I think about the hours we spent on the couch in his basement watching reruns of the Ninja Turtles on TV; how we used cardboard paper towel rolls as weapons and ran around the room sparring with each other. I don’t know how sixth-grade Andrew could have ever thought sending a Ninja Turtle–themed valentine to Danielle would be a good idea.
“Whatever,” she says. “It said: ‘I love you more than pizza.’”
“I can’t believe you remember that,” Andrew says, running a hand over the back of his neck. He looks a little sweaty, like he’s just come down with a fever.
“Hard to forget something that embarrassing,” she says. “You were such a nerd.”
Why didn’t he ask me for advice back then? It seems like something he would have checked in with me about. I could have told him the valentine was a terrible idea; that he should have given her something with glitter. I’m surprised he managed to keep this secret for so many years. What else don’t I know about?
The waitress comes by with a basket of breadsticks, some butter, and dipping sauce, and puts it down on the table in front of us, leaving with a smile in Dean’s direction. I grab one and rip into it, spraying crumbs over the tabletop.
“Anyway, you’ve liked me for years,” Danielle says, cocking her head in Andrew’s direction.
“Pretty confident of you,” Dean says, taking a sip of his wine.
Danielle shrugs. “I’m a confident person.”
“So I’ve gathered.” His mouth curls up on one side. She imitates his expression, quirking her mouth into a matching smirk, hers artificial lipstick red. It strikes me suddenly how similar they are. It seems backward that I’m the one with Dean instead of her. But then it hits me—haven’t I been imitating her this whole time? He’s with Danielle and he doesn’t even know it.
“I just don’t know why it took you so many years to make a move,” she says to Andrew.
“It wasn’t that many years.” He reaches over for the water bottle and takes a sip. I feel his leg brush against mine again under the table, and I move mine quickly away. It’s getting exhausting trying not to touch him.
“Until junior year? That’s a long time,” Danielle says.
“But you’re seniors,” Dean says, stiffening. “You’re about to graduate. Right?”
Danielle laughs. “Duh, James Dean. Don’t freak out. You’re not being pervy. Keely’s eighteen.”
“What happened junior year?” I pick up another breadstick and slather butter onto it, holding the knife stiffly in my hand.
“It doesn’t matter,” Andrew says. “It’s weird we’re talking about it.”
“No, I want to talk about it.” I bite into the bread, and even though it’s slicked in butter, I have trouble swallowing it. I notice my knuckles turning white around the handle of the knife, and put it down.
“Ava was so mad at me after that party,” Danielle says, reaching over for a breadstick of her own. “She said because she didn’t have anyone to kiss at midnight, I was supposed to stay with her, and, like, sacrifice my own night. She was still hung up on Tim Loggins and was so mad he didn’t show. It was the whole reason she’d thrown the party in the first place.”
“What party?” I ask, feeling the back of my neck start to get damp with sweat.
“New Year’s,” Danielle says, biting into the breadstick, somehow managing not to spill any crumbs. “Don’t you remember how mad she was? Just because I hooked up with someone and she didn’t. Typical Ava. Always making everything about her.”
Next to me, Andrew is bright red. He reaches a hand up to rub the back of his neck. I wonder if he feels as sweaty and uncomfortable as I do.
I know exactly what party she’s referring to. Ava’s parents were out of town for New Year’s Eve. Someone got ahold of a bottle of peppermint schnapps and we were mixing it with chocolate fudge, and I felt such a sugar crash that I went to bed early, briefly waking up at midnight when I heard everybody cheering in