anticipation of the explosion I know is coming.
“You what?”
“I’m sorry. I’ll buy you a new one,” I rush to say.
I can hear her fuming over the line, probably plotting how to inconspicuously murder me in my sleep. I remember when I dropped her phone two years ago, cracking the edge, and she retaliated by writing Juniper is a loser on the back of mine in permanent marker. I followed a YouTube tutorial involving dry-erase markers to rub the ink off.
“Wait,” Marisa says suddenly. “Does Dad know?”
“About the sweater?” I ask, not following.
“No, dummy,” Marisa replies exasperatedly. “This guy you met. Does Dad know?”
“No one knows but you,” I say, grateful to move on from the subject of her stained cardigan. “Please don’t tell anyone,” I continue hurriedly. I have no idea how she’ll feel being my confidant. This is uncharted territory for us.
“You mean like how you didn’t tell anyone when I went to Steve’s party?”
I kind of deserve the jab, but I’m not going to concede that to my sister. There’s a knock on the door. “Marisa, please,” I say, getting up.
“Fortunately for you,” she singsongs, “I’m a better sister than you deserve. What’s his name? What’s he like?”
“I’ll tell you everything later,” I promise, walking to the door. “I have to go now.”
“You’re a tease,” she replies. “I expect details tomorrow.” I hear in her voice how obviously happy she is. It’s clear how much she wanted this kind of sisterly relationship—this kind of friendship—which makes me realize how much I wanted the same. I’ve shared a bedroom with Marisa for years. I don’t really have a reason why we’re not closer, why we’re not encyclopedic, citable, peer-reviewed authorities on every detail of each other’s lives. I’m starting to suspect being that to each other might be easier than I expected.
“Say hi to everyone for me,” I tell her.
“Have fun,” she says suggestively. “I’ll be expecting my new sweater for Christmas.”
I roll my eyes. “I know, I know.” I hang up and throw my phone on the bed behind me, then open the door, the handle clicking heavily. Fitz waits in the hallway.
I beam, because it’s become instinct with Fitz. He turns my insides into a collection of clichés, butterflies on roller coasters with wings of melting ice.
“Hey,” I say casually and with Herculean effort. “What’s up?”
“Oh, nothing,” he replies, matching my nonchalance. “Just stretching my legs. Nothing to do with how we kissed today and I can’t stop thinking about you.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Nothing to do with that?”
“Nope.” He runs his hand through his hair, and I’m suddenly a little self-conscious with my shower-slick hair dangling in a rope down my shirt. He looks profoundly kissable. “Lewis is on the phone with Prisha,” he explains. “I wondered if I could hang out with you.” His bravado fades, replaced by a hint of trepidation.
“Of course,” I say, opening the door wider. I don’t know why he’s nervous until he walks in and I close the door. I’m instantly aware we’re alone in a hotel room together.
My recently showered state of dress promptly becomes the least pressing thing on my mind. I’m not nervous, exactly. I’m just a mixture of excited and uncertain and incredibly conscious of our present circumstances. I have no idea if the combination is combustible.
Fitz sits on the bed. Then he immediately jumps back up.
“It’s fine,” I say, trying to sound casual and hearing my own jumping nerves come through. “You can sit there.”
Slowly, he does. “I want you to know, I’m not— I don’t mean— This isn’t a move,” he says haltingly. “I really did need to give Lewis privacy.”
“Would it be bad if it were a move?” I sit next to him on the bed. Our shoulders come close to touching.
“Not bad, no,” he says. His voice is hushed and even, like he’s trying very hard to control something struggling to escape.
The ground shifts under me. I don’t fight the feeling. I’m ready to fall.
“I