Page 61 of Reggie and Delilah's Year of Falling

We are holding hands as we walk toward a pond that smells like duck poop, the toxic scent wafting toward us before we’ve even reached it. It’s the least romantic smell in existence. And yet, he hasn’t let go.

We are holding hands after the most perfect conversation ever. It was exactly what I needed. It made me feel seen, and also pushed me to let go of all these other opinions taking up space in my brain. To stand in who I am without apology. Like my mom, like Reggie.

But.

What about what Georgia said? Am I jumping into something with a guy just for the validation? If I tell Reggie how I feel and really pursue this... am I going to be putting myself, and all the growth I’ve been making, on the back burner?

I don’t know.

In the scheme of things, though, holding hands is barely a blipon the bases scale. It’s not a dramatic declaration of my feelings. It really means nothing, right?

With Reggie, though, it kind of feels like everything.

And I think he feels it too. His head has tilted to the side, and he’s smiling at me, moving in closer. The bright sun on his face seems to make his face glow, and I wonder what would happen if I reached out and touched his cheek, pulled him even closer. I wonder if his lips feel as soft as they look.

But.

Again.

Am I letting Georgia down? Am I lettingmyselfdown?

His lips part, and he’s so close now that I can feel his breath mingling with my own. And all I want to do is close the space between us and finally kiss him like I’ve dreamed about.

Right as it’s about to happen, though, I feel another sharp pang in my chest, and the indecision, the anxiety, wins.

I turn my head.

Reggie

She swerved.

She fucking swerved.

I thought for sure it was finally happening. That this would be the end of all the back-and-forth, perpetual panic attack, and I could finally be certain—no gray area or reasonable doubt—that she actually, truly liked me too.

But no, she swerved.

And now I have to stand here and somehow hide the fact that I want to be launched into space on a one-way ticket, torched by an angry wyvern’s flames, and crash into an iceberg so I can plummet to the bottom of the sea with theTitanic.All at the same time.

I drop her hand.

“No, um, it’s not like. I just—” she starts, but I wave that away. I don’t need to hear her excuses or feel her pity anymore. It was loud and clear, flashing neon on a marquee, with that move. And, like, I can’t even be mad about it. I was probably reading the signswrong, starting something that she obviously didn’t actually want. If anything, she deserves to be mad atme.

“It’s fine. No big deal. I get it.”

Her eyebrows furrow, and she blinks at me, like if she does it enough times something else will click into focus.

“No, that’s not what that—I mean, I’m sorry, it’s—”

“Oh, please don’t say sorry! I shouldn’t have—I’m sorry!”

“No, no, no.Youdon’t have to be.”

“It’s fine,” I repeat, stepping back from her. “I’m fine. We’re fine.”

I’m praying that Eric and my cousin aren’t currently witnessing the most mortifying, totally-not-fine thing that’s ever happened to me. But with my luck, they’re probably live-streaming this all with commentary.

She lets out a big exhale and looks me in the eye, her brown eyes wide and searching. “Can we just start over?”

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