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“But now you have to, to return the coat.” He winks.
Heart still fluttering, I cross over his front yard into my parents’ garden and hurry into the house.
My parents, who apparently have been waiting in ambush for me, probably frothing at the mouth to ask more questions are both lingering downstairs near the entrance.
I strike preemptively.
I hang John’s coat on the hall rack, giving it only a minor sniff, and say, “Gosh, I’m destroyed. I’m going straight to bed.”
One advantage of the pregnancy being out in the open is that no one can argue against an expectant mother’s need to rest.
In my old bedroom, I change into a bright pink chenille tracksuit—part of the appeal of sleeping at home is also to wear outrageously out-of-date clothes—and slip under the covers.
Before switching off the bedside lamp, I can’t resist throwing a last glance at John’s old bedroom clothed in darkness on the other side of our yards.
I know he’s not sleeping there, that he’s in the master now, but part of me can’t help remembering the way we used to wish each other goodnight from our windows, or him asking me if it was okay to sneak over, or a million other things we used to do window-to-window.
Some of those nights we spent studying side by side, silently yet companionably. Every now and then we would make jokes that made us laugh so hard I thought I was going to faint from oxygen deprivation and that prompted my dad to come upstairs to check on me while John hid under the bed—we were not supposed to be alone in my room after dark.
Other nights, homework couldn’t be further from our minds and we would make out and talk for hours in hushed whispers, gazing into each other’s eyes like no one else existed.
But that was a long time ago. Now, my thumb is already pressing on the switch when the lights in John’s old room blink to life.
40
MARISSA
John walks into the room, looking impossibly hot in sweatpants and a hoodie, and wearing a mischievous grin on his face. One that tells me, hey, you didn’t think I’d let you go to bed without saying goodnight, did you?
He stands close to the glass and raises a sign at me.
You ok?
It’s written in black sharpie.
I roll my eyes and grab my phone to text him back.
To John:
As okay as I was five minutes ago when I left your house
Also, this isn’t a Taylor Swift video, and wasting paper on window notes is not environmentally friendly
I watch him read the text and smile as he types back.
From John:
Totally not wasting paper. I recycled from a notebook Eric used to draw in
I look up just as he turns the sign to show me a drawing of a brown mound with yellow dots on it.
I snort in amusement and text back.
To John:
Do I even want to know what that’s supposed to be?
From John:
