Begin Again(81)

“Fuck Connor,” says Valeria. I can tell she was crying at some point today from the slight congestion in her voice, but she’s all indignation and rosé now. “I’m so fucking sorry, Andie.”

And frankly, I’m too overwhelmed with how grateful I am for the All-Knighters to even think of Connor right now. “You guys . . .”

Before I can get too weepy, Shay chucks a wrapped twin set of Tastykakes at my head, a knowing smile on her face. I let out a guffaw—maybe the first time I’ve fully laughed all day—just barely catching them before they hit the floor.

“I’ve taken the liberty of changing the group chat’s name to ‘Fuck Connor Whit,’” says Shay, holding up her phone proudly.

“Ah, yes,” says Milo dryly, taking a swig of what appears to be Semi-Eternal Darkness. “The group chat I’ve begged to be removed from all semester.”

Valeria releases me, only so she can bop Milo on the head on the way to rejoining Shay on the mattress. Milo looks so gloriously affronted by this gesture that I end up laughing again despite myself.

“You love us,” says Valeria.

“Don’t put words in my mouth,” says Milo. “I affectionately tolerate you.”

Then he uses his foot to hook the chair from Shay’s desk and pull it closer to him, beckoning for me to sit next to him. I settle into it with a mingling thrill and guilt, the two of them a perilous cocktail of emotions I can’t process right now. Fortunately, a solution for dealing with them comes in the form of a mug half-full of rosé, which Shay hands me with absurd ceremony.

I recognize Milo’s chicken mug on the spot. “Oh my gosh. It’s Rosaline,” I say, pointing at one of them.

I turn to look over at him, and his grin is broad enough to make my heart stutter. He waits until I take a sip, then he leans in to point at the other chickens and says, “And here’s Patricia. And James. And Abigail, and Camille . . .”

We take a brief and much-needed pause to tease Milo to high heaven for not only naming all his mother’s chickens, but recognizing them on sight. I sag a little deeper into the desk chair, some final tension leaving me. The emptiness doesn’t feel so empty now, but more like it’s making room for something else. Something a whole lot like this.

“Seriously, though, Andie,” says Shay. “I’m so sorry. And when you want to talk about it for real . . . we’re all here for you.”

“Always,” Valeria iterates.

I should tell them it isn’t really over yet. Not the way they think it is, at least. But Shay has her head on Valeria’s shoulder, and Valeria’s hand is resting on her thigh, and Milo is smiling this sleepy, exasperated smile that ignites something so tender in me I can’t bear to put it out.

We all lift up our mugs for a “good riddance” toast. There’s the clink of ceramic and the love in the air between us and the solidarity of our long, drawn-out sips. There’s another hour of eating and drinking, of swapping stories about our exes, of intermittently breaking out into fits of giggles over things that happened or things that could have been.

And then there’s Shay trying to leave with Valeria quietly, saying she wants to meet her roommate’s cat. There’s Milo still hovering at the open door, his mug of coffee empty, his dark curls tousled, his cheeks flushed.

“Hey,” he says quietly, so the rest of the hall can’t overhear. “I know you, so. I know shit’s going to be okay.”

I raise up his chicken mug, biting down the surge of guilt. “Same to you.”

He salutes me, sliding out of the entryway, but not before I see something telltale in his eyes. Something that aches the same way I ache; something taking shape before I understand the depth of it. The understanding that no matter what happens—if we both stay here, or we’re flung thousands of miles apart—we are important to each other, and we will be for the rest of our lives.

The moment everyone is gone, I flick out the lights. No more thinking. No more feeling. I fall asleep so quickly and so thoroughly that my body can forget it all, even if the beat, beat, beat of my heart pulses it the whole night through.





Chapter Twenty-Seven


The next morning is so familiar in its rhythms that I could almost forget that my life capsized faster than that illfated kayak on the lake. Almost, if it weren’t for the way I suddenly don’t know how to safely look at Milo, the same way you’re not sure how to look at an eclipse. I want to look. I have to look. I just know that it’ll be bad news if I do.

Apparently yesterday I opened the floodgates to something, and now it can’t be stopped. I gave an inch and my body took a mile. Suddenly I can’t hear Milo’s laugh on the air without thinking about how when he held me yesterday, I could feel his voice in his chest. I can’t look into his eyes without my brain conjuring words like “seagrass” and “springtime” and “mint.” I can’t hold a conversation with him without staring at his lips and thinking about how close mine came to them. The almost of it all.

The feelings are so intense that they should be a full-body shock. I should be WebMD-ing “sweaty palms” and “complete inability to rationally function in front of a person you mutually friend-zoned months ago.” But that’s the telling part—it isn’t a shock. It’s almost a relief. Like I’ve just been waiting to let myself feel it, and now that I do, it’s clear I’ll never be able to unfeel it again.