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“Eh, the excitement of it has worn off a little for me.”
I mock-gasp. “Wait, are you saying you’re not in love with school anymore? Are you realizing, like the rest of us, that it’s not the most fantastic place in the world?”
“Shut up,” he says, laughing. He flicks a salt granule at me.
Here we are: best friends bouncing back again.
It doesn’t feel like enough.
When the water starts boiling, I drop bow ties into the pot. “Things have been weird between us,” I say quietly, taking a chance. “It’s like—it’s almost like I’m not allowed to touch you anymore.”
“What?” His eyebrows furrow, and he bites down on his bottom lip for a second. “Why wouldn’t you be allowed?”
“Because of”—I wave my hand—“what . . . happened at the party. And because of—of Chase.”
“Just because I’m dating someone doesn’t mean we’re not allowed to touch. We’re best friends. Nothing can change that.” He softens even more. “Soph. All of that’s in the past. We’ve moved on.”
I glance between the cloudy pasta water
and his clear dark eyes.
“We’re still us, right? Because—I miss you. I really, really miss you.”
“I’m right here,” he says, and with that, he leans in so I can hug him. It’s such a relief to touch him that I nearly gasp as I place my head on his shoulder and press my nose into the softness of his sweater. I want to wrap it around me like a blanket so that all I see and breathe is Peter.
All of that’s in the past.
We’ve moved on.
If friendship is the only way I can have him, then I should take it.
He probably doesn’t know that he’s holding me up. It’s not just today with Luna that’s sunk me underwater. It’s realizing that this right here can’t always happen, that he can’t always be here for me. But today he is wholly mine. He wouldn’t have let me deal with this on my own.
It is a fearless kind of hug. My legs tangle with his, and my heart hammers in my chest. Though it’s probably been only a few weeks since we last hugged, I’ve missed this: our bodies pressed together like it doesn’t matter that underneath these layers of fabric there are parts of him I desperately want to know. Even though I told myself we’d be friends and it would be fine.
I don’t think I meant it.
“Maybe we can Terrible Twosome this weekend,” I say to his shoulder.
“Yeah,” he says. “Maybe.”
“You really do seem so happy today.” I drag my fingers along the back of his sweater. “I mean . . . I like it, I’m just . . . wondering if there’s any particular reason.”
I want him to tell me I make him happy. That he loves being here at my house doing something as basic as making pasta. That it’s not Chase or the band—it’s me.
“I’m alive,” he says. “Isn’t that the best reason?”
With my head on his chest, I close my eyes, satisfied with the answer for now. “It is,” I whisper, feeling his heart beating against my cheek. Tick, tick, tick.
Steady as a bomb because of how dangerous he is.
CHAPTER 26
PETER
MY WEEKENDS CHANGE. THEY USED to be Sophie Time: the Terrible Twosome, a movie, a board game. Talking about insignificant things until they felt significant.
Now weekends are for the band, for Chase. I turn seventeen, and the band throws me a party at Aziza’s house. Chase and I spend hours in used bookstores and coffee shops, and sometimes we find an all-ages show in the evening. We talk about music and about ourselves. We share secrets. We learn the geography of the back seat of his car.
