Opposite of Always(15)

And I nearly say, If only you’d noticed the way I acted around you, how excited and happy I always am even to be in the same room with you. But I don’t interrupt.

“I guess it made me feel . . . less. Like I was less to you. And that sucked so bad because you’re so . . . more to me.”

I scoot across the couch, closing the sofa distance between us, nearly spilling the cookie tray in the process. “J, you’re my best friend because you’re the best person I know. Nothing will change that.”

Her eyes are moist, soft. This is a side to Jillian I’m not sure I’ve seen—it’s as if she’s nervous around me, uncertain.

“Really?” she says. “You promise?”

“Hope to die.”

We hold each other’s gaze and it’s easy to remember why I fell for Jillian in the first place (as if I could ever truly forget).

“Jack?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re the best person I know, too.”

We unpause the movie and we sit there, sharing a single sofa cushion, her head against my chest. I can feel the soft, warm tremor of her breathing. And I don’t pay attention to a single scene. I think about that day nearly four years ago, the day I bumped into Jillian in the hall, the day she offered me, a goofy, nerdy kid from Elytown, a chance for her heart— Sorry I didn’t come tumbling after, I’d said.

She’d smiled. We can always try again.

But then there’s a knock at the front door. We don’t move until the knock happens again, and then Jillian unravels herself from me to answer it. When she comes back, she’s not alone.

“Not this movie again,” Franny groans. “I didn’t catch two transfers over here to watch some cheesy movie.” He flops onto the sofa, in the exact spot formerly occupied by half of Jillian and half of me. Jillian sits beside him, and he pulls her in for a big hug. He laughs. “Hey, do I smell triple chocolate cookies?”

And at the precise moment Franny manages to wedge two entire cookies between his jaws, my jeans vibrate. I fish out my phone.

Hey, sorry I took so long. By the way, it’s me, Kate.

For half a second I consider waiting to reply. I don’t want to seem too eager, too attached. Except I can’t wait a second longer to talk to her.

Don’t be sorry, I assure her. Your timing is perfect.

“Who’s texting you?” Franny says. He pries the phone from my hands with his oversize fingers. “Whoever it is has got you seriously cheesing.”

I reach for it in vain. “Give it back, man.”

It’s too late. He jumps up from the couch, nearly spilling my milk. He grins, studying the screen. “I told you she’d come around.”

Jillian’s eyebrows rise. “That’s Kate.”

“It is indeed,” Franny confirms.

“Nice,” she says. She turns to me, forces a smile. “Now everyone’s happy.”

Franny tosses my phone back. “Well,” he says. “What are you waiting for? Shoot your shot.”





The Thing About Shooting One’s Shot


The thing is I suck at all things move-making. I’m more of the wait to be moved type.

YOU: And how is that working out for you, Jack?

ME: Admittedly, not well.

Which is why I decide to try something different with Kate.

Take action.

Screw passivity.

Screw inertia.

To hell with the path of least resistance.

So shoot your shot already, Jack, you say.

Consider it shotted, my friends.

I pick up my phone and hover over Kate’s empty photo circle, my thumb just above the generic, gender-neutral silhouette.

I hover.

And I hover some more.

Because the question that has dogged me ever since my first kindergarten crush still torments me a decade-plus later: What in the world am I supposed to say?

I think, Just be yourself, Jack. At least you can be you somewhat believably.

I type: Hey, I’m sorta in your neck of the woods. Wanna grab some cereal?





Silly Rabbits, Tricks Are for (Big) Kids


I have to borrow Mom’s car because my car is doing this billowing smoke thing, which probably isn’t good.

“And where are you and my car going?” Mom inquires.

“Out,” I say. I can’t control my face, and apparently it wants to grin ear to ear. “For cereal.”

Mom gives me a what’s wrong with my kid look but tosses me her keys and says, “We’re out of milk, too.”

I probably should’ve mentioned that this particular cereal is ninety minutes east. But this way, when Dad asks how much she knew, she’ll have what our government likes to call plausible deniability.

Anyway, to the metal I put the pedal, and I speed past a state highway patrol car idling in the center median, but either he’s on break or he understands that I am a man on an important mission, because he doesn’t even blink.

Then I blink and the next thing I know I’m pulling into a long driveway. I text Kate, Hey, I’m here.

My heart is shoving itself into a missile-shaped carton, lighting its wick, and exploding in my chest, a million and one fireworks erupting within my rib cage.

And I haven’t even seen Kate yet.