Every Last Word

Over the next week, I see AJ everywhere.

I pass by him between classes, and not only after second period the way I’ve intentionally scheduled. At lunch each day, I see him sitting with Emily and Cameron, and when I catch him stealing glances at me, he quickly looks away and pretends to be deep in conversation. I’ve seen him in the student lot twice now, climbing into Sydney’s car. Both times I drove away wishing he’d climbed into mine.

On Monday, I tried to talk with him after Poet’s Corner, but he said he had somewhere he needed to be and sped up the stairs so fast, Caroline even looked at me and said, “Well, that was awkward.”

I’m starting to wonder if I imagined the whole thing last week, because it’s as if the two of us never chatted over linguistics and playlists, I never saw his room or his clipboard filled with music, and that an incredibly sexy acoustic guitar lesson—the one I’m still obsessing about and not even trying to block from my mind—didn’t happen at all.

As I’m walking to third period on Wednesday, I see him heading right toward me. I’m expecting one of his usual nonchalant chin lifts, and preparing to return it with one of my own, but instead, he slows his steps and actually makes eye contact with me.

“Hey,” he says under his breath as he comes to a stop. “Do you have a second?”

I nod and he waves me over to the side of the corridor and out of traffic. He dips his head toward mine. “How are you?” he asks.

He’s not wearing a cap today, and when his hair falls forward, I have to fight the urge to push it away from his face. “I’m good. How are you?”

“Fine.” He looks so nervous, shifting his weight, like maybe this isn’t going the way he’d planned. Then I realize he’s picking at his imaginary guitar strings against his jeans. I wonder if I’m fidgeting too, so I check myself and find my hand at the back of my neck, my nails all set to dig in. I wrap my backpack strap around my finger instead.

“I just wanted to…to see how you were doing.”

I try to think of something interesting to say—something open-ended that we will have to continue talking about when we have more time. But before I can speak, he reaches out and brushes his thumb against my arm. It’s not a mistake. It’s deliberate.

“I’d better get to class,” he says.

“Yeah,” I say. “Me too.”

He drops his hand and slips back into the crowd, and I look around the corner, watching him walk away. It’s all I can do to not follow after him. I want to talk to him longer. I want him to touch me like that again.

I bite the inside of my cheek three times and head off in the opposite direction.