Page 78 of I Hope This Doesn't Find
“I’m not planning on being particularly nice,” he whispers. “And I don’t expect you to be either.”
“But—”
“It’sus, Sadie,” he says, like that’s answer enough. “When have we been bad at anything?”
He has a point. A very good one. And in either case, I don’t have the strength to argue any further, because he’s kissing me again, and it’s everything. It’s so satisfyingly perfect. It’s as if I’ve been suffocating in silence for days, months, years, and now I can finally inhale. Nothing has ever made as much sense as his hands on my waist, his heart hammering against my rib cage, the involuntary sound he makes when I adjust my posture, slide my hand farther down his neck to the hollow of his collarbones. He says my name, whispers it like it’s sacred. And just when I’m wondering how we could ever stop this, how I could ever do anything except listen to his sharp intakes of breath, let him kiss me until my head goes fuzzy—
The lights come back on.
I blink, half-blinded, and jerk away from him. It takes a second before my eyes stop watering and my vision clears. An immediate flush races up my neck when I see Julius. His lips are swollen, his black hair rumpled from where I ran my fingers through it.
It feels like that surreal moment in the cinemas, when the credits start rolling and the doors open and the strangers around you rise from their seats, gathering their popcorn buckets and switching on their phones. And part of you is still reeling, still immersed in another world, your heart caught in your throat, struggling to tell which part is real life.
Then I find Julius watching me nervously. Like he’s waiting for me to tell him. To take it all back, now that the cover of darkness is gone and I can see him clearly for the first time.
My heart throbs.
I want him to know he looks more beautiful than ever in the light, up close. I want to kiss him again, until all his doubts dissipate to nothing. I want to take away everything that’s ever hurt him. But for now, I simply smile at him. Hold out my hand. “Come on. Let’s see how bad the damage is.”
It’s already midnight when I trudge back to my room.
Abigail is waiting for me. She’s practically in the same position, in the same spot as when I left her, and I’m struck by an overwhelming sense of déjà vu. It’s as if time has stopped, yet so much has happened. I can still feel the ghost of Julius’s hands around mine.
“Are you . . . still mad at me?” she asks.
I sit down and pat for her to sit as well. Am I mad? I search myself for any remnants of anger, but there’s nothing. I don’t want to argue with her. I just want to be around my best friend.
“This is what my mom always does when she’s about to lecture me,” she mumbles.
“I’m not going to lecture you,” I say. “I only have a few questions.”
Her eyes widen in horror. “That’salsoexactly what she says.”
“I mean it. I’m genuinely curious . . . Why did you do it?” I ask. It’s the one thing I can’t let go of, can’t fully wrap my mind around. “What was going through your head?”
She hugs her knees to her chest. I can’t be sure what I’m waiting for her to say, but it’s certainly not: “You know how I used to pour boiling water into plastic bottles before you stopped me and told me it could release dangerous chemical stuff?”
“Uh, yeah,” I reply.
“Or how I once almost touched mercury, thinking it was just a funny-looking form of silver?”
“Yes.”
“Or that time I convinced myself I could write a five-thousand-word essay during our lunch break?”
I shudder just recalling it. I had nearly broken out into stress hives for her. “Definitely.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve never really been smart-smart or particularly talented. I’ve always known that. I can’t even imagine what it’sliketo come in first in a race or be praised by teachers. My kindergarten teacher literally called my parents to the school to tell them I wasn’t making as much progress as everyone else.” She lets out a quiet laugh. “And guess what my parents did? They called the teacher narrow-minded and judgmental and stormed out of the office, and then they picked me up early and took me to get strawberry ice cream. They never made me feel insecure. But there are times when I still want to feel . . . useful. Needed, the way everyone needs you. And I mostly get that feeling when I’m giving advice to people or helping them work out the things going on in their lives. Does that make even a little bit of sense?”
“Kind of,” I say.
Abigail rests her chin on top of her knees, her platinum hair falling around her. “So I’m being totally honest when I say that I wanted to help you, and I thought Iwashelping you. I didn’t mean to go so far. I won’t ever meddle again, I promise,” she says. “But I’ll also understand if you’re still angry and want to drop me or violently smash a cake in my face—”
“I assure you, I’ve never once been tempted to smash a cake in somebody’s face,” I snort. “It’s a tremendous waste of food.”
She pauses, a faint, tentative smile touching her lips.
“And I assure you that I’m not going to drop you,” I tell her, giving her a light shove. “Even if I were mad at you, you can be mad at someone and still love them.”
