The important thing is, I don’t have any regrets.
When Thursday arrives, Grandma Esther leaves after buying massive amounts of toilet paper and laundry detergent as a housewarming gift “for good luck”—a Korean tradition, she says. I’m sad to see her go, because of all the home cooking, but also glad, because the murder fantasies were starting to get out of control. And I have better things to think about than bumping off nice old ladies.
Like Lennon.
I’m so eager about him coming back into town that I’m shifting into anxiety mode. It’s been a week since we’ve seen each other—the longest, weirdest week of my life—and so much has changed. What if all of that alters the way we feel about each other? What if that week we spent in isolation was an anomaly? Sure, we reconnected in the wilderness, but what if we can’t make it work in the real world? I worry that the delicate balance of our friendship and our more-than-friendship can’t withstand the weight of everyday life.
My parents couldn’t make it, and they were married.
How can the two of us fare any better?
The longer I’m away from him, the more a particular thought niggles: What if we were just seduced by nature? The magic of twinkling stars. The scent of redwood. Majestic mountains.
What if this is what influenced Lennon to kiss me that first time at the top of the granite staircase? If we were here at home without the alluring rush of waterfalls in the background, would he have still made that first move?
Would I have been as receptive to it?
Is there a nature-related equivalent to beer googles?
Making out on a blanket under starry skies certainly is more romantic than groping each other on a park bench while Andromeda watches.
The thing is, we had a chance to make this relationship work last year, but neither of us wanted it hard enough to try. I allowed my dad to talk me into shunning Lennon. Instead of wallowing in pain, I could have gotten off my ass and forced Lennon to tell me what happened at homecoming. And Lennon could have come told me what happened. If he was brave enough to confess stealing Mac’s credit card for the hotel room to both his moms, he could have faced me.
But he wasn’t.
And I wasn’t.
And after all that time together in the woods, neither of us came up with a plan for what to do after we got back to civilization. No promises were made. No pacts. No I love yous were whispered in the dark. Does he still feel the same way about me, now that we’re home?
Can we make it as real couple in the real world? Or are we better off staying friends?
It’s easy to think you’re falling in love out in the wilderness, where everything is beautiful and a tent full of condoms is just steps away. Did we just have one weeklong one-night stand?
How do I know for sure if what we shared together is fleeting or real?
It probably doesn’t help that I haven’t heard much from him over the last couple of days—only a few brief texts to make plans for our date when he gets back. I try not to let uncertainty get the best of me and do my best to ignore random thoughts of him meeting someone hipper than me in the city and deciding I’m not worth the trouble. I know that’s just my monkey mind, chattering away, restless and distracted. But when he texts me that he needs to delay our date until after dinner, I have flashbacks about homecoming last year.
What if I’m being ditched again?
I know it’s not logical, and my mom tells me to relax before I’m covered from head to toe in massive welts. But I’m dressed and ready, wearing my most flattering red-and-black plaid dress, and the sun is setting, and still no Lennon.
It’s eight o’clock.
Eight thirty.
Eight forty-five.
The doorbell rings.
I nearly fall on my face, racing to answer it. And then he’s there, standing in front of me. Black hair. Black jeans. Boyish smile.
Lennon.
My emotions go haywire, and I’m so happy to see him, my voice dries up and vanishes. We’re both standing here stupidly, and I need one of us to say something—anything!
“You’re late,” I finally manage.
He looks dazed. “I had to arrange some stuff. God, you look beautiful.”
Fireworks go off in my chest. I think I might faint if he doesn’t touch me.
Just when I can’t take it anymore, his arms are around me, and my arms are around him, and he’s warm and solid, and he smells good, like freshly laundered clothes hanging in the sun. I’m overwhelmed with relief. Gratitude. Joy.
I know right at that moment that it wasn’t just the twinkling stars. I don’t want to be Just Friends. But what about him?
“Hi,” he murmurs into my hair.
“I missed you,” I say, tightening my arms around his back until I can hear his heart thudding inside his chest.
I want to tell him, I missed you so much, it felt like I was dying.
I want him to say that to me.
But we’re both silent, and I feel his arms stiffen. He pulls back, looking over my shoulder. My mom is standing behind us, arms crossed.
“Hi, Lennon,” she says. “It’s good to see you.”
“You too.”
She hands him a bag with something in it. “Here you go.”
“Thanks,” he says, smiling.
I glance back and forth between them. “What’s going on? Is this some sort of drug ring?”
Lennon’s brows waggle. “You’ll see.”
My mom and Lennon in cahoots? That’s definitely interesting.
He gives her a shy look. “Are you . . . ? I mean, is it okay that we leave?”
“It’s fine. I’m fine.” She makes a shooing gesture. “You guys go on out. I’m actually looking forward to some peace and quiet. Just come back at a semireasonable hour.”
“We will,” he tells her, lifting the bag she gave him in thanks.
As we head down the steps, she calls out, “And, Lennon? Keep her safe.”
“Don’t worry,” he calls back. “I always do.”
He leads me toward his car, which I haven’t been inside since he got it last summer. The heavy door creaks—loudly—and the inside of the car smells like old leather and engine oil. It’s not entirely unpleasant.
“No dead bodies in the back, right?” I ask when he slides into driver’s seat next to me.
“Not this week.” He smiles at me, and I feel like I’m melting into the seat.
For the love of God, get ahold of yourself, Everhart.
“Now, strap in,” he instructs me, “so I can make good on my responsibility for your safety.”
“Where are we going?”
“That’s a secret, Medusa.”
A tiny, electric thrill shoots through me when he uses my nickname. “I don’t like secrets,” I remind him.
“You’ll like this one. I think. I hope. Let’s find out.”
He drives down Mission Street and won’t give me any hints as we speed across town. I try to figure it out—a movie? A restaurant? Coffee at the Jitterbug?—but he just says, “Nope,” after each guess. Honestly, I’m so happy just to be close enough to reach out and touch him that I genuinely don’t care where we go. But when we pass familiar landmarks and the car’s engine strains climbing a hill at the edge of town, I think I realize where we’re headed.
The observatory.
He pulls into the parking lot, and we’re the only car here. Not surprising, because it closed half an hour ago. But Lennon parks, and he pulls me across the parking lot toward a zigzagging cement pathway on the left side of the building, which heads to the public rooftop area. We head up inclines bordered with painted metal railings until we get to a locked gate. Lennon punches in a key code.