you.”
“But you know you can’t do that, right? Look, I know what this is. You’re just trying to make me feel guilty so that I’ll change my mind and stay here. And I—”
“I am not!”
There’s an uncomfortable pause.
“You honestly wanted to come with me?”
“Yes! Not with you, though…I just wanted to be near you.”
I feel a pathetic sense of abandonment and panic. I feel like a little girl whose Daddy is trying to dump her off at preschool against her will.
“But, Trace…” He’s at a loss for words. To his credit, he doesn’t mock me. Nor does he look angry anymore.
He looks…concerned.
I realize, with a sick churning in my stomach, that I’ve overstepped the line I’m always so careful not to cross with him.
I’ve gone and smothered Will, the Man Who Needs Space.
“Okay, well, I just thought I’d run it by you,” I say, trying to be nonchalant.
I pick up my coffee cup and notice that the cream has separated into clumps on top. Ugh. It must have been sour. I plunk the mug back into its saucer and fumble for some distraction, wishing there was something left on my plate besides the strawberry stem and orange rind from the garnish I already devoured.
I have nothing to eat.
Nothing to do.
Will says nothing.
Does nothing.
This is awful. I should never have brought it up.
Not like this.
I should have planned it more effectively.
I should have rehearsed what I was going to say, so that he wouldn’t be caught off guard. So that I wouldn’t seem like such a desperate cling-on.
But deep inside, I know that no matter when or how I approached him, he wouldn’t have thought my going to North Mannfield was a good idea.
So anyway, there it is.
It’s settled.
I’ll be spending the summer here in New York, without Will.
Five
“Y ou ready?” Buckley asks, turning to me.
“Wait, the credits,” I say, still fixated on the screen.
“You want to see the credits?”
Will and I always stay for the credits. But this isn’t Will. And anyway, I’m eager to discuss the film with Buckley, so I say, “Never mind.”
“We can stay if you want to.”
“Nah, it’s no big deal.” I stand, clutching my almost-empty jumbo box of Snowcaps.
“Want any more popcorn?” Buckley asks, as we make our way up the aisle. “Or should I throw it away?”
“No, don’t throw it,” I say, reaching into the bucket and grabbing a handful. I love movie theaterpopcorn, especially with butter. Will never wants to get butter, because he says it isn’t really butter—it’s some kind of melted chemical-laden yellow lard. Not that he’d be willing to get butter even if it was butter, because butter is loaded with fat and calories.
Buckley ordered extra. He didn’t even consult me. Maybe he just assumed I was an extra-melted-lard kind of gal.
Whatever.
It’s a relief to be with someone like him after that disastrous breakfast with Will. When we parted ways in front of his gym, it was awkward. He said he’ll call me tonight, but I almost wish he wouldn’t. I’m afraid he’ll bring up the fact that I wanted to go with him. Or maybe I’m afraid that he won’t bring it up, and it will always be this huge, unspoken thing lying between us.
Meanwhile, here’s Buckley, shoving the popcorn tub at me again, encouraging me to take more.
“So what’d you think?” he asks, helping himself to another handful. “Did the big twist live up to your expectations?”
“I don’t know.” I mull it over. “I mean, it wasn’t Sixth Sense -shocking. It wasn’t Crying Game -shocking. I guess there was too much build-up.”
“That’s why I wasn’t really into seeing this movie.”
“You weren’t into seeing it?” I ask, stopping in the aisle. “But you came with me. You didn’t have tocome with me. Oh, God, you kind of did. Look, I didn’t mean to drag you here.”
“You didn’t.”
“Oh, come on, Buckley. I pretty much ordered you to come with me. I guess I just
“But you know you can’t do that, right? Look, I know what this is. You’re just trying to make me feel guilty so that I’ll change my mind and stay here. And I—”
“I am not!”
There’s an uncomfortable pause.
“You honestly wanted to come with me?”
“Yes! Not with you, though…I just wanted to be near you.”
I feel a pathetic sense of abandonment and panic. I feel like a little girl whose Daddy is trying to dump her off at preschool against her will.
“But, Trace…” He’s at a loss for words. To his credit, he doesn’t mock me. Nor does he look angry anymore.
He looks…concerned.
I realize, with a sick churning in my stomach, that I’ve overstepped the line I’m always so careful not to cross with him.
I’ve gone and smothered Will, the Man Who Needs Space.
“Okay, well, I just thought I’d run it by you,” I say, trying to be nonchalant.
I pick up my coffee cup and notice that the cream has separated into clumps on top. Ugh. It must have been sour. I plunk the mug back into its saucer and fumble for some distraction, wishing there was something left on my plate besides the strawberry stem and orange rind from the garnish I already devoured.
I have nothing to eat.
Nothing to do.
Will says nothing.
Does nothing.
This is awful. I should never have brought it up.
Not like this.
I should have planned it more effectively.
I should have rehearsed what I was going to say, so that he wouldn’t be caught off guard. So that I wouldn’t seem like such a desperate cling-on.
But deep inside, I know that no matter when or how I approached him, he wouldn’t have thought my going to North Mannfield was a good idea.
So anyway, there it is.
It’s settled.
I’ll be spending the summer here in New York, without Will.
Five
“Y ou ready?” Buckley asks, turning to me.
“Wait, the credits,” I say, still fixated on the screen.
“You want to see the credits?”
Will and I always stay for the credits. But this isn’t Will. And anyway, I’m eager to discuss the film with Buckley, so I say, “Never mind.”
“We can stay if you want to.”
“Nah, it’s no big deal.” I stand, clutching my almost-empty jumbo box of Snowcaps.
“Want any more popcorn?” Buckley asks, as we make our way up the aisle. “Or should I throw it away?”
“No, don’t throw it,” I say, reaching into the bucket and grabbing a handful. I love movie theaterpopcorn, especially with butter. Will never wants to get butter, because he says it isn’t really butter—it’s some kind of melted chemical-laden yellow lard. Not that he’d be willing to get butter even if it was butter, because butter is loaded with fat and calories.
Buckley ordered extra. He didn’t even consult me. Maybe he just assumed I was an extra-melted-lard kind of gal.
Whatever.
It’s a relief to be with someone like him after that disastrous breakfast with Will. When we parted ways in front of his gym, it was awkward. He said he’ll call me tonight, but I almost wish he wouldn’t. I’m afraid he’ll bring up the fact that I wanted to go with him. Or maybe I’m afraid that he won’t bring it up, and it will always be this huge, unspoken thing lying between us.
Meanwhile, here’s Buckley, shoving the popcorn tub at me again, encouraging me to take more.
“So what’d you think?” he asks, helping himself to another handful. “Did the big twist live up to your expectations?”
“I don’t know.” I mull it over. “I mean, it wasn’t Sixth Sense -shocking. It wasn’t Crying Game -shocking. I guess there was too much build-up.”
“That’s why I wasn’t really into seeing this movie.”
“You weren’t into seeing it?” I ask, stopping in the aisle. “But you came with me. You didn’t have tocome with me. Oh, God, you kind of did. Look, I didn’t mean to drag you here.”
“You didn’t.”
“Oh, come on, Buckley. I pretty much ordered you to come with me. I guess I just
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