“I don’t want pasta!” Ivy’s voice was louder than it needed to be as she appeared behind Junie. “I want grilled cheese and tomato soup.”
“Well,youcan have grilled cheese, and we can have pasta.”
“Let Daisy make whatever she wants,” Penn grumbled, cracking open her can of soda.
Junie scoffed. “Oh, sure, kiss up to her and maybe she’ll make what you want, is that how you’re playing it?”
“Whoever cleans their room first gets first pick on dinner tonight,” I said to them, propping a hand on my hip. “And if I’m remembering correctly,myroom is the cleanest one.”
Ivy immediately shoved Junie back a step before bolting forward, trying to lunge for the stairs first. Junie, after her socks slid on the hardwood, scrambled after her, letting out a shriek that I was surprised didn’t wake Theo. Penn trailed behind them, not quite as eager, but still attempting.
Jamie looked after them with a strange expression. “You sound like a mother.”
“Is that your way of calling me old?” I narrowed my eyes at him. “I’m only three months older than you, jerk.”
Jamie didn’t laugh, though. “Can we talk outside?”
With one last look at my sleeping little brother, I led Jamie out to the front door. It was almost five o’clock now, probably, but the breeze still lingered, the only reason the humidity wasn’t absolutely stifling. I thought about dinner for the first time all day, debating which would be easier—pasta or grilled cheeses. Whichnowould be the most manageable. Junie might not throw that big of a fit if her choice wasn’t picked, but Ivy was unpredictable. And who knew what Theo would end up eating?—
“Daisy.”
I blinked, focusing on Jamie. He’d stepped down the first concrete step, but turned around to face me. The height difference didn’t quite bringus eye to eye, but he was low enough that I didn’t have to crane my neck up at him. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
Jamie didn’t miss a beat. “I’m looking at you the way I’ve always looked at you.”
“No, you’re serious.” I reached out and rubbed the pad of my thumb between Jamie’s cinched brows, smoothing them out. “You and Nellie are both the same—you get this line between your eyebrows when you’re serious.”
Jamie caught my wrist, his fingers wrapping easily around it and settling on my pulse point. He lowered my arm but didn’t let go. “Do you want to keep doing this?” he asked, staring straight into my eyes. “Do you want to keep faking a relationship with me?”
“Why?” Something almost like panic bolted through me. “I—I know you’re really not getting much out of this. But… you don’t want to anymore?”
“I want to do whatever you want to do. But as much as I don’t like the guy, I don’t want to force you away from Dalton if that’s not… what you want.”
For a beat, I actually had no idea how to reply, the words clogging in my throat. “Wanting him isn’t good for me.”
“But do you?” Jamie’s fingers loosened around my wrist. “Want him?”
The direct question was impossible to avoid, and even more impossible to answer. There were times I felt like I didn’t, but then others—like earlier on the park bench, when I’d been waiting,wanting, for him to brush the hair from my eyes—that tripped me up.You have four little roots holding you in place.
I maneuvered my hand so that our palms pressed together. “We’re… getting there.”
Jamie looked down at our hands, and I wished, more than anything, that I knew what he was thinking. I’d stopped being able to predict him the second he’d grabbed my waist and lifted me onto the dresser that night. Ever since then, things had been different.
I thought of the words he’d said to Junie.When it’s your friend, sometimes you just do things for them without getting anything in return. And sometimes the happiness of getting to help them is enough.
Was Jamie happy, though? He said he’d do anything for me, but was this a hardship for him? A stressor? I knew I needed to ask—that we needed to have clear communication when dealing with something as delicate as fake dating—but I was suddenly so afraid to hear his answer. It was like we were back at my dining room table with our NYU portals loading, both of us waiting for the other to tell the truth.
“Did you decide what you’re doing about college?” Jamie asked.
The subject change was so sharp—and weirdly so in line with my thoughts—that I actually flinched. “What?”
“What you’ll do in the fall. If you don’t hear back from NYU?—”
“What do you mean,ifI don’t hear back from them?” I felt my face twist, brow furrowing just as his had a moment ago. “I was waitlisted.”
“They close the waitlist August 1st. They could still accept you.”
I tugged my hand out of Jamie’s, half surprised I’d held onto it for so long. My palm felt cold. “Do you know how many people they accept off a waitlist? Last year, they didn’t takeany. We both know I’m not getting in.”
