Page 40 of Nobody in Particular

When he finally pulls away I stare at him in what I hope doesn’t look too much like horror.

He doesn’t seem embarrassed. Bashful, perhaps, but nothing more. “I’m sorry,” he says, but he isn’t. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a while.”

I clear my throat, and the camera flashes strobe in the distance. I have to smile at him. If I don’t, they’ll spin a story out of it. Either way, there will be articles. Oh, Father’s going to kill me. He will quite literally have me done away with at this point, surely. One job. I had one task today: be on my best behavior for the cameras.

I force my lips to stretch apart in a mockery of a grin. “Um, just so you know, we’re not supposed to do that in public,” I say. For goodness’ sake, my parents don’t even hold hands when there are witnesses, let alone make out in the middle of a garden gazebo.

Oh, now Alfie finally looks appalled at himself. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t think.”

“It’s fine,” I assure him. “Nothing to worry about.”

Plenty to worry about. Myriad worries. Worries here, there, and everywhere.

“Private next time,” he says, smiling with relief at my assurances. “Got it.”

I have a near overwhelming urge to wipe my first kiss from my mouth. Somehow, I manage to keep my hands pinned to my sides, balled into tight fists. I want to tell him there won’t be a next time. I want to gently explain to him that I did not, in fact, mean to give the impression that I wanted to kiss him—that sometimes I drift off separately from my body, and it can result in intense staring and silence that is in no way intended to be romantic. That it’s not personal at all, only, I don’t like any boys, though I’m sure if I did I would like him kissing me perfectly well. Probably.

That I’ve been picturing my first kiss a lot lately, and I never wanted to give it to him.

But I do not, and cannot, tell him anything of the sort. So, I bury it until my breath is no longer trembling and my heart is no longer pounding and I can’t feel much of anything at all. Then, and only then, do I trust myself to smile—much more convincingly, now—and say, “Shall we head back inside?”

At least the rain has stopped, so I’m able to walk smoothly and calmly, head held high, as my photograph is taken a hundred times a second all the way back through the gardens and to the cathedral.

SEVENTEENDANNI

I spend most of the evening staring at photos of Rose and Alfie.

She does really look in love. I’m so happy for her. I’m so fucking happy for her that I have to bite down hard on my fist to stop the tears of happiness from spilling over.

Once I’m sure I’ve read every article covering Rose and Alfie’s kiss that was posted today—which is super fun for me, especially when it comes to the articles that include toddler photos of the two of them, pointing out that they’re basically soulmates the whole country has expected would end up together—I try to comfort myself with the new episode of my current med drama fixation. When eventhatdoesn’t work—which is kind of crazy, because the last episode ended with my favorite character getting in a car crash—I decide that it’s time for some piano practice. So, I get my stuff, stalk over to the ballroom, lift the piano lid, and slam my hands on the keys, filling the room with a burst of clashing notes.

I’m so. Goddamn. Thrilled.

Part of me half expects Caroline to burst through the ballroom doors to lecture me for abusing the piano. But no one comes. I’m totally alone. So, totally fucking alone, I play the first thing that comes to mind. It’s a comfort song, one I learned when I was fifteen, after my first—and only—big breakup with my boyfriend of threemonths, Matt. He dumped me, if it matters. He said he’d gotten close to some girl he met on the bus, but he definitely didn’t cheat on me, so I didn’t have to worry. Cheating, no cheating, whatever—it was still heartbreak, and it still made me feel ugly, uninteresting, and desperate.

Anyway, I learned this song by heart that day. It’s not the saddest song I know, or the slowest, but it has beautiful lyrics. It compares the death of love to lying in the middle of a rose garden until the vines overwhelm you and—anyway. It always makes me feel better to play this.

Today, playing it doesn’t seem to be doing a whole lot for me. So I start it from the top, and wait for this feeling to fade.

You can’t miss it when someone comes in the ballroom. The door is massive and heavy, and when it falls shut the room shakes, like it’s doing right now. I stop mid-chord and turn around to see Molly crossing the room.

“Have you been crying?” she asks, her eyes on mine.

I give her a manic smile. “Nah, hay fever.”

“Oh, right.” She pulls up by the piano and looks down at me. “Are you coming to dinner?”

How is it dinnertime already? Have I been playing the same song on repeat for half an hour already? That’s a weird thing to do. “Um, I’m not super hungry.”

She doesn’t move just yet. It’s a Sunday, and meals are more casual on the weekends. No dressing up in black robes, and lining up at the door, and prayers in Latin. Just an hour where you can stroll in whenever you feel like it and grab food.

“It’s a nice song,” Molly says, patting the piano like it did something right.

“Thanks. I like it a lot.”

“I can tell,” she says with a laugh. I remember the ballroom isn’t exactly soundproof, which means anyone in the courtyard probably overheard my thirty-minute rendition of “Roses and Him.” This day just gets better and better.

“Did you see the news?” I ask, super casual.

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