“Never in my life,” I say, chuckling. “But I met a new friend, and she invited me.”
“You made a friend,” he says. “That’s great.”
“Yeah, I can cross it off my list.” Shoot. I didn’t mean to let him know I have—
“You have a list?”
I shrug, wishing it weren’t so easy to blurt things out around him.
“Of, like, things to do now that you’re here?”
I try to brush it off. “Oh yeah, it’s just silly—find a hobby, get a job, try new foods, those kinds of things.”
I’m praying he doesn’t make the connection that—
“And one of the things on the list is to find a friend?”
“Pathetic, right?” I scrunch my nose and look away. “But it’s hard to make friends when you’re an adult.”
He looks at me sideways, then says seriously, “I think I’m offended.”
My eyes widen. “Oh, I meant, like, a girlfriend. Like, you know, for girl talk and spa days and—”
“Braiding each other’s hair and talking about boys?” he drones. Then a smile blooms on his face, and it’s obvious he isn’t actually offended at all. “You know I’m just messing with you, right?”
I give him a soft push. “You’re the worst.”
He laughs. “I don’t care what you call me as long as you feed me.”
I look up at him, and he’s smiling.
“Well, what would you call me?” I ask.
“Usually I’d opt for Claire,” he says.
I roll my eyes, feeling oddly exposed. Like I’ve just asked the boy I like to declare his feelings for me or something.
“I’m kidding,” he says. “I’d call you a friend.”
I take a drink. “Well, good, then I guess I can cross that one off twice.”
We keep walking, neither of us talking for a bit, the city’s energy the only activity between us. And then we stop at the light kitty-corner from the storefront. My insides buzz as I stare at the space. Like there’s some magnetic pull drawing me to it.
“So you’re a List Maker.” Miles says this like it’s capitalized and important, playful again.
I’m distracted when I say, “Yep,” and I can feel him staring atme, still trying to work out what my deal is today. Because he’s right. I’m being weird. Because all I can think about is that empty storefront.
“That’s so you can feel like you’re in control, right?”
I frown. “No, I just like to check things off.”
He goes quiet, like he’s considering something. “Yeah, but it might also be about wantingsomecontrol, right? Like a ‘these are things I’ve written down and accomplished’ kind of thing?”
I stare out at the city, so alive and full of possibility, and still, nothing feels certain. I know now that everything can change when you’re not looking. “Hmm,” I hum thoughtfully. “Maybe.” Maybe my listsaremy meager attempt at reclaiming a little bit of control.
“In my experience,” he says, “none of us really has control of anything.”
I frown. “I disagree. I have control over my emotions—and my choices. Whether I go out job hunting or spend the day on the couch eating ice cream and watching Netflix.”
