The Do-Over

In seventh grade, I went through a phase where I took taxis all over the city, just for something to do when I couldn’t handle being alone anymore.

ANOTHER VALENTINE’S DAY

When I woke up the next morning to that god-awful song, I realized that I had no idea what to do next. I still thought I needed to change things, to fix things, but I couldn’t figure out what, exactly. I made a new list.

To-Do List—February 14 (again)

Take different route to school

Convince Mrs. Bowen that she must honor scholarship

Ensure Josh and Macy cannot kiss

Convince Dad that he doesn’t want to move to Texas

I tried taking a different way to school. I stuck to the neighborhoods all the way there, but still managed to collide with Nick. This time he pulled out right in front of me on Edgewood Boulevard.

He came to my door again and pulled it open. “Hey—you okay?”

I got out of the car. “You pulled out right in front of me.”

Nick’s eyebrows went up. “I’m sorry?”

“You should be—this whole thing could’ve been avoided.” I was thoroughly enjoying playing the hard-ass for once. “Insurance information, please.”

His eyes narrowed. “You first, since you hit me.”

“Fine.” I went back in my car and grabbed the info while he grabbed his. Once we exchanged, I looked at his insurance card and said, “Stark. Nick Stark?”

He didn’t answer, but just looked at me like he was already annoyed by what I was about to say. I said, “Do you have Mr. Bong for Chemistry?”

His eyes narrowed the tiniest bit. “Yeah…?”

“Huh—I recognize your name from attendance. Fourth block?”

“Yup.”

“Hmm—small world.” I pointed to my engine and said, “That’s a lot of smoke—I bet this thing catches fire. Let’s move.”

This time I called 911 while he looked at his phone, and this time I was wearing jeans, boots, my wool peacoat, and a hat, so he didn’t fetch me that old jacket. He did offer me a ride to school, but this time I had a perfect plan for peace.

As I buckled up, I said, “Thank you so much for the ride.”

To which he responded, “No problem.”

And then I took my new book out of my bag, opened it to the folded page, and started reading. Surely I’d be his dream passenger if I read my book and didn’t say a word, right? His truck started moving and I started reading, but I only made it two sentences before he said, “Are you seriously reading Rebecca DeVos in my car?”

I looked over at him, torn between surprise that he’d heard of the author and annoyance that he sounded disgusted. “Yeah…?”

“She is one of the most overrated authors in American literature. She puffed up her prose with so many flowery, fluffy descriptions that it’s hard to even find the plot.” He gestured to my book and said, “That story is one of the worst. I’m not sure if I ever figured out what the main character looks like because I had to use a dictionary and a thesaurus to decipher the freaking colors.”

“Let me guess.” I looked at the antiquey dashboard of his old truck and thought again what a mystery Nick was. Even after a couple of days of knowing him, he didn’t make sense to me. I said, “You’re a big Raymond Carver fan.”

“I appreciate his work,” he said, turning down the music, “but there’s quite an expanse between DeVos and Carver. I could name twenty writers who are more purple than Carver but less… overblown than DeVos.”

So could I. I actually wasn’t loving the book and absolutely agreed with him. Which still shocked me. “Dina Marbury is a redhead, by the way, with pale, flawless skin and blue eyes.”

Technically they were “eyes the color of the brightest summer sky, cloudless and cerulean and shimmering with the flawlessness of the jewels worn by kings, queens, and the smattering of mistresses who dappled the land,” but blue was close enough.

“I knew I was supposed to root for her, but between you and me, I was happy when Dina walked into the ocean.”

“Nick.” I shut the book and said, “I wasn’t there yet—did you seriously just tell me the ending?”

He gave a little laugh. “Oh, shit—sorry.”

“It’s actually okay.” I reached down and shoved the book into my bag. “To be honest, I probably wasn’t going to finish.”

“Now, see?” He hit the turn signal and slowed for the corner. “I did you a favor.”

I rolled my eyes. “She actually walked into the ocean? Wow, that sounds stolen from—”

“The Awakening?” He glanced over at me as the truck came to a complete stop.

“Yes! I mean, that seems like a once-in-a-lifetime book ending, doesn’t it?”

“Exactly.” Nick gave me something close to a smile with his eyes before turning back to the road and accelerating as the light turned green. “Like we wouldn’t notice that she stole Edna Pontellier’s big finish.”

We talked about books for the rest of the drive to school, and it occurred to me as we walked into the building that we’d actually gotten along on Valentine’s Day. For the first time. It felt like the start of a brand-new day until he said, “Why are you smiling like that?”

I glanced over at him, his nose wrinkled up and his eyebrows low over squinted eyes. I said, “What?”

“I don’t know. We were walking like normal humans, and then you just started scary-grinning.”

“I wasn’t scary-grinning.”

“You seriously were.” He shook his head. “Like some creeper who enjoys televised parades and dressing cats in sweaters.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Everybody likes cats in sweaters.”

“Whatever you say. I gotta go.” He said it like I wanted him to stay or something. And I didn’t. So I said, “I have to go, actually.”

“That’s what I said,” he said.

“No, you said you have to go, like I wanted you to walk with me when in all actuality I have to go.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Are you okay here?”

I just shook my head and muttered, “Wonderful.”

After that, I tried changing things with the counselor by showing up when they sent a pass and maturely making my case. I explained all the reasons why they should make a spot for me in their summer program, and they smiled and politely told me that it wasn’t possible to add more space.

Then I tried waiting for Josh at his car with his present. A big part of me wondered why I was even trying at this point. If he and Macy had feelings for each other, did I even want to salvage our relationship? But another part of me knew I was right about everything and this was my chance to jump into the gears of time and ensure Macy couldn’t ruin us.

I perched myself on his car’s teensy hood, gift in hand, and waited. Froze to death and waited. When the two of them finally walked out the side door, Macy must’ve seen me because she stopped and said something to Josh. Before he could spot me, she grabbed his sleeve and steered him back inside.

Excuse me?

When I got up to follow them, my tights got stuck on the corner of his hood and got a huge hole, so I kind of wanted to shank Macy by the time I got back inside. I was still freezing as I walked down the hallway, overcome with a frustrated sadness as I realized that things might never be normal again.

What if I stayed stuck in this day forever?

Meanwhile, in Chemistry, Nick decided it was a good time to discuss the fact that I’d worn a red sweater on Valentine’s Day.

“Aren’t you just adorable.”

“What?”

He gestured to my shirt with his pencil. “Your whole matchy-matchy, Hallmark-holiday outfit—super cute.”

“That’s not what this is.” I looked down at my shirt and said, “It’s just a red sweater.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

He gave me a knowing look and said, “How do you explain the heart bracelet and matching earrings, then?”

I rolled my eyes and shook my head. I’d been going for a terse brush-off, but for some reason, tears filled my eyes as I said, “Don’t you have anything better to do than analyze my fashion choices?”

He leaned a little closer, his eyes all over my face. “Are you crying?”

“NO,” I said loudly, but the tears betrayed me by falling from my eyes.

“Oh, fuck—no.” He swallowed and said, “No, no—I’m sorry—I was just messing with you.”

“It’s fine,” I said, sniffling. “I’m not crying.”

“Yes, you are,” he said quietly, his eyes serious for once as they stayed focused on my face. “Please, please, stop.”

“Fine, I am crying.” I sniffled again, trying to keep it together. “But not because of you.”

“Promise?”

I rolled my eyes and swiped at them. “Yes.”

I took a deep breath, trying to calm myself. I never cried. But the idea that I could be stuck in this terrible Valentine’s Day purgatory, forever, was really sinking in. Would I never get any older? Have a shot at a journalism career? See the twins grow up? It was all too much.

“How can I make it stop?” he asked, looking so uncomfortable that it was almost funny. “Seriously.”

“I’m fine.” I sniffled and ran my index fingers under my lower lashes. I took a deep breath and told myself I could fix this. “All better.”

“But—” He gave me the sweetest closed-mouth smile and said, “You sure?”

I nodded and couldn’t help but smile back. “I’m good.”

“Hallelujah.” He exhaled, like he was letting out a huge sigh of relief, and said, “Because the thought of being nice to you for the rest of Chem is a little exhausting.”

I half laughed as I shook my head. “It’s that hard?”

He shrugged. “It’s not that it’s hard, it’s just that I prefer watching you blink fast and get all offended at everything I say.”

Another repeating day, another eye lost to over-rolling in the presence of Nick Stark.

I closed out the day with another failed attempt to convince my father to stay.

This time, I pointed out that he couldn’t leave my grandmother—widowed and living by herself—and move across the country. What would she do? She’d be so alone, right? I knew he adored his mother, so surely my argument would shake his moving resolve.

But he smiled when I said that. He said, “She wants to go with us, Emmie—ask her. She’s thrilled about warm weather and cowboys.”

“She is?”

“You’re surprised?” he asked, still smiling.

“Well, not about the cowboys.”

So not only did I fail to convince him, but I learned the worst news ever: I’d be losing Grandma Max as well. She hadn’t even mentioned that possibility when we’d talked about it on the first Valentine’s Day, but I’d also been a bawling mess, so I didn’t blame her.

I wished upon a star—again—before going to bed, but I was starting to lose hope that a freaking glowing orb in the sky had any interest in helping me at all.

After that, I became obsessed with changing the results. In any way that I could. Regarding the lost scholarship, I tried:

-Not showing up when the office called

-Showing up and begging for their mercy

-Fake-crying with an absurdly detailed fabricated story about my grandfather’s dying wish to see me in that program

-Fake-crying with an absurdly detailed fabricated story about my elderly—and dying—grandmother’s love of journalism

-Offering Mrs. Bowen a small bribe

None of those attempts provided me a changed result. With Macy and Josh, I tried:

-Lying in wait in my car and frantically honking the horn every time their faces got close together in his lame-ass tiny vehicle

-Texting Josh that I heard a rumor about Macy and herpes and mouth-rot (not my finest moment)

-Throwing a baseball at Josh’s windshield once he and Mace were ensconced in his ridiculous car. The ball actually made contact and cracked the window, but my throw was too slow and their lips touched before the resultant balling so it was all for naught. And I had to duck behind a car and slink back toward the doors like a Marine under siege.

Nothing was working.

As far as the car situation, I tried:

-Driving my dad’s car to school, but I still hit Nick.

-Riding to school with Chris, but he crashed into Nick instead of me. Ironically, I still ended up catching a ride with the surly one when Chris had to go to the hospital to get his neck checked.

I tried walking to school, but even then I ended up with Nick. I couldn’t believe my eyes, but his truck was parked on the side of the Hickory Oaks subdivision street that led to our school—I was assuming he lived in the house beside it. The hood was up, and he was doing something underneath it. I tried quietly walking by, but just when I thought I was past I heard him say, “Excuse me—hey. Can you help me for like one second?”

I glanced in his direction and put my hand on my chest. “Me?”

“Yeah.”

I said, “Um, no offense, but I’m a sixteen-year-old girl—it’s not really safe for me to help strangers. Can I call someone for—”

“I’m not a stranger—we’re in the same Chemistry class.”

What?

So he actually knew I was his lab partner? Had he been messing with me every single time we’d met? I said, “Are you sure? I mean, you kind of look a little familiar, but—”

“Yes, I’m sure—we sit at the same table. So will you help me?”

I stepped off the curb and approached him, trying not to smile as I felt some sort of a win by his recognition. “What do you need me to do?”

His hair was a little windblown, but his eyes were like the deepest blue in contrast to the black of his zipped-up jacket. I’d always thought they were brown, but they actually made me think of DeVos’s flowery prose; she’d kind of nailed his color with the whole cloudless-summer-sky thing.

He said, “I just need you to start my truck while I hoosh this frozen thing with starter fluid,” interrupting my distracted thoughts about his pretty corneas. “Have you ever driven a stick?”

I put my hands in my pockets and buried my neck a little deeper in my wool coat. “No, but I know how to start a car with a clutch.”

“Perfect. Would you mind?”

The smell of him—soap, cologne, I didn’t know what it was—hit me hard, but I pushed all of that aside. I said, “Sure.”

I went around his truck and got in, having to move the seat forward in order for my foot to be able to push in the clutch all the way. I left the door open so I could wait for his command, and when he said “Now,” I turned the key.

That old truck didn’t want to turn over, but Nick must’ve known what he was doing because all of a sudden, it roared to life. I revved it a little before he yelled, “Can you put it in neutral and leave it running?”

“Sure.” It felt familiar—comforting—to be in this position. I used to help my dad when he worked on the Porsche by doing this exact thing, only I’d been twelve at the time. I threw the truck into neutral and got out.

Nick slammed the hood down and came around to the driver’s side. He said, “Thanks a lot. She hates the cold.”

“She?”

“The truck.”

I rolled my eyes and my Nick-warmth went away. “I hate that so much.”

“What?” He looked interested, but not offended. “What do you hate?”

“When men feel the need to refer to their beloved vehicle as female.”

That made him give me the smart-ass smile that I’d grown accustomed to over the course of our repeating-days relationship. “Why is that?”

“It’s just so sexist. It rings of the patriarchy and of men objectifying women. Like, I love this beautiful piece of metal so much that it very nearly turns me on. Like woman.”

His smile held as he said, “It was my brother’s truck, for the record, and he nicknamed it ‘Betty’ because it used to belong to our great-aunt Betty. And we also have a dog named Betty.”

“So, fine.” I shrugged and said, “I’m a raging feminist lunatic, I guess.”

“You guess.”

“Yeah, I guess.” I rolled my eyes and just felt… out of sorts all of a sudden. “Technically, I’m starting to think I’m just a straight-up lunatic across the board.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “You doing okay here?”

“No, I’m not doing okay here!” I sighed and groaned and wondered how many more times he was going to ask me that before my premature death from time-loop frustration. I shook out my hands and tried my mantra—You are on top of this—but it didn’t work and I groaned again and yelled, “I’m actually fucking TERRIBLE and something WEIRD is happening to me, but it is SO WEIRD that I can’t even talk about it!”

“Wow.” Nick’s mouth kicked up a little at the corners, and then he actually laughed. “It must be very weird to make someone like you have a meltdown like that.”

I sighed and said, “You have no fucking idea.”

That made him laugh again—sweet Lord he was a handsome boy when he wasn’t being an ass—and he said, “Do you want a ride? To school? I mean, I’m going there and if you’re walking there—this is probably faster. And warmer.”

Who was this nice and charming person? I tucked my hair behind my ears and said, “That would be great. Thank you.”

I picked up my bag and got in the truck, suddenly nervous. Which was bizarre because it felt like I’d been in that truck twenty times, and I hadn’t been nervous any of those times. Of course, he’d been a jerk all of those times; Nice Nick was new.

“Do you always walk to school?” Nick got behind the wheel and pushed in the clutch. “I’m surprised I’ve never seen you before.”

“No,” I said, buckling my seat belt. “Today was, um, kind of like an experiment.”

“And the findings were…?”

I straightened and dared to glance at Nick, who was waiting for my answer with an amused expression on his face. I said, “The findings were inconclusive because I was pulled off the experiment to be a Good Samaritan to this guy with a broken-down car.”

“Bummer on the experiment, but the guy sure sounds cool.”

I did laugh, then, unable to resist. “He might be cool, but I have it on good authority that he’s actually a grouchy hermit who won’t even speak to his lab partner in Chemistry.”

“I knew you recognized me.” He pointed when he said it, grinning, and I couldn’t believe the irony. “Miss I-don’t-talk-to-strangers.”

I laughed a little more and said, “You can never be too careful.”

“Of course,” he said, turning his eyes back to the road.

“Did you finish the reading for today?” I asked, wondering how someone could smell so good but also so subtle. It wasn’t like the expensive cologne Josh wore—which I enjoyed—but more like fresh body wash or dryer sheets. I could hyperventilate on his cleanliness. “I totally forgot, so I’m going to have to cram next hour.”

“I didn’t do the reading, but I never do.” He hit his turn signal and made a left into the junior parking lot. “I wait until the night before a test, like all normal high school students.”

“You’re calling me abnormal?”

He pulled into the shockingly open spot in the first row before saying, “I’m calling you unique.”

I must’ve made a face because he gave me a little smile as he turned off the truck and said, “What? I meant it as a compliment.”

I unbuckled my seat belt and opened the door. “I know—that’s what’s weird.”

He set the emergency brake, pocketed his keys, and grabbed his backpack from where it sat between us. “Why is that weird? I’ve never insulted you.”

Now, he’d insulted me handfuls of times in that very truck, but so far, that day, he was a freaking delight. So I said, “Well, no,” and got out.

He came around to my side and we walked into school together. He didn’t say anything else, nor did I, but his scent was in my nose and I was feeling warm and tingly as the snow squeaked under our shoes.

When we got inside, and I pointed south because I had to turn down the first hallway to go find Chris, he stopped. He looked down into my eyes with his ridiculously blue ones and said, “I don’t know what the terrible thing is that you’re dealing with and can’t talk about, but when all else fails, I say fuck ’em.”

I swallowed and forgot how to talk, because blue eyes were pointed directly at me in a shivery way, and I noticed how nice his mouth was. I fumbled for words and managed, “I, um, really don’t—”

He reached out a hand, tugged lightly on the piece of hair that had come out of my ponytail, and he said, “Fuck ’em, Emilie.”

And then he walked away.

I went through the motions, and when they called me down to the office like they did every day, I actually showed up and spoke the truth. I looked at Mrs. Bowen and said, “Can I be honest? This is devastating to my plans; I was counting on this for scholarship applications. Is there an alternate program that might have an opening?”

I expected my daily rejection, but she tilted her head and pursed her lips instead. She started talking to Mr. Kessler about a program I was unaware of, and then she left the room to make a call.

I asked Mr. Kessler, “Do you know this program?”

He nodded. “I do. It’s very, very good and would look great on an application.”

“Do you think I have a shot?” A feeling that was something like hope bubbled up inside of me.

He shrugged and gave me an encouraging dad-smile. “Anything’s possible.”

Mrs. Bowen came back then, but she hadn’t been able to reach the person she’d hoped to speak with. She said she would “do some checking” and get back to me, and I could tell she meant it.

When she was leaving, she apologized again, only this time she added, “We will find a way to make this right, Emilie. You have my word.”

Things were lining up in a way that had me optimistic about my February 15 chances.

After class, I made the adult decision to not even go near the hallway-exit parking lot where I’d repeatedly seen Josh step out with Macy. Hopefully the universe that was working for me so far that day would keep them from kissing, but at least this way, I wouldn’t have to see it if they did.

It’d be the whole tree-falling-in-the-forest thing; if I wasn’t there to see it, did it really ever happen?

I mean, yes, when I let myself picture it—picture them—my stomach still hurt and I felt like a fool, but I needed to put that out of my mind and nail my perfect day if I ever wanted life to return to normal.

I was meticulous with my intentions, doing my best to be extra nice to everyone and extra attentive in class. I even smiled when I passed Lauren, Lallie, and Nicole in the hallway.

When I got to Chemistry, Nick was already at our table. I took a deep breath, nervous for some reason that I didn’t choose to explore, and walked over to my spot.

He glanced up when I set my bag on the floor and said, “Hey.” Smiled. “It’s you.”

I sat down and said, “It is me.”

My cheeks were hot as we exchanged some kind of a hey-I-know-you-from-this-morning look. His eyes trailed over my face before he said, “Thanks again for helping me this morning.”

I shrugged. “Thanks again for the ride.”

“Listen up,” Mr. Bong said as he walked into the classroom, his eyes on the phone in his hand as he walked over to his desk. “It’s pop-quiz time, so I need everyone who sits on the right side of their lab table to move to the seat directly behind them.”

Bong always made us switch seats for exams because he seemed to think we were cheating collusionists with our lab partners. Since I was on the right side, I grabbed my bag.

“Wait.” Nick picked up his phone from where it was resting on top of the table and said, “Give me your number and I’ll text you.”

I felt my mouth drop open and I tried being cool, but Nick was asking me for my phone number. What was happening? Nick Stark was asking for my number, and I kind of wanted to give it to him. I gave a half-laugh, suddenly nervous, and said, “Why would I do that, exactly?”

He just said, “You’ll find out when I text you. Number, please.”

I told him, and he punched the numbers into his phone.

My phone lit up. Nick: Guess who?

I smiled and moved to the seat at the other table before responding. Me: My surly lab partner…?

Nick: It’s the cool guy who gave you a ride to school.

That made me smile. Me: Ah—THAT guy.

Nick: Do you want a ride home?

I gasped. Like, literally gasped. Because—dear Lord: Was Nick Stark asking me out–ish? What was this day? Who was this boy?

What was happening?

Me: I’ve got a ride, but thank you SO much!

When I pressed send, an unexpected feeling settled in my chest. It was something like… regret.

But I was on the verge of possibly escaping the fourteenth of February, and I couldn’t risk it. I needed to perfect the rest of the day, and that included Valentine’s Day with my boyfriend.

Nick: So if Betty doesn’t start, you’re unavailable for turnover duty?

Why was I disappointed that I was unavailable for turnover duty?

Me: Unfortunately yes. But I’m sure there are lots of strangers you could summon who can start your truck.

Nick: We aren’t strangers, remember?

I glanced over at him, and he was looking directly at me with one eyebrow raised and a smirk on his lips. I felt a little light-headed as I texted: Oh, yes—that’s right.

Mr. Bong started handing out quizzes, and we weren’t able to talk or text for the rest of the hour. Which was good; I needed to stay focused. The second I turned in my quiz, I left the room without even daring to glance in Nick’s direction.

I stayed happy and nice and positive through the rest of the day, and when I rushed to meet Josh at his locker after school, he turned and smiled at me with a huge grin.

“Thank God—thank God.” He leaned forward and pressed his forehead against mine. “It’s Valentine’s Day and I haven’t even seen the Emmie of my heart yet. Where in God’s name have you been hiding all day?”

I smiled up at him, but a tiny part of me was wondering if he’d kissed Macy. And if he hadn’t, had he wanted to? Had they talked and flirted as they’d gone on the coffee run? He looked the same as always, but something inside of me felt different when I looked at him.

I pushed that nonsense away and said, “Nowhere. Do you have time to open my present before Mock Trial?”

He turned away from me and reached into his locker while saying, “Only if you have time to open mine.”

That made me tease, “I guess I can find a moment.”

The first package he gave me was a rectangular box—obviously chocolates. I ripped off the paper, then smiled at him. “My favorite dinner—thank you.”

“Of course,” he said, covering his heart with both of his hands. “Sweets for the sweet.”

“And from the sweet,” I added, grinning because it was romantic and also the perfect words to be said on the perfect Valentine’s Day. I didn’t want to get ahead of myself, but it felt like I might just be getting it right.

“Now this, my sweet,” he said, holding out a small square box.

I exhaled on a laugh, caught up in his smile and the festivity of the gifts. I pulled open the white gift box, and nestled inside was a silver bracelet. I raised my eyes to his, and he was grinning expectantly.

I waited for an explanation, but after two seconds of smiling blankly at him, I squealed, “Omigosh, Josh, I love it so much—thank you!”

As he insisted on putting it on me, I said nothing, dreading the rash that would cover my skin within hours. Because I’d told Josh an entire story—last week—about how silver made me break out. Yes, people sometimes forgot things, but it had been a long story that included a trip to the ER and he’d commented on how if we’d been dating at that time, he would’ve smuggled in a pizza for me to eat.

So now he was buying me silver?

I pushed that down, though, for the sake of a perfect day, and watched him open the watchband. He loved it—I knew he would—and it made him wrap his arms around me and kiss me big on the lips, school hallway be damned.

When he pulled back and looked down at me, I grinned. Cleared my throat. Then I took the deepest of breaths, looked at his brown eyes, and said, “I love—”

“Not yet!” He held up a finger and said, “Not another word until you hear my poem.”

I closed my mouth, a little shaken. Had he known what I was about to say? He was giving me a huge smile, so I didn’t think so.

He read me the poem he’d written, saying I fit into his poems like the perfect rhyme, and he wrapped me up in a big hug. It was beautiful, like all his poetry, and afterward I smiled through the hallways as I headed for Chris’s car. Love is not what is, but what isn’t. My ears aren’t happy when she isn’t speaking; my fingers bereft when her skin is absent.

I hadn’t had a chance to say it—I love you—but I was okay with that. He’d used the word “love” in his poem about me, so that was almost like he’d said it first, and I could still tell him when he called me later that night.

When I got outside and the cold hit me in the face, I heard the horn before I saw Chris. That goofy smart-ass was honking to the tune of “We Will Rock You,” and I was crying from laughter by the time I reached his car.

“Could you be any slower?” he yelled out the window.

“I’m sure I could,” I yelled back, laughing even harder when I reached for the door handle and it was locked. “Let me in!”

“Fine.” He hit unlock and said, “But only because I need ten bucks for gas.”

“Typical.” I got in his car and closed the door, and as I slammed it shut, I saw Nick Stark one row over, messing with his truck’s engine. I rolled down the window and yelled in his direction, “Do you need help?”

His eyes raised from the motor of his car to my face and I was instantly warm. He was doing that sarcastic half-smile thing when he yelled, “No offense, but I’m a sixteen-year-old guy. It isn’t really safe for me to talk to strangers.”

I laughed and yelled, “We’re not strangers, Nick Stark.”

His half-smile went wide and whole. “That’s right—we’re partners.”

I laughed again and I heard Chris make a noise. I ignored it and said, “Seriously, though—do you need help? Or a ride?”

“What am I—your Uber now?” Chris muttered.

“No, but thanks,” Nick said. “She’s actually running now so I’m good.”

“Well, okay, then.” Why was I disappointed? “See you.”

He gave me a look that was suspended—frozen—before life went back to full speed.

“Hey, hon.” My dad came out of the kitchen with a dish towel over his shoulder. “How was school?”

I smiled and set down my bag. I had already taken off Josh’s bracelet on the ride home and shoved it deep in a pocket of my backpack so I wouldn’t have to think about it. To my dad, I said, “Good. Hey—can I talk to you for a quick second?”

“I have to stir my sauce, but sure.”

I followed him into the kitchen and climbed onto one of the counter stools. He was making spaghetti and meatballs—Grandma Max’s recipe—and it smelled amazing.

“What’s up?”

I reached out and grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl. “Mom told me about the promotion.” A lie, of course, but I was getting ahead of this.

“Christ—are you kidding me?” My dad’s shoulders dropped and he looked pissed. “I told her I wanted to talk to you first—”

“No—it’s okay.” I took a bite of the apple and said, “She misunderstood something I said and thought I already knew.”

“Oh.” He closed his mouth and stirred his sauce, looking deep in thought. My dad was one of those dads who maintained a younger vibe; like, he had all of his hair and hadn’t gotten soft yet. That being said, there were a few gray hairs in his temples that hinted at his true age.

“Yeah, so, can I be honest here? I want you guys to be able to move to your dream town or whatever. I really do. But,” I said, trying to get the courage to say it in the right way, “I hate the thought of you moving away from me. Like, I love Mom, but home is when I’m with you.”

My voice cracked at the end and everything inside of me wanted to clarify that it was fine and he shouldn’t worry about it, but I forced myself not to. I looked down at the red skin of my apple.

“Wow. Um, I’m going to be honest here, Em—I didn’t expect this.” I looked up in time to see him rub the back of his neck like he was uncomfortable. “I guess I thought it wouldn’t matter much to you.”

“That you’re moving across the country?” I blinked fast because crying never helped anything. I still couldn’t believe I’d melted down like a baby in front of Nick in Chem, even if he had no idea it had happened. “How could it not matter? You’re my dad. The boys are my brothers. This is my home.”

He stopped stirring. “But you seem so happy with your mom. I guess I just…”

“Assumed. You assumed.” It felt bitter on my tongue, and there was so much more I could say, but I didn’t want to mar the perfect day. “I love Mom, but you are my home.”

He swallowed and I saw his nostrils flare before he said, “Oh, Em—I’m so sorry.”

I shook my head and fought back tears. “Don’t be. You didn’t know because I never said anything.” I’d never wanted to rock the boat. “And I don’t want to keep you from moving. I just, um, I don’t know—I thought maybe we could find some options to make this work.”

He came around the counter and sat down on the stool beside me. He told me it’d been killing him, the thought of not being able to see me every day, and he said we—he, Lisa, and me—would sit down tomorrow and find a way to make it work.

When I went up to my room that night, I was buzzing with happiness. I felt closer to my dad than I had in ages, I hadn’t wrecked my car, a summer program was still a possibility, and Josh and I had had a perfect Valentine’s Day.

I climbed into bed and thought about the silver bracelet. I mean, it was very pretty, and it looked expensive. Why was I making a big deal about him forgetting my allergy?

My phone buzzed, and I reached for where it was charging on the nightstand. I thought it would be Josh, but it was Nick Stark.

Nick: Your ChapStick is in my truck.

Me: What?

Nick: I just got home and when I grabbed my backpack, your ChapStick was on the floor underneath it.

He had to be talking about my Burt’s Bees, which I hadn’t been able to find all day.

Nick: I’ll bring it to Chemistry, but I just wanted to let you know.

Me: Thanks. How’d you do on the quiz?

Nick: Aced it.

Me: Wow. Cocky.

Nick: Guilty. I’ve got hella Chem swagger.

Me: You really ARE a cool guy.

Nick: I know. So did your BF give you Valentine’s flowers?

Me: Candy and a bracelet, actually.

Nick: So are you wearing your jewels right now while jamming chocolate into your face hole?

That made me laugh and I texted: I left the candy in my friend’s car and the bracelet gave me a rash, so big no.

Nick: Holy shit—he got you a bracelet that turns your arm green??

I sighed and started to text, but, before I even really knew what I was doing, I found myself hitting the call button.

“Hello?”

“The bracelet didn’t turn my arm green. I’m allergic to silver.”

“First of all, is that really a thing?” he asked. “And second, I bet he wishes you would’ve told him that little tidbit of personal info before he dropped coin on your baubles.”

“It is a thing—I am allergic.” I grabbed my soda off the nightstand and said, “And I did tell him. He must’ve just forgotten.”

“Let me get this straight.” His voice was deep and a little gravelly, like he’d just woken up. “You told Josh Sutton, arguably the smartest kid at our school, that you’re allergic to silver. And then he bought you a silver necklace for Valentine’s Day.”

“Bracelet.”

“Whatever. He’s clearly trying to kill you.”

I started laughing, in spite of wanting to choke him for making me doubt Josh. “He is not.”

“Are you sure?” I could hear the smile in his low, quiet voice. “I mean, you can never be too careful.”

“I’ve heard that.” I cleared my throat and couldn’t believe I was talking to Nick Stark on the phone. That I had called him. “So where were you all night?”

“Whoa—back off, creeper.”

“Shut it,” I said through another laugh. “Were you working?”

“I was.”

“And…? Where do you work?”

“Should I be alarmed by how interested you are in my comings and goings?”

“Absolutely not.” I remembered what he thought about small talk, so I said, “I was just hoping you can get me a hefty discount at one of my favorite places. Bookstore, coffee shop, pizza delivery—any of those would work for me. I like having connections.”

“So.” He sounded a little more awake. “You’d like to use our acquaintance for your personal gain, is that what you’re saying?”

“Precisely.” I smiled into the quiet of my bedroom and said, “Although you needn’t make it sound so mercenary.”

“Well, I hate to disappoint you, but I work at 402 Ink. A tattoo shop.”

He worked at a tattoo shop?

Everyone knew that he’d gotten tattoos last year—as a sophomore—so that made him seem wildly edgy since the legal age without permission was eighteen. But to work there? That was some straight-up street cred.

“I’m not disappointed,” I said, picturing the smirk that would curl his lip when I said, “I’m planning on getting two massive sleeves next week, so this is perfect.”

“Sure you are.”

“You don’t know.”

“I think I do.”

I gave a nod in agreement, even though he couldn’t see it, and asked, “What do you do there?”

“Everything that isn’t a tattoo. Answer phones, social media, website, cash register—I’m their bitch, pretty much.”

“Oh.” I lay back on my pillow and pulled the covers up to my shoulders. “That sounds interesting, actually.”

“You’d think.” He sounded like he was walking when he said, “What about you? Job?”

“I work at Hex Coffee.”

“Really? Huh—I’m surprised I’ve never seen you there.”

“You go there a lot?”

“No. I actually hate coffee.”

That made me snort. “Of course you do.”

“I’m more of a tea guy.”

“Lying again?”

“I seriously drink four to five cups of Sleepytime every day.”

“You have to be lying.”

“Swear to God.”

I tried picturing him drinking tea and frankly, it was too adorable. He gave off strong Jess Mariano vibes when he talked about books, and the tea just made it bigger. I said, “I hate tea.”

“You would.”

“You aren’t going to try to convince me that I’m wrong?” Josh loved tea and was always trying to get me to try his. “Tea drinkers are usually pushers who swear by the fact that if you just try tea the way they drink it, you’ll like it.”

“Why would I care what you drink?”

“I… have no idea.”

“Listen, I have to go. I just didn’t want you freaking out and losing your ever-loving shit over your ChapStick.”

“I was about to, so your call is most appreciated.”

“You seem the type.”

“I know.”

He made a little laugh sound and said, “Sorry about your terrible Valentine’s presents, by the way.”

“It’s fine.” That made me laugh again. “What’d you get your girlfriend?”

“Girlfriend—please. I don’t have time for that.”

“But if you did…?”

I don’t know why, but I really wanted to know.

“If I did? I don’t know—not chocolates and anaphylaxis, that’s for sure.”

I laughed again and said, “Come on. Commit already.”

“Fine.” He made a growly sound and said, “Uh, something that mattered to her, I guess. I mean, if she was a bookish person like you, I’d try to find a special edition of her favorite book or something.”

“Oh.” I wasn’t even going to let my mind go there, to the utter fantastical gift possibilities.

“But someone recently told me that I’m kind of a surly person, so gifts and Hallmark holidays kind of aren’t my thing.”

“Ah.” I thought back to that morning at his truck and said, “Bummer on the surliness, but the girl sure sounds cool.”

That made him fall into a charming hoarse laugh that trickled through my veins and dipped all the way down to the tips of my toes. “G’night, Emilie Hornby.”

“G’night to you, Nick Stark.”

I’d just pressed end when a text came through.

Josh: Salutations, sweet Valentine.

I felt guilty as I responded. Me: Greetings.

Josh: We’re swamped so I can’t call until break, but I wanted to send a quick hello, in case you fall asleep.

Me: Right back atcha.

😉

Josh: Are you wearing your bracelet?

Me: Nope—in bed.

Josh: I remembered that you love shiny things and it reminded me of your smile.

I didn’t particularly like shiny things—I wasn’t a bling girl—and how would a silver chain bracelet remind him of my smile, anyway? What—my smile in sixth grade, when I had a mouth full of braces and wore headgear when I slept?

I could still hear Nick Stark: Something that mattered to her.

I texted: Awwwww. <3 But the poem was the shiniest gift.

Josh: Sweetie.

😉

Gotta run. Lates, Emmiecakes.

Me: Lates.

I plugged the phone back into the charger, turned off the light, and settled into my pillow. I really had had a great Valentine’s Day with Josh—poetry and jewelry, what more could a girl ask for, really? It’d been everything I’d wanted out of the day, even before falling into this abyss of repetitive days.

The perfect boyfriend, checking off nearly all of the romance boxes I’d jotted down in my planner.

So why didn’t I feel more… I don’t know… swoon when I thought about him? The Macy thing, of course, but this was something else. He’d written a poem about me, but somehow the thought of Nick Stark talking about what he’d buy for a hypothetical girlfriend was more sweepy-off-my-feety than poetry.

I quickly shut down that train of thought. I knew nothing about Nick Stark—other than what he liked to read, what he listened to, what he smelled like, where he worked, how his laugh sounded when he was sleepy over the phone—and he was probably the jerk I’d always thought him to be.

Josh was perfect for me, and I was just tired.

I didn’t wish on a star that night. The day had been so close to perfect—in such an organic way—that I didn’t need the galaxy’s help.

I got this, Milky Way.

I fell asleep, not even noticing that, with talking to Nick on the phone, I had forgotten to say “I love you” to Josh.