Page 29 of The Fangirl Project
@mythicwitch
Can’t waitx
@runicrascal
Me either
@mythicwitch
Night!
@runicrascal
Good night, Cerys x
And even though I ended the conversation, it’s impossible to sleep when, even after I plug my phone in to charge and leave it on my nightstand, I’m busy replaying the conversation over again inmy mind, smiling to myself and with butterflies in my stomach.
I fall asleep daydreaming about kisses, and wake up the next morning from dreams of dark, intense eyes and a low voice saying my name like a prayer.
12
When Wednesday rolls around, Ionce again have a panic about my outfit—I can’t bring myself to wear the fandom tee again and risk a full-on eye roll from Max this time. I forgo Daphne’s assistance with my makeup this week, promising I’ll try the look again soon but not sure I have the confidence for it right now, and instead make a dash for the bus with her calling after me, “Good luck! Go get your man, Cerys! Morning debrief at Costa with the girls tomorrow!”
I turn around long enough to grin and wave, already looking forward to it, glad that the free-period coffees sound like a staple in the calendar, one I’m firmly included in.
October has arrived with brisk winds, even if the sun is still bright and warm. The leaves haven’t turned yet, and there’s a summery feeling still clinging to things. Today, my outfit is the same blue floaty sundress I wore to the convention a couple of weeks ago, but layered with a woolly sweater and paired with sneakers instead of sandals.
Maybe it’s notquitethe weather for a sundress, but I’ve had to compensate for Max third-wheeling again by putting a little more effort into my look. My hair is piled into a bun, slicked back with some serum that Nikita lent me, and held in place by about a thousand hairpins. It’s making my head ache after being so stiffly in place all day, but when I catch sight of myself in the reflection off the bus window, I don’t dare mess with it. Itdoeslook really good. Sophisticated. Older.
Like someone who knows how to flirt with boys and signal to her best friend that she’d very much like for him to kiss her, thankyou.
This time, when I get to Jake’s house, I notice Max’s car parked crookedly once more on the pavement. Ginny’s car is there too, but only because she doesn’t take it to uni with her; Jake’s planning to use it to practice driving, much to her chagrin.
“Thomas never had to sharehiscar” was her argument, according to Jake, to which their mom replied, “Yes, but Thomas had moved out and graduated uni by the time you were learning to drive.Yourcar is sitting here doing nothing, and since your father and I pay the insurance, you can share it with Jake while he’s learning and you’re at uni.”
Mom and Dad have both said they’ll take me out to learn in one of their cars since I got my learner’s permit this summer, but that hasn’t happened yet. It’s another fight I’ve avoided causing between them, sure thatsomehowthey’ll use it to find another way to be at each other’s throats and ruin the whole experience anyway.
I cast a glare at Max’s car, annoyed—jealous—then steel myself and go knock at the front door. There are voices on the other side,laughter about something, and then it swings open to reveal Jake. He’s in his school shirt and a pair of gray tracksuit bottoms, beaming at me but already moving back inside.
“All right, Cerys? Ready for another round of your favoriteshow?”
I laugh. “Don’t you know it! Fangirl official, right?”
He doesn’t send me upstairs like last week, so I follow him to the open-plan kitchen/dining room to help as he starts making snacks. Grilled cheese again, of course.
“Sometimes I think if we cut you in half, you’d bleed melted cheese.”
Jake snorts. “That is weirdly morbid. And also, absolutely true.”
“Sooo,” I singsong. “How’s school?”
“School’s fiiiine,” he sings back, a smile resting gently on his lips as he pulls slices of bread out of the packet to butter. I set the kettle on to boil and lean on my forearms on the island in the center of the kitchen, across from Jake.
I study the easy slope of his narrow shoulders, the lean definition in his arms that’s appeared since the end of our last school year. He must’ve had a haircut since last week, because his sandy-blond locks are neater and shorter than when I saw him last, and as immaculately styled as if he’d only recently done it, rather than spent the day at school. There’s a fingerprint on his metal-frame glasses, right in the middle of the lens, and I reach out to pull them from his face.
Jake jolts, but doesn’t question me when I clean his glasses on the fabric of my dress, scrutinizing them to make sure they’re properly clean before I hand them back. Then I course-correct, andplace them gently back on his face, letting my fingertips softly graze against his cheeks. It could be passed off as just friendly, an accidental touch, but at the same time it feels almost recklessly bold, especially when I let my hands stay there just a second too long and smile as I say, “There. You’re perfect.”
His bright blue eyes blink rapidly—maybe just testing the clean lenses or, hopefully, reading into my gesture for what itreallyis—then he flashes a smile my way. “WhatwouldI do without you,Cer?”
