counts. “And I was thinking…” Will swallows, twice, and the edge of his cheek sucks in like he’s biting the inside of his mouth.
I hold my breath, not wanting to say anything that will mess up my data collection.
“… well, I was thinking how I’ve never watched When Harry Met Sally…, but my dad’s always talking about what a classic it is. Have you seen it?”
Have I seen it? How am I supposed to answer that question, without lying, in a way that doesn’t make him think that I’m a psychopath? Also, the fact that he chose a rom-com definitely supports my hypothesis that this is a date.
“Yeah, I’ve seen it,” I say. “It’s one of my favorite movies. But I’d love to see it again with you.”
Will’s smile transforms him into another person. It’s not that he’s normally a sourpuss, but before I’ve only ever seen him smile politely, or grin enthusiastically. The way he looks now, beaming like he can’t help it? It makes me feel like a freaking revelation.
“All right.” Will stands up, tidies up the couch cushions a bit, and holds his hand out to pull me up. “When Harry Met Sally… next Wednesday. It’s a date.”
“Yes.” I reach my hand out to seal the deal (and confirm the results of my scientific method). “A date it is.”
The air is as thick as butternut squash soup on the drive back to the library. After we pull into the now-empty lot, Will turns off the car, but neither of us moves to get out. With the engine turned off it’s so quiet I can hear the squeak of leather as he turns in the seat to face me.
It’s in that silence that in a flash of panic, like a switch flipping, my confidence evaporates. All of a sudden I’m certain that I’ve read Will all wrong. Maybe he’s going to turn to me and say, “Jocelyn, I think you’re getting the wrong idea.”
I’ve been waiting all night for this moment, when all of our plans run their course, and we’re alone and done with any activities or distractions, and there’s nothing else between us but air and words and potential.
Honestly, I’m terrified. Because now’s the moment that Will’s going to make his move, but if he doesn’t, if this opportunity passes us by, I know that I will never have the nerve to create another one.
WILL
The entire drive back to the library I have a buzzing under my skin that’s almost unbearable, like that moment after you get stung by a mosquito where you feel a vague tingling but can’t see the welt or feel the itch yet. I feel as if someone’s bottled me up and shaken me, but I make myself concentrate extra hard on the drive, as getting into an accident would be a less-than-optimal barrier to my endgame.
We’ve both moved our chess pieces onto the board, and I am convinced that I have a chance, as long as I don’t trip over myself getting to checkmate.
By the time I turn off my car and face Jocelyn, I’ve rehearsed a hundred lines in my head and discarded them all, starting with “I’m so glad that I got to work with you” (too formal; also, I should not remind her that I literally work for her), swinging all the way to “I think I’m in love with you” (which maybe comes off a bit too strong) to “So, was this a date?” (vaguely whiny and desperate sounding) to “I think we should take this relationship to the next level” (a little too on point to sound spontaneous).
I’m still trying to process what I really want to say other than “Jocelyn, I really like you,” when I realize that almost a minute has gone by since we parked. With the air-conditioning turned off, the air stills and thickens. As seconds pass I watch Jocelyn’s face morph from excitement to nervous anticipation to an emotion I never, ever want to see on her face again.
Fear.
It takes me a second to realize that the thing she’s afraid of is this unspoken thing between us, and another to understand how easily I can address it.
“Jocelyn,” I blurt out, because I can’t stand to think of her being afraid. “I really like you.”
Her eyes widen, her breath catches, and the frown that was just beginning to form flips into a watery smile.
“Oh, thank God,” she whispers.
Then she starts to cry.
For as long as I can remember, my mother has impressed