I suck in a sharp breath. He’s right—I completely forgot he called last night, when I was still at Andrew’s house. I can’t believe I forgot to respond. I usually overanalyze our texts so much, but right now I don’t really care. It feels like there are more important things.
But maybe this is a good thing. Danielle said I should play hard to get anyway. Even though my first instinct is to apologize, I think about what Danielle would say.
I was busy
I shut my eyes, clutching the phone in my hands but unable to look at it. He takes two commercial breaks to respond.
Wanna get pizza?
So it worked. Of course it worked. Danielle is a master. I look at the clock and see it’s 5:30. I can’t believe I wasted the entire day on the couch. My clothes feel sticky and my hair is matted to my forehead. My stomach rumbles. I have to get out of the house. I have to do something, anything to take my mind off my misery. And being with James Dean sounds like the only thing that could fully distract me.
ME
I always want to get pizza
DEAN
I can come pick you up
I text him my address and run upstairs to take a shower and pull on some clothes. My mom knocks on the door just as I’m zipping up my jeans.
“Feeling better?” Her eyes are soft with concern.
“Yeah.” I rummage through my closet and find my birthday sweater before remembering it’s covered in blue glaze. I push it away quickly so my mom won’t see.
“Are you going somewhere?” She walks farther into the room and reaches an arm up as if to stop me. “I don’t think that’s a great idea.”
“I’m just getting pizza,” I say. “I haven’t eaten all day.”
“I could make you something here. We just picked up some fresh veggies from the farmers’ market.”
“It’s okay. I want to go out.”
She looks at me then, tilting her head and scrunching her nose. It’s the look that means she’s worried—a look that’s special for me, that I’ve never seen her direct toward anyone else.
“Just come home early,” she says with a sigh. “You need a good night’s sleep.”
Just a year ago, my mom would have insisted I stay in. But I know she’s thinking about next year—how there are only three months until I leave for California and then we’ll both be on our own. Three months until she and Dad won’t be there to care for me when I’m sick. I know she’s trying to prepare me for that; trying to prepare herself.
She reaches out and squeezes my arm. “Don’t stay out too late.”
The doorbell rings downstairs and I jump.
“Who are you getting pizza with?” she asks, turning to leave the room.
“Wait!” I say, my tone more panicked than I intended. “It’s no one. I’ll get it.” I brush past her and run down the stairs. I can’t believe I didn’t think about my parents being here when I gave him my address.
But when I open the front door, it’s not James Dean on the other side.