Click to Subscribe - By L. M. Augustine Page 0,11

feel, she doesn’t share the feeling? Or worse, what if she runs right out of my life and doesn’t ever return?

Oh god. Oh god oh god oh god. I love her, and as screwed up as it sounds, I really do. But I don’t want my love to drive her away.

I turn over in my bed and lie flat on my stomach, my gaze climbing up my wall to the poster Mom made me of her and me and Cat and Dad partaking in our annual Ice-Cream-Eating contest a year ago. We’re all grinning and laughing and shoving each other in the picture, being totally normal and totally careless. The sun beats down on us as we stand in front of The Icecreamery, our faces smeared with vanilla, making the most random poses we can think of. I sigh at the memory. Why can’t this whole thing be as easy and as simple as ice cream? Why can’t everything just be sweet, with no other strings attached?

It isn’t that simple, though. It isn’t ice cream. It doesn’t make sense, and personally, I’m not sure it’s supposed to.

But for the first time since Mom died, I love someone in my life, and it’s sure as hell going to take a lot to stop me from chasing her.

***

The next day, after classes are over, Cat asks me to meet her for an early dinner, and I agree without a moment’s hesitation. Anything to keep me from freaking out about Harper and the meet-up is more than welcome at this point.

Cat and I meet at a local Italian restaurant, both of us “dressing up” with relevant meatball and pasta T-shirts—we are incredibly classy people—and as soon as we step inside, the hostess leads us to a red leather booth in the very back of the room. The restaurant is small and warm, with dim lights everywhere and some Italian music playing at a dull hum in the background. The air smells like pasta and garlic bread, and I can hear the laughter of a group of fifty-something adults sitting across from us. We sit down, and the seat feels so soft to the touch. A waitress dressed in a black and white shirt comes over a minute later and pours us water, and we thank her as she moves on to the next table.

“So Cat,” I say when she leaves. A dim spotlight overhead shines onto Cat’s hair, illuminating it a perfect golden red. We’ve eaten at this restaurant before, too. Italian restaurants are always a big destination when it comes to our hardcore dorkiness, mostly so we can order breadsticks, get out a white chef’s hat, and pretend to look Italian and even talk like it to other customers. This usually results in freaked out looks from random strangers, who Cat and I dismiss as just being jealous of our inner Italian badassery.

“So West,” Cat says. Her lips are pursed into a small smile as she skims over the menu in her hand. “I haven’t heard much from you this week. What’s going on in your life?”

I lean back in my seat, flexing the cramp in my hand. “Just fighting crime. Saving the world. Rescuing small puppies from burning buildings. You know. The usual.”

She rolls her eyes. “Wow. You’re a really extraordinary person, West.”

“The truth is, I do it for the children,” I say.

She stifles a laugh. “That’s amazing. I’m glad I have someone I can count on when my life is in danger.”

“Always,” I say. “Just let me know when you are in danger. But I should warn you, you may need to leave a message since being an incredibly sexy superhero is a very tedious and time-consuming gig, with the hot girls chasing after me and all, so you never know when I’ll be free.” I take a sip of my water, suppressing a smile, listening as the music overhead changes from a symphony of some sort to an opera song. “What are you ordering?” I ask after a while.

“Breadsticks,” she says immediately.

I raise my eyebrow. “Just breadsticks?”

“Of course. You aren’t the only badass here, West Ryder. And breadsticks are the greatest invention known to man.”

“Even more than chocolate Oreo cake?” I whistle to myself. This is new territory. Cat loves chocolate Oreo cake.

“Hmm. Maybe. Either way, you’re now officially on-the-hook to get me both for my birthday next month.”

“I would expect no less.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

“Good,” she reaffirms, nodding.

The waitress returns about a minute later, takes our orders, grabs the menus, and