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It feels like every time I get my hopes up for something good, reality comes out swinging. I don’t know how to be a hopeful person anymore. It’s easier not to be.
Aiden Valentine: Flowers die. Everything dies. Caller: I thought this was a romance hotline.
If this house is haunted, I’ll burn the whole place to the ground. Maya and I will move into the coffee shop across the street. Our clothes will smell like everything bagels and too-strong coffee, but we’ll be spirit-free.
Why can’t this be the one thing I don’t have to try at? Why can’t it be a thing that just…happens? I don’t want—I don’t want to think about what I should say or how I should act or…or have talking points in the notes app of my phone for a dinner date at a restaurant that I don’t really like. I want to feel something when I connect with someone. I want sparks. The good kind, you know? I want to laugh and mean it. I want goose bumps. I want to wonder what my date is thinking about and hope it might be me. I want…I want the magic.”
“When the whole world tells you you’re silly for wanting the things you want, you start to believe them. You start to think you’re not worth it. That if the things you’re waiting for do exist, they’re not for someone like you.” She sighs, a small, hopeless sound that twists through my headphones. “But what’s wrong with being a romantic? I can be a confident, independent woman and still want someone to hold my hand. To ask about my day. It’s a good thing to want passion and excitement and care. Attention and affection. I don’t want to settle for anything less than that.
I don’t want to be with someone if they’re not giving me something I don’t already have. I don’t want to waste my time on things that don’t feel like everything I’ve always wanted for myself.”
“I want goose bumps. I want to be wanted. All this time and I—I haven’t given up. I guess I’m just waiting for it to find me.”
“You don’t have to be alone to be lonely.”
“Or maybe she’s sending you to one of those fancy performer retreats so you learn how to turn that frown upside down. You know. Icebreakers. Team building. All your favorite things.” I freeze. “She wouldn’t.”
“Where did you find that?” “Someone hid it in an old Christmas cookie tin in one of the top cabinets.” She stops fiddling with the coffee machine to look at me. “Is that okay?” “Fine,” I say, my voice amused. I’m the one who hid it in one of the top cabinets, in an old Christmas cookie tin.
“I like that. Thinking that I’m worth paying attention to. Something ordinary made extraordinary by the person you’re sharing it with.”
Maya shrugs, scooping the avocado off her sweater. “I think books are sexy,” she says very seriously. “No one at school has quite lived up to Aragorn yet.” God, I love this kid.
Her cheeks are wet, her nose red. I’m feeling more than a little unhinged. “Who the fuck made you cry?” I snap.
“Lucie.” He sighs. He taps his pointer finger against my ankle, then circles it gently. He squeezes. “I don’t like seeing you sad.”
“Nah, Lucie.” In my dream, he brushes a kiss against my forehead. “I think you’re the magic.”
“Ah, Lucie.” Aiden smiles, his fingers fanning out wide against my back. “I’d know you anywhere.”
There’s definitely something going on between Aiden and Lucie. Celia Blythe: You think? Genevieve Powers: I think. Celia Blythe: Should we ask Peanut Butter? Peanut Butter, do you think there’s something going on between Aiden and Lucie? Peanut Butter: [faint meowing] Genevieve Powers: I told you. Celia Blythe: You did. You told me. Genevieve Powers: Peanut Butter is never wrong. Celia Blythe: Never.
She took her hand back about an hour ago, before the aforementioned beers, and I’ve been silently scheming on the other end of the table for ways to get it back.
She hands me her personal phone. I stare at it blankly. The wallpaper is a picture of her and Maya sharing a giant blob of pink cotton candy at an Orioles game. She has a hat on backward and she’s laughing so hard her eyes are squeezed shut. Cotton candy on her nose. “Not this one.” I set it to the side. I tap the screen again as soon as it goes blank so I can see that picture again.
Her mouth twists. “You were avoiding me.” I nod. “I didn’t want to have time to talk to you before the show. I didn’t want to hear about your date. I didn’t want to see you light up with another man’s name in your mouth,” I confess. She sucks in a sharp breath. “If you’re jealous, I’m jealous too. Worse, probably.”
“Fuck it,” I whisper,
“Because you said it was your favorite,” I admit. “And I want your favorite to be my favorite.”
I don’t want to listen to Piano Concerto in F, I want to listen to Aiden flirt with Lucie.
