I get myself together. “Sorry,” I tell Rebecca.

“No need to be sorry,” she assures me.

“I know.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Yes, I want to talk about it.

No, I cannot talk about it.

“It’s just a long-distance thing. It’s hard,” I say.

Rebecca nods, sympathetic. I know she wants to ask me more.

“Let’s get ready for the picnic,” I say.

•••
We hang out in Will’s backyard and pretend it’s Central Park. Nobody mentions Justin. Nobody mentions the Mystery Man. Except my thoughts. They mention Justin and A all the time.

I am glad Justin isn’t here. If he were here, it wouldn’t be like this. Rebecca and Ben arguing over whether it’s pretentious to pronounce croissant in a French accent when you’re speaking English. Will and Preston finding every possible opportunity to touch each other on the arm, the leg, the cheek. Steve and Stephanie chilling out—Stephanie asking Steve to peel her a grape, and Steve actually doing it, both of them laughing at how messy a process it is. If Justin were here, he’d be bored. And he’d be letting me know how bored he was. I wouldn’t be able to enjoy any of my friends, because I would be so stuck on how Justin was feeling.

But if A were here. It’s Mental-picture A at first. But then it’s any of the A’s. Because even if he was a pretty girl, or even if he was a huge guy, or even if he was poor Kelsea, back from wherever her dad sent her—there’d be a place for A. Because A would appreciate this. A would understand how much this matters, to spend a day lazing around with your friends, telling inside jokes and feeling inside of them. A has never had that. But I could give A some of mine.

I could email. I could say, Come on over. But I’m worried he won’t understand why I’m asking. He’ll think I mean we can be together. A couple.

Plus, it wouldn’t be fair to the person he’s in.

I have to remember that, too.

•••
I think about contacting him a thousand times. For the rest of the day—in the fun moments with my friends, or in the quiet moments when I’m at home. Back at school, when I see things it would be fun to tell him about, or when the minutes seem hours long and class never ends. I want to tell him about Justin, and how now when we see each other in the halls, we ignore each other, as if we’re strangers, even though the way we ignore each other isn’t like strangers at all. I want to tell A that he was right about Justin but also wrong about Justin. Yes, he wasn’t good for me. But, no, it’s not that he didn’t care. That much is obvious now.

Finally, on Monday night, I give in. Instead of telling A everything, I keep it simple, to make sure that it’s okay to keep in touch.

How are you?

R

Within an hour, I get his response.

It’s been a rough two days. Apparently, I may not be the only person out there like this. Which is hard to think about.

A

And just like that, I feel myself being drawn in again. I start to write a response—a long response—but after a few paragraphs I think, No. Stop. I thought there would be distance, but there isn’t any distance. I know that if I involve myself again right now, it will be the same as before. And it can’t be.

I hold off. I call Rebecca and talk about other things.

I need to build a life without A before I let him back in.

Chapter Thirty-One

My friends gather around me. In school. After school. On the phone at night.

Will effortlessly joins our circle. He and Preston look so happy together. And I’m happy for them. I am. But I’m also angry, because Will can join us so effortlessly, in a way A never could.

Nobody mentions my Mystery Man anymore. Rebecca must have told them not to.

Part of me still expects him to show up. Expects the universe to send him into the classroom next to mine. Or into Rebecca’s body. Or Steve’s. Just to say hello. Just to be near.

But I can’t think that way. I know I can’t.

I find myself looking into people’s eyes more than I ever did before. And I realize, that’s where we stop being a certain gender or color. Just look right into the center of the eye.

I know I haven’t answered him. It weighs on me. I know I’m not being fair. There’s no point in spending all this time thinking about A without answering. I have to be honest and clear about where it can go. That’s all. That’s it.

First thing Thursday morning, I write.

I want to see you, but I’m not sure if we should do that. I want to hear about what’s going on, but I’m afraid that will only start everything again. I love you—I do—but I am afraid of making that love too important. Because you’re always going to leave me, A. We can’t deny it. You’re always going to leave.

R

All through the day, there’s no response. And I think, fine, I deserve that.

But it’s still disappointing.

Then, Friday at lunch, a response.

I understand. Can we please meet at the bookstore this afternoon, after school?

A

To which I say:

Of course.

R

I’m nervous as I drive over. Everything’s changed, and nothing’s changed. This is going to be hard, but it feels so easy. Mostly, I want to see him. Talk to him. Have him be in my life.

All the other obstacles have fallen away. I am even starting to believe, deep in my heart, that if I told my friends the truth, if they met A the way I met A, on multiple days, they would believe it, too.

The only obstacle, really, is his life.

Which I know is too big an obstacle. But in the rush to see him, it doesn’t seem as big as maybe it should.

I get there first. I scan the café and know that none of these people could be him. If he were here, he’d be looking for me. He’d know when I arrived.

So I sit down. I wait. And the minute he walks through the door, I know. Like there’s a shiver of lightning between us. Today he’s this thin Asian guy wearing a blue T-shirt with Cookie Monster on it. When A sees me, his smile is wider than Cookie Monster’s.

“Hey,” he says.

And this time I say it back gladly. “Hey.”

So here we are. I’m trying to remind myself to not fall back into it, to not start thinking it’s possible. But with him right here, that’s hard.

“I have an idea,” he says.