“I won’t let her,” I decided, pushing my glasses up my nose.
No doubt that would be easier if I had America’s youngest self-made billionaire on my arm. Maybe I hadn’t come that far since high school, but Hutton had, and some of his shine might rub off on me.
I closed my eyes and imagined myself walking into the reunion with Hutton, me decked out in a minidress and heels, Hutton wearing the hell out of a suit and tie, jaws dropping all around the room.
Could that really be Felicity MacAllister and Hutton French, Mathletes and band geeks? They're so cool, so polished, so classy!
Smiling, I opened my eyes and dialed his number.
TWO
HUTTON
I used to think I was magic.
As a kid, I honestly believed I could control the world just by doing certain things.
Touching my nose as I entered a room.
Stepping out of bed with my right foot first, never my left.
Refusing to ride on the left side of the back seat in my dad’s car, only the right. This often meant I had to race out to the driveway early in order to beat my big sister Allie, who did not have magical powers no matter where she sat in the car, but did have an incredible knack for pushing my buttons.
If the trip involved the highway, I had to sit with my arms crossed without saying a word until ten cars passed. If I saw a tractor or motorcycle, I had to start over.
If the trip in the car did not involve the highway, I had to hold my feet off the floor the entire time, or at least until we passed two stop signs or one traffic light.
By doing these rituals but never speaking of them （or else the magic would cease to work）， I was ensuring that all stayed right in my world, which was pretty fucking great back then.
In fifth grade, I was one of the most popular kids in school. I was good at math and baseball. I was on student council and in the band. I won the paper plate award for Most Likely to Go to Space and also an Astounding Attendance certificate, because I never missed a day of school. （Only I knew that was because being absent or even tardy would alter the balance of the universe and possibly weaken my powers, not because I was never sick.）
Then a bunch of really shitty things happened, including puberty, and my brain was completely rewired.
That’s when I started to hate the phone.
Or more specifically, the feeling of dread I experienced when faced with being the sole focus of someone’s attention on the other end of the line. You were granted no time to think before you had to answer questions—it was like a fastball coming straight for your head. You couldn’t see their reactions to anything you said. You had no idea how they might be judging you. You had no opportunity to weigh the risk of any possible response. In contrast to a text or email, a phone conversation exposed you completely.
I avoided them at all costs.
So when my cell vibrated in my back pocket as I was about to leave the house, I almost ignored it. If it mattered, the caller would leave a voicemail. Then I’d listen to the message and decide if it actually mattered and merited a text from me or—even better—a response from my assistant back in San Francisco. There wasn’t much that could make me answer or make a call in real time.
But when I saw who was calling, I took it. “You know I hate the phone.”
“I do,” said Felicity, “and I’m sorry. But I didn’t think I could convey the urgency of this matter in a text.”
I headed from the kitchen into the garage, pulling the door shut behind me. “Are you okay? Is your nose bleeding?”
“No, it’s not that.”
“Good. The memory of that last one still haunts me.” I slid behind the wheel of my SUV, recalling the way her nose had suddenly and violently started to bleed while we were out for dinner one night back when she lived in Chicago six years ago.
I’d been in town on business, and I’d been looking forward to catching up with her, since we really hadn’t seen each other much since going away to college—I’d spent my summers on campus at M.I.T. and Felicity had spent hers working for her family at Cloverleigh Farms. I knew she’d abandoned her pre-med studies at Brown to follow her heart and attend culinary school, but I wondered if she’d changed in other ways too.
Did she still love sci-fi? Did she still hate thunderstorms? Was she still close to her family? Did she still cut her hair when she was stressed? Would things still feel easy between us, or was she so different that I wouldn’t feel okay around her anymore? What if she felt like a stranger?
Thankfully, the moment I saw her enter the room and smile at me, I knew everything would be fine. She raced over to give me one of those hugs I’d never quite known how to return, and even the way she smelled was familiar—like summer at home. She still wore glasses. Her brown hair still looked like she might recently have trimmed it herself. I could still make her laugh.