Did she seem a little…I don’t know. Disappointed? Did she seem disappointed in me earlier, when she was talking about love and what I wanted for the future? Was I imagining that?

Of course you were,I tell myself.India Marigold does not care enough about you to be disappointed in anything you do. And even if she was, why would you care?

I shift uncomfortably, clearing my throat.

I wouldn’t care, obviously. It’s just…weird. I’m feeling a little weird. And it doesn’t help that the image of the two of us, kissing in the back seat of my car, keeps trying to pop up, no matter how many times I push it firmly away.

I need sleep.

But India, of course, doesn’t know any of this, and I can’t expect her to. She shrugs, a shift of her shoulders I feel against mine.

“My list is going fine, I think?” she says. “I love Janis Joplin, and this weekend I’m going to learn how to bake a carrot cake.”

“Oh,” I say, brightening, grateful for the distraction. “I’ll help!”

“Nah,” she says. She waves my offer away with one casual hand. “Juliet is going to teach me.”

“Oh,” I say as I deflate again. “That will be good. Juliet’s a great baker. Just tell her to do some chocolate cupcakes next time.”

Half of a grin tugs at India’s lips. “I will.” She pauses, and her eyes dart over to me. Then she turns her attention back to the pine needles she’s wrapping around her finger. “If you want, though?—”

“I do want,” I say immediately, my head turning to her. I straighten up. “I do.”

“You could come on my motorcycle ride with me,” she says. “Whenever I get around to it.”

“Yes.” I nod as a genuine smile finds me. “I want to come.”

“Yeah?” she says, finally meeting my eye.

I nod again, more vigorous this time. “Yes! Definitely. You said I could help you. I want to help.”

“I want to ride through the park,” she says. “I’ve never done it.” She pauses, and her voice turns skeptical. “You’d have to ride behind me, though?—”

“Done.”

“Which might feel emasculating?—”

“Psh,” I scoff. “It would take much more than that to make me feel like less of a man.”

She shrugs again, a little smile quirking at her lips. “Fine, then. Let’s do it. I’ll let you know when.” She pauses. “It might not be for a while. I’m not sure.”

“Perfect,” I say, and some of my disappointment dissipates. “Well, should we head out?” I crane my neck to look around the parking strip. “It’s getting late.”

“And chilly,” India says, sitting up. She scoots sideways a bit, then swings her legs over the side of the hood and hops down. I do the same, and the two of us get back in the car. I don’t let myself look at the back seat, because that stupid image of me and India keeps trying to play in my mind. We drive home in silence, but it’s not awkward; it’s just comfortable but tired. When I drop India off she gives me a little wave and then hurries inside, and I’m left to my own thoughts once again.

I can still feel where her arm was pressed against mine on the hood of the car.

Sleep. I need sleep.

I’ll feel better—less confused, less strange—in the morning.

INDIA

Me

It does not take this long to grab ingredients, Jules.

Dancing Queen Jules