Underwater(21)

“I could eat.”

He follows me into the kitchen, and I swing open the door of the fridge. There’s not much to be said for what’s in there.

“We have strawberries,” I tell him. “Or I could make you a grilled cheese sandwich.”

“I love grilled cheese.”

Evan sits down on a stool at the counter while I form my assembly line. Bread. Butter. Cheese. Piping hot griddle. I could make grilled cheese with my eyes closed. But knowing Evan is watching me makes me nervous.

“I like extra cheese. What about you?”

Evan nods. “Sure.”

I slap another slice of cheese onto the bread and turn to face him.

He’s really here.

At the kitchen counter.

In my apartment.

Wearing a faded red T-shirt for a surf shop in Haleiwa, Hawaii.

One of his curls comes loose and flops down across his eye. I’m zoned out, watching him as he pushes the curl back behind his ear. Then he jerks his head up and sniffs the air.

“I think it’s burning,” he says.

I turn around to see smoke billowing up from the bottom half of the sandwich. Seriously? How many grilled cheese sandwiches have I made in my lifetime? He must think I’m a total idiot.

I pull the griddle off the burner.

I dump the charred sandwich in the trash.

I start over.

Bread. Butter. Extra cheese. Piping hot griddle.

I promise myself I won’t look at Evan this time.

But that’s really hard to do.

Because everything about him says Look at me.

Plus my words. They’re just sitting there on that folded piece of paper in the envelope sitting on the counter next to his elbow. Thankfully the sandwich is sizzling. I can flip it now. I won’t watch him.

When I set the grilled cheese and a cup of milk down in front of him, he digs in like he hasn’t eaten all day. I can tell it’s too hot because he does that thing where he whistles in air to cool off the food that’s already in his mouth.

“Don’t burn your tongue. Geez.”

He laughs and takes a long slug of milk. “Sorry. I’m starving.”

“Surfing makes you hungry, I bet.” He looks at me weird, and then I realize I shouldn’t know he went surfing before school this morning. Or any morning. I was just lurking. I was staring out the window, watching him go.

I stare at him now. I watch him eat because I can.

“You’re not hungry?” he asks.

“I’m good.”

He takes another bite. “You kind of rule at making grilled cheese.”

“I’m okay.”

“Why do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Blow off compliments.”

“I don’t.”

“You kind of do.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. Just learn to say thanks.”

Evan’s eyes dart around the room. They settle where I wish they wouldn’t: my list. My heart thumps against my ribs like a marching band. My stomach hurts. I don’t want to talk about the letter because writing things down and saying them out loud are very different. And I definitely don’t want to talk about my panic attack countdown.

1. Breathe.

2. You are okay.

3. You are not dying.

“What’s that?” he asks, gesturing to the piece of paper taped to the wall like it belongs there.

“Just this thing,” I say.

He raises his eyebrow at me. He knows that’s not the whole story. He shoves a golden-tipped curl behind his ear and looks at me like, And?

“It’s for emergencies.”

He looks at the list again, like he’s thinking about it. “That makes sense,” he finally says, and finishes off his milk.

When Evan’s done eating, he unzips his backpack to fish out his homework. The sound of him riffling around makes me stop in my tracks. I eye the backpack like Ben eyed my mom’s pancakes that time she snuck zucchini peelings into the batter. And then Evan looks at me the same way I’m looking at the backpack.

“What?” he says.

I don’t look at him. Instead, I twist my neck to try to peer past the half-opened zipper. I’m overcome by the need to know exactly what’s inside. And he must know, somehow, in some innate way, because instead of getting accusatory, he forces his backpack all the way open and pulls out the balled-up sweatshirt on top so I can peek inside. It’s full of the usual backpack stuff. Folders. A novel. Pens. Math and history textbooks. I nod.

“Thanks,” I say.

He tosses the backpack on the floor and grabs a folder and a book. We sit down on the couch. But instead of sitting on the opposite end, he sits down in the middle, right next to me, so our arms touch like it’s the most regular thing ever. But it’s completely the opposite of the most regular thing ever, because I swear I can sense every tiny thing about him. I’m wearing a tank top, and having my bare skin against his bare skin makes me feel everything. It’s like I can even feel the fine hairs of his arm brushing against my own.

He cracks open his US history book, pushing against me when he does it. The weight of his shoulder against mine is too much. I scramble up from the couch, telling him I’ll be back in a second. This is what you wanted, I remind myself as I stand in front of the mirror in the bathroom and run a brush through my hair. When I return, Evan is fully immersed in his homework. I’ve calmed down enough to settle back into the space next to him and get to work.