The kitchen is immaculate when I walk in, and eight perfectly piped pistachio cannoli sit on the kitchen counter. My jaw drops and I can’t tell if it’s because I’m surprised or if I’m salivating.
“Okay, so we got alittlecarried away,” Wren says, grimacing as I inch closer to them.
“The recipe was actually pretty easy once Wren deciphered your nonna’s handwriting, and my Italian lit class from high school came in clutch,” Kennedy says, and my mouth opens impossibly wider. “You can take a picture and say you made them. Job done!”
I open and close my mouth multiple times before I eventually manage, “Y-you guys, this is amazing, but I can’t use them and say I did it. That’s not how this thing works. I should’ve been able to do it on my own. It’smynonna’s recipe.”
I run my hands through the ends of my hair and make my way to the living room, where I sink into the couch. Wren comes to my side immediately. “Hey, it’s okay that you didn’t get it on the first try.”
“But you guys did,” I whisper. “I’ve been trying all day, and I didn’t get it. Maybe my parents were right. Maybe I’m not ready.”
Wren shakes her head firmly. “We might not know everything that’s going on, but you’re the most capable person I know. You’ll be able to figure it out on your own.”
As much as I wish their words were true, maybe I need more time. Maybe my parents were right in waiting until they were sure I was ready instead of just handing it to me because I ambushed them.
Kennedy comes to my other side and squeezes my hand. “This is just a setback. I’m sure you’ll be able to do everything else on the list with no problem.”
“Maybe,” I mumble.
Kennedy drops her head back against the couch, tilting her cheek slightly to face me. “And, hey, Wren’s right. You never tell us anything about your family, and you’re like . . . part of the mafia.”
Wren snorts and I turn back to our very dramatic friend with a blank look. “I’m not part of the mafia, Ken.”
She lifts her shoulder like she’s weighing her options. As if this is even something to debate. “All the secret meetings, the very little information we know about them, this secret list we can’t look at . . . It sounds like you are.”
“We’re not—” I huff out a growling sound, furiously tucking away my hair behind my ears. Kennedy smiles even harder, and I frown. “For the last time, we are not part of the mafia, Ken.” She hums, but I can tell she’s still not convinced.
I lean forward to grab my phone from the coffee table. “Shit, shit, shit,” I mutter, dropping it onto the ground as if it’s burned me. “I’m late. Jesus fucking Christ, I’mlate.”
“For what?”
“I had a study session planned with Evan this evening to work on our project,” I say, grabbing my school bag from where I abandoned it after class this morning, shoving whatever I can inside and slinging it over my shoulder. “Thanks for the pep talk, but I’ve got to go.”
“Don’t you want to change?” Kennedy calls after me, but I’m already out the door.
CHAPTER EIGHT: EVAN
Scarlett is standing me up.
It’s just a study session and we’ve had plenty of those over the years when we’ve worked on projects together, but still. I should’ve known better. I should have prepared for this in some way.
I knew me leaving the hockey game early after our little moment would make things weird. Something about having her fingers that close to my skin has affected me way more than it should. It was the smell of her, the slight tug on my shirt, the way her eyes stared into mine like she was daring one of us to do something. And because I couldn’t handle being that close to her, I removed myself from the situation, making things pretty fucking awkward.
But I’d never jeopardize this project. She must know how much this means to me. I know how well she wants to do at school and how the SEI would be an incredible opportunity for both of us. Especially now, with the second phase starting next week, we don’t have much time to be missing out on key study sessions if we want to produce a good project.
Yet I’m the one here and she’s not.
I wait another twenty minutes before I start to pack away my stuff, shoving my wired headphones into my ears and drowning out the silence with music. The upside of waiting for her was that I got ahead on most of my homework for next week. The downside is that I feel like an idiot for waiting two hours just in case she’d show up.
I make my way out of the library, scanning the shelves for the last time, and I hate the tightness I feel in my chest when I realize she really isn’t here. I take a left out the door to use the bathroom before I leave, but a voice in the distance stops me.
“Evan, wait!” The voice gets louder and closer, and I take out one of my earphones, turning to see Scarlett running down the hall in pajamas covered with the Sims game logo. Her brown hair is a wavy mess around her face, a bag slung haphazardly around her shoulder. Her tanned cheeks are flushed a deep red, probably from the cold and—judging by her heavy breathing—from her sprinting here.
I stand still, taking her in as she slows down her jog toward me, and I shove my hands into my pockets. When she gets to me, she keels over, one hand on her knee as she holds her other one up to me.
“Just give me . . .” she inhales sharply, “a minute . . . to . . . catch my . . . breath.”
“You’re wearing pajamas,” is the only thing that comes out of my mouth.
