He’s so boyish in person. Without the thick black hipster glasses he wears in his Twitter picture, he looks younger. His dark hair is longer, too, falling into his eyes. His eyes. I knew they were brown, but they also have specks of gold—I had no idea. I don’t think I’ve ever thought of him as a height, but he’s tall and all limbs. I mean, Kels knows he runs track. But now I see it, you know? I see how all the pieces fit together and become Nash IRL.
“I’m Nash.”
His voice is a melody I never imagined I’d hear. And I almost don’t understand why he’s introducing himself, but of course he has no clue who I am. Why would he? My current picture is an artsy photograph of the back of my head, my hair long and blowing in the wind. My face is always obscured in posts. It helps to mold my persona, a version of me that is cooler and more mysterious than I am in real life.
I’m Kels. That’s what I should say.
“Halle” is what comes out.
It’s the truth, but it feels like a lie.
“Cool.” He smiles, and my God, it’s so much better than the smiley-face emoji. “Are you just visiting?”
I shake my head no because words are stuck in my throat.
“Wait—”
Oh, thank God. I don’t have to tell him. He knows.
“—you’re Professor Levitt’s granddaughter, right?”
Professor Levitt? Nash knows Gramps? My Gramps. What?
“It’s not weird that I know that, I swear. I’m in his art history class. First class was supposed to be tonight, but he postponed it. Said his grandchildren were moving in. We don’t get too many new people in Middleton, so I kind of put two and two together.”
I exhale, not sure whether to feel relieved or disappointed.
Wait. Nash is in high school, I thought. We’re working on college applications—not in college classes. Next year it’s supposed to be us, meeting as freshmen at NYU, spending time in every bookstore downtown between classes and exploring the rest of the city on the weekends. If Nash takes classes with Gramps at UConn, if Nash is in college—well, that calls into question pretty much everything I know about him. Oh God, what if Nash is a catfishing liar?
“So … you commute?” I ask.
He looks at me funny and I can already feel my neck flush pink.
“To UConn,” I clarify.
“Oh. No, I’m not—MHS doesn’t have any art history classes, so your grandfather offered to let me into his. But yeah, high school. I am in it.”
Breathe. Nash is just perfectly nerdy and not a creep.
“Me too,” I say, which is when it hits me.
MHS. Middleton High School. As in my new high school.
“Cool. Where’d you move from?”
“New York. Upstate,” I lie without flinching, the words flying out of my mouth before I can even think them through. I have never been to upstate New York in my life. I don’t know why I say this. As far as Nash knows, Kels is moving from an army base in Georgia to North Carolina. Kels is comfortably in the South—hundreds of miles away from Nash.
“Well, welcome to Middleton,” he says. He looks down at his watch and frowns. “I have an ungodly stack of books to check out before the library closes, but I’ll see you around?”
He stands up as I nod, swoops his messenger bag over his shoulder, and is gone with a wave.
Oh my God. I knew Nash was from Connecticut but—I never thought to ask where.
I didn’t think it mattered, because it’s not like I planned on telling him that I—well, Kels—moved to Connecticut. Never did I ever think he’d be here, with me, in Middle-of-Freaking-Nowhere, Connecticut. Because who really lives here? No one I’ve ever talked to has even heard of this place.
If Nash knew Kels was in Connecticut, he’d want to meet. I wasn’t—I’m not—ready for that. We were supposed to meet in Washington Square Park, ready for orientation.
It was supposed to happen then, when I would be the closest version of Kels, for real, living the life Nash and Kels always talked about.
I glance at my phone-clock. Ollie texted me that dinner was almost ready fifteen minutes ago. I pack up my laptop and wipe the sweat beads off my forehead. Breathe in and out slowly to try to force my heart rate to recover.
Nash is here. In Middleton.
We’re going to school together. We’re going to graduate together.
He has no clue who I am.
And … I have no clue what to do.
If I could never tell Nash who I really am online, where I’m the most confident, chill version of me, how can I ever form the words in person?
* * *
Ollie heated up ramen noodles for dinner and nothing is okay.
I got the Ariel Goldberg cover reveal, but Nash is here.
Ollie is twirling noodles with a fork and watching Netflix on his phone. My bowl is set up at the seat adjacent to his and my chest tightens because Ollie made dinner. He set the table, even filled a pitcher with water, but there are only two place settings.
“It’s probably cold,” Ollie says, pausing his show. “If you want to, reheat it on the stove.”
I sit next to Ollie. “Where’s Gramps?”
Ollie shrugs. “Asleep, I think. I don’t know. He hasn’t come out of his room since you left.”
I pick up my fork and twirl noodles. “It’s not even six.”
“Yeah. I’m really confused.”
“Me too,” I say. “Thanks for dinner.”
Ollie snorts. “Ramen isn’t dinner. But honestly, it was the best option. Gramps only has cereal and snack foods, basically. We need to go grocery shopping.”
I eat the cold ramen. Ollie returns his attention to his show. If Grams were here, we’d be eating matzo ball soup. It’d be a whole production, Ollie and me helping to roll the matzo meal into walnut-size balls after the stock has been simmering on the stove all afternoon. I wasn’t expecting a Grams-quality dinner tonight—but I did expect the three of us to at least eat dinner. Together.
He’s not okay, Grams, I think, looking down at the necklace resting against my heart. In my head, I talk to Grams a lot. Like whenever I read a really great book, or see a movie I know would make her laugh, or have a Major Life Event.
Does meeting Nash in person qualify as a Major Life Event?
Grams would call it destiny.
We were making frosting together when One True Pastry was born, three summers ago.
“Did you always know you wanted to be an editor?” I had asked, adding two drops of purple food coloring to buttercream frosting. We were going to surprise Gramps with lemon lavender today, even though red velvet is his real favorite.
Grams nodded. “Always. I love stories. Figuring out what makes them tick, how the pieces fit together. Seeing people like you fall in love with them.” She winked at me as she stirred her own bowl of yellow frosting, her eyebrows pinched in concentration. Lavender lemon meant we had to use two piping bags to swirl the colors together.
“Do you think I could maybe be an editor?”
My cheeks flushed immediately. I loved talking about books with her, but I’d never vocalized my publishing dreams out loud before to anyone. It seemed absurd to even try when Grams was already, like, the Judy Blume of children’s editors.