Phoebe Berman's Gonna Lose It(80)

“Oh” is all he says.

“Yeah,” I respond. “You can’t go around being so nice to people while also looking like you do.” I elbow him, and I think he cracks the tiniest of smiles. “You’re a great guy, Finn. And a great teacher. Not to mention an excellent woodworker.” He huffs a laugh under his breath. “And you deserve to be happy.”

Finn looks down at his feet. “I don’t know what to do,” he mutters.

“You don’t have to,” I tell him. “You have plenty of time to figure that out. I just started figuring stuff out, like, three days ago.”

“That makes me feel a little better.” He breathes a sigh of relief. “I would have assumed you had everything figured out.”

“You have no idea how wrong you’d be.” I stand and offer him my hand to pull him up from the table. We walk outside together to our respective cars.

“We should really be carpooling,” I say once we get to the parking lot. “We live five minutes from each other.”

“That could be fun,” he agrees. “I can pick you up. Just text me.”

“Okay,” I reply with a smirk. “You just have to promise to respond this time.”

“Huh?” His forehead creases. I watch as he pulls out his phone and types in my name, pulling up our texts. He shows me his screen, and I guffaw at the lone It’s Phoebe:) message. “Look.” He gestures to the exchange. “I responded.”

“No you didn’t,” I argue.

“I liked your message!” he retorts.

“That’s not a response. It doesn’t count.”

He types something briefly, smirking as he slips his phone back into his pocket.

I feel a faint buzzing in my tote bag. A text.

Finn:

Hey

I sigh as a small smile breaks out across my face. “We’ll work on it.”



* * *



—

“I can’t say I saw any of that coming,” Sandy confesses, looking at me wide-eyed from across the coffee table. I’ve lived an entire life since I was here last week, and I’ve spent the better part of our session filling Sandy in on everything that’s transpired. She had to pick her jaw up from the floor when I got to the part about Jonathan and Finn.

“I can’t say I did, either,” I agree.

She exhales. “So it seems like your list is working after all. It was only a few weeks ago that the thought of a date with Matthew seemed impossible, and now…” She looks at me intently, and I notice her eyes start to glisten. “Look how far you’ve come.”

“Actually, Sandy…” I let go of a deep breath. “I think you were right. The list had nothing to do with my progress. It wasn’t until I threw the list away that I finally started thinking straight and had my epiphany.” I only wish the epiphany had come before I gave away all my books. I’ve made a lot of mistakes over the past few weeks, and tossing them is one I don’t know if I’ll ever recover from.

“And what exactly was the epiphany?” She asks.

“…I don’t know.” I struggle to translate my thoughts into words. “This whole time, I really did think there was something wrong with me, Sandy. And the more I told myself that, the more I believed it. And who would want someone like that? I think it was easier to push people away before they could see how broken I was, even if I wasn’t doing it on purpose.” She closes her eyes and nods. “But then Jonathan helped me realize…I might not be a freak. There may actually not be anything fundamentally wrong with me. And the thought was so freeing…it made me want to stop getting in my own way right then and there.” I shrug, scratching my head. “That didn’t make any sense, did it?”

“It made a lot of sense.” The corner of Sandy’s eyes wrinkle with her smile. “You should be so proud. And so should Jonathan.”

I acknowledge her with a quick nod. “Now it’s officially time for the hard part.”

“And what would that part be?”

I can’t tell if I’m grinning, if I’m cringing, or if I’ve created an entirely new expression that’s an unsettling combination of the two. I force myself to unclench my teeth so I can tell Sandy what’s next.

“Dating. I am officially dating.”





25


Thursday

(Six Days Left)

“What do you mean you don’t have bubble wrap?” I ask, inches away from pulling my hair out over Nora’s sheer lack of preparedness.

“I don’t have anything that serious,” she retorts. I survey her bedroom, now practically empty besides her bed, her dresser, and the few miscellaneous objects that absolutely require bubble wrap. “Plus, I didn’t know we were doing all this.” She points to the dozens of trash bags filled with her belongings that line the hallway. Apparently, she didn’t have anything “serious” enough to require boxes, either. No one has volunteered to go to the store and get the necessary supplies, so trash bags it is.

“What did you think we were doing!” I throw my hands out in resignation.

“Just, like, organizing a few things.” She shrugs. “The movers aren’t coming until Friday afternoon to pick everything up.”