Page 6 of Can We Just Be Happy Now?

He chuckles. “The only thing that’s funny is how ridiculous it is that the two of you aren’t together yet.”

I roll my eyes.

“You’ve really never considered it?”

“Maybe I have, but more in fleeting thoughts. Sure, I’m attracted to her, and I’ve had the urge to kiss her a few times–”

“You have the urge to kiss a lot of people,” Troy interjects. He’s not wrong. I’ve kissed a lot of girls, but it’s never gone past that.

I laugh. “Making out is fun. It’s weird you don’t think so.”

He shrugs. “Other stuff is just more fun.” Grinning, he adds, “So, why don’t you kiss Sophie?”

“What if it ruins our friendship?” I tug on the strings of my hoodie hard enough to scrunch the hood around my neck.

“What if it makes it better?” he counters. “I’ve seen the way she is around you. I know probably better than anyone. She’s different around you–more open, happy, confident . . . more herself. You could have easily had sex with anyone you want by now. You don’t think you’re holding out for her?”

“Uhhh.” The thought hadn’t crossed my mind, but that’s not to say it isn’t my subconscious intention. “I’ve been busy with football and finishing high school.”

“Uh-huh. I’ve lived your life, dude. I’m living your future life right now. I can tell you with certainty, if you want to have sex, you’ll find time for it.”

“How did we get from kissing to sex?” I shake my head at the ridiculousness of this conversation.

“I’m just throwing out thoughts you’re afraid to say aloud.” He shrugs, tossing a broken fragment of brick to the hill below.

“So, you think I should make a move?”

“What’s the worst that can happen? She rejects you? At least you start college soon. You don’t have to see her as much if things go south.”

“I’ve seen her almost every day since I was like three years old. I can’t imagine not having that.”

“Exactly my point.” The look on his face is playfully condescending as he slaps me on the back.

Chapter four

SOPHIE

THEN

My phone skips lightly across the white marble kitchen counter when it vibrates, and my heartbeat falls in sync. Dropping the frosting-covered knife into the KitchenAid bowl, I pick it up.

Cooper: Meet me at our spot?

When I look up, a cupcake is frozen in Mom’s hand as she stares at me. It’s our tradition every year to make homemade red velvet with cream cheese frosting.

“What?”

“I could ask you the same thing. What is making you smile like that?” She raises an eyebrow.

“Nothing,” I say, wiping the look from my face. “Just something Chastity said,” I lie. Seeing Cooper is always a bright part of my day, but I’d never admit that to anyone. Mom and Dad have made it clear they think I’m too young to date, so I’m sure they’d hate the idea of me having a crush on someone over two years older than me. I don’t think they’d stop me if I did want a boyfriend. They might even be supportive because they love Cooper, but I haven’t brought it up. It’s not worth the effort since it’s one-sided.

Mom gives me a questioning look as I pick up a frosted cupcake. I survey our progress. The first batch is almost completely decorated, and the second still has ten more minutes in the oven. I already put away all the baking ingredients while Mom did the dishes. “I’m going to bring Cooper a cupcake. He asked for one when he dropped me off.”

“Okay, honey.” She smiles, picking up another cupcake to frost.

“I’ll be right back,” I say, slipping out the sliding glass door leading to our backyard. I make my way, barefoot through the grass, until I reach the edge of the trees that run behind all the houses on our street. Our spot is two layers into the woods. You can barely make out our houses from there. It’s quiet and secluded, the ground covered in dirt and dead leaves from last fall. We’ve been hanging out here since we were four and six, making mud pies and hiding from our brothers.

As I approach Cooper, his back is turned to me, giving me the perfect view of his short brown hair. The urge to run my fingers through it is as strong as it usually is, despite knowing that will never happen. The crunch of the leaves beneath my feet causes him to turn, revealing the bag of bird seed he’s using to fill the little red birdhouse his dad helped us build in middle school. He sets the bag on the ground by the tree the house is attached to, brushing the seed off his hands.

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