front of the studio mic and Milo fist-bumping us after a trivia-night win. “Have you thought about what your life would be like there?”

It’s Milo’s turn to look down at his boots. “More like thought about what it’d be like to get away.”

Another clap of thunder rattles the entire shed, knocking us into each other. I don’t even bother pulling away. There’s nothing to overthink, nothing to consider—there’s just fear and this mutual trust that seems to blot everything else out.