Opposite of Always(8)

“What else?”

“I want to be an architect.”

“What made you choose that?”

She smiles. “You’re gonna think it’s really corny.”

“No way.”

“No, you will. And you’ll be right, because it is corny. But . . . I don’t know. Something about the idea of designing something that will be there, still standing, even when you’re long gone. Like, this thing that came from your brain just keeps on being for years and years, for decades, maybe longer, like, somehow that just does it for me.”

“Okay, that’s literally the least corny thing you’ve said all night. I don’t think you understand what corny means. Like at all.”

She laughs, leans into me with her shoulder. “Stop.”

“I’m serious. You’re officially banned from the word.”

“You can’t ban me.”

“Okay, maybe not ban, but we definitely have to impose a moratorium.”

“Oh, do we?”

“Yep, for like two weeks. You can’t use the word corny.”

“Hmm. We’ll see about that.”

“I’m sorry, but the Word Committee has spoken.”

“Well, I’m filing my appeal.”

“Noted. The committee will take it under advisement.”

“Why do I get the feeling this is a committee of one?”

“The committee does not comment on its membership.”

“Huh, why am I not surprised?”

“Strict policy.” I hunch my shoulders, bring the bottle to my lips, but it’s empty.

“You killed that,” she says.

“I had help.”

She shakes her head. “Okay, your turn now.”

“For?”

“What are Jack’s hopes and dreams?”

“Uh-uh, no possible way I can follow after hearing yours.”

“Just try.”

“Okay, uh, let me think.” I clear my throat, clasp my hands. “Let’s see . . . uh, I sorta want to write a book, or several books, I guess.” I laugh because hearing the idea out loud sounds preposterous. Like, if the walls could talk they’d be echoing nevergonnahappen nevergonnahappen.

Except Kate doesn’t flinch. “What kind of books?”

“Uh, fiction, I guess. Maybe young adult books.”

“Why young adult?”

“I’ll tell you, but remember, you can’t say corny, so . . .”

“Just tell me.”

“Uh, okay, well, I’ve always loved reading. But there aren’t a lot of books about kids like me. And I just think every kid deserves a book that looks like them. So . . . you can laugh now.”

“Why would I laugh? You think about lots of things, don’t you?”

“I tend to overanalyze, yes.”

“Ha. Me too. I’ve had a lot of time to do nothing but think and think and think.”

“Lucky thoughts,” I say.

“Lucky thoughts?”

“They get to spend all that time with you.”

Kate shakes her head. “Okay, so that was corny,” she says. Except she stares at me in such a way that, for a moment, I think she might kiss me. I imagine how that would feel—Kate’s lips against mine. And I must’ve zoned out because Kate’s snapping her fingers in front of my face. “Earth to Jack, Earth to Jack,” she’s saying.

“Huh? Yeah? What?”

Kate smiles. “I was asking you, I know it’s a little late now but your friend, she got home safe last night, right?”

“My friend,” I repeat.

“Your best friend who you were drooling over only hours ago? The one true love of your young adult life?”

I look up at the sky—have we really talked the entire night?—I barely remember the moon’s being there, and now the sun’s already punched in, a smudge of campfire orange stoked above our heads.

“Yeah. She went back to the dorm to talk to Franny.”

“Franny’s the boyfriend?”

I nod.

“Your other best friend?”

I nod again.

She claps her hands together. “Okay, one last ‘are Kate and Jack even semicompatible as friends’ question, okay?”

“Shoot,” I say, twisting my body toward her in preparation.

“Which Godfather movie is your absolute fave?”

“Uh, that’s a tough one.”

“It’s not tough at all.”

“No, it is, because, uh, I haven’t actually seen . . .”

“Which one haven’t you seen?”

“Any. Of. Them.”

You would’ve thought I said I didn’t believe in the moon, the way her jaw drops.

“You’re kidding, right? We’re watching them ASAP, Jack Attack,” she promises.

“You name the time and place,” I say.

“I’m not sure when,” she says. “But sometime in the future, my place.”

The future can’t come soon enough.

Behind us, there’s rustling inside the house, signs of life dragging themselves into the kitchen, chairs scooting, cabinets shutting, glassware handled.