I don’t believe you.
He falters. “Are you asking me to stop?”
Say yes. Tell him not to look at you like that. Tell him not to say your name so sweetly. Tell him not to bump your shoulders together when you get frappes or touch your knees together in Philosophy. Tell him—
“I can’t tell you what to do,” is all I say, because I am pathetic and awful.
He chews on his lower lip, brows drawn together, eyes pinned to mine. “Did we fuck everything up today?”
No, no, no. If we did, it means no more Brad at all, ever, and I can’t cope with that. “We’re still friends. Always, okay? Always. Say it.” I should be embarrassed, forcing someone to say something like that, but I’m more concerned with getting the words out of his mouth. As if they’re a magic spell that sets us in stone. Friends 4 eva. Maybe I’ll make him a bracelet.
“Cel,” he laughs, though it’s more exhausted than amused. “Okay. Always. Okay?”
“Okay. Good.”
“Aw. I like it when you’re bossy.” But there’s caution behind his confidence.
I hesitate. “Are you flirting with me?”
“You never asked me to stop.”
No. And I’m the worst friend in the world because I still don’t.
CHAPTER TWELVE
BRAD
Celine told me I could do anything. She also told me we can’t be together. Here, then, are my options:
Celine never lies. I can do anything. One day, I’ll write something worth reading.
Celine is a liar. We can be together. We just haven’t been friends again long enough for her to trust me yet.
Turns out both things can’t be true. So I spend the last two weeks of term being Celine’s friend, because I’ll never stop again, and flirting with her, because she doesn’t seem to hate it. I also Google Can I write a book? because for the first time I’m seriously considering the question and Google is the smartest person in my life. When the suggested search brings up How do you write a book, which is an even better question, I feel like I’ve been struck by genius lightning.
Unfortunately, the various tips I find online do not help me finish my epic sci-fi novel in one week, so yet again, here I sit on Failure Avenue. I wonder what else I’ve messed up lately.
“Brad.” Celine’s hand closes around my elbow. She jerks me to a stop 0.2 inches away from a gleaming pillar of glass. It’s Christmas break, and we’re back at the Sherwood, that fancy hotel where we first heard about the BEP, ready to meet the Katharine Breakspeare and receive our scores so far. Apparently, I zoned out as we made our way through the ornate lobby.
To my left, a buttoned-up Sherwood employee gives me a dirty look from the polished reception desk. I try not to breathe too hard on their pristine glass as I pull away.
“Thanks. Sorry.”
Celine’s expression is concerned. Her hand is still on my elbow and I’m really enjoying it, although it would be better if I wasn’t feeling this contact through a thick shirt and a winter coat. Screw you, December.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
“Yeah. Just thinking.” About my tragically doomed creative future. Nothing major.
“Okay.” She starts to pull her hand away.
I put mine on top of it. “Actually, I’m still feeling unsteady on my feet. You should keep that there.”
“Brad.” Her lips twitch at one corner.
“Or we could hold hands. That would be nice. For my balance, I mean.”
“Brad.” Her lips twitch some more. Her eyes are dancing. I bet if I felt her cheek, she would be hot. “You’re not allowed to flirt with me while Katharine Breakspeare’s in the building.”
I’m tired and nervous, so my brain suggests all kinds of terrible reasons for that, but I try to ignore it and question the source. “Why not?”
“It’s unprofessional,” she says primly, and starts walking toward the sleek silver elevator.
“Unprofessional? We’re seventeen! What, exactly, is our profession?” I hurry after her.
“Explorers,” is her crisp reply. The elevator slides open immediately, and we step inside.
Me and Celine each have a ten-minute slot with Katharine. Cel’s is pretty much now; mine’s in half an hour. We’re here together because I offered her a lift, and because, once Raj has his appointment in an hour or so, we’re all going out for dessert. And I’m repeating these basic facts to myself because, if I don’t, the big dark thoughts in the back of my brain might overwhelm me.
Oops. I wasn’t supposed to think about the thoughts.
But they’re here now: worst-case scenarios about the meeting today, rushing in like shadows through a crack in the door. I used to hate elevators when I was a kid because I didn’t understand them, and anything I didn’t understand was based on luck, and luck was a monster I barely kept under control. Maybe that’s why my guard slipped as soon as we got in here. Or maybe I’m just overwhelmed because I spent a significant portion of last night thinking about all the ways my conversation with Katharine could go wrong and now—fantastic!—I’m thinking about them again.
“Brad?” Celine’s eyes meet mine in the elevator’s mirrored wall. She’s paused in the act of pushing green and black braids behind her ears.
“Yeah?” I ask, but I can’t fully hear my own voice because my head is so loud. Those thoughts are saying failure, dead end, disappointment-as-always. I count the floor numbers written on the elevator panel, one two three four five six seven eight. In thirty minutes, Katharine Breakspeare will tell me I’m out of the BEP because I suck, tough luck, shit happens. My moments of happiness are numbered, one two three four five six seven eight—
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” I say. Then, “No.”
She turns toward me—
“Wait, just—give me a minute.”
She bites her lip, nods, turns back.
I’ve been tapping my knuckles against the elevator wall, one two three four five six seven eight, and now they hurt. My fault for trying to ignore my thoughts instead of, you know, accepting them and grounding myself in the present or what-fucking-ever but—“Do you know how annoying it is that intrusive thoughts come almost every time you want things to go well?”
Her eyes meet mine in the mirror. “I’ll go with ‘super fucking annoying.’ Is that about right?”
Somehow, I smile. “Pretty much.”
She smiles back.
Okay. Okay. I blow out a breath and look all my bad thoughts in the eye because I must not fear. These are mental distortions. My life isn’t doomed to be a string of failures, and counting can’t alter the path of fate even if it really feels like it should, and these thoughts aren’t really mine, but I’ll accept them because they’re nothing I can’t handle. Fear is the mind killer. Fear is the little death that brings total obliteration.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
I will face my fear.
Celine scowls. “What for?”
I will permit it to pass over me and through me.
“I’m usually really good at, you know.” I shrug. “Taking care of my brain.”