Also, what on earth is Mom smoking? Raina and Brandie are here! Like, what the fuck kind of orgy is she even envisioning?
“Anyway.” Matt’s blushing too. “I was just returning a Tupperware. What are y’all up to?” he asks.
My phone starts buzzing—undoubtedly Anderson—but I stretch my leg out to kick it under the bed with my underwear. Andy texts are dangerous. For all I know, he’s just discussing the play, but even then, it could change on a dime. At any moment, he could switch right on over to the topic of Matt’s general gorgeousness and awesomeness and whether or not he’s single. Which would be a recipe for total disaster if Matt happened to glance at my phone.
I plop onto the edge of my bed. Matt hovers beside me, hesitating. “Okay if I sit?”
“Oh, of course! Here.” I scoot closer to Brandie to make room, but she slides off the bed, grabbing her phone. “Raina, we should probably head—”
“Yup!” Raina jumps up. “You two have fun. Be good.”
Then she catches my eye for the barest split second and makes a big show of leaving the door six inches open.
Scene 14
Matt turns to me as soon as they leave. “Hey, you’re auditioning for the musical, right?”
I choke back a laugh. “Yup.”
I mean. I’ve only built my entire world around the school musical, last year, and the year before that, and every other year since sixth grade. I seriously wake up every single morning thinking about the best ways to deliver Winnifred’s lines. I think I’ve listened to the soundtrack from start to finish—I don’t know—thirty times.
“Okay, cool,” Matt says, leaning back. He’s sort of halfway lying down now, legs hanging off my bed. “So, do most people end up getting cast?”
“I think everyone gets cast. Even if you totally suck, Zhao will just stick you in the background. Not you, like you.” I blush. “I don’t mean you suck. You don’t suck. Like, at all. Ha. Yeah, no. I’ve heard you sing.”
Kate. For the love of God. Get your shit together.
“Anyway.” I swallow. “Are you trying out?”
He shrugs, smiling. “It’s a requirement for Advanced Drama.”
“Wait—really?”
Okay, Anderson never mentioned that—which is weird, because Matt being in the play is a pretty big deal in Kate and Anderson world. I mean, yeah, I kind of thought maybe he would be. But now it’s official, which means hours of rehearsal, cozying up backstage and at set design. And it’s more than just the time together. It’s hard to explain, but there’s a certain kind of closeness that comes with working on a play. Maybe it’s the we’re-in-it-together team feeling, or the vulnerability that comes from creating something, or the slaphappy intimacy of tech week. Maybe it’s hormones. I don’t know the science behind it. I just know it’s a different, leveled-up kind of friendship. Almost like you’re siblings. Except for the part where you get caught making out in the lighting booth, cough, cough, Pierra and Colin.
Uh. I’ll just state for the record, though, that I wouldn’t mind making out with Matt in the lighting booth.
I sit up straighter, cheeks burning. “So.”
“So.”
“So you moved here.”
He smiles. “I did.”
Awkward silence, and it’s a big one. One for the history books. But listen—talking and crushing simultaneously isn’t easy. It’s a whole lot for one brain. Because obviously, you can’t just spew what you’re really thinking, which in this case is basically a bunch of heart emojis. And you don’t want to cast yourself as Generic Stranger Number Six, who speaks only in basic-ass questions like—
“How do you like Roswell?” I ask.
Nailed it.
But Matt leans back a little, staring up at the ceiling. “It’s good! I mean, it’s really different. I think the weirdest part is my dad not being here.”
“Oh.” My stomach flutters. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“No, it’s fine. We’re not close. At all. He’s not very . . .” Matt trails off.
For a moment, we’re both silent.
“Divorce is just weird,” he says finally.
I nod. “So weird.”
“I mean, you get it. How long have your parents been . . . ?”
“Seventh grade. So I’m pretty much used to it.”
“Good to know you get used to it.”
I scoot closer—close enough that our pinkies are touching—which feels insanely brave, but also right. “Do you miss your dad?”
“Mmm.” He smiles slightly. “Not really.”
And something clicks in my brain. Nothing earth-shattering or game-changing. Just this one tiny detail.
Matt Olsson smiles when he’s sad.
I don’t mean it like he’s in denial. It’s more like he’s pushing it back, tucking the badness away. It’s strangely moving. And it makes my whole body feel warm.
Maybe it’s just the intimacy of knowing this tiny thing about him. It’s not a thing you can know from Instagram. It’s something real.
He turns toward me. “Where does your dad live?”
“Oh, just like ten minutes away.”
“That’s really nice. Are you and Ryan there a lot?”
“Wednesday and Thursday nights, plus every other weekend.”
“Is that hard?”
“Sometimes? I don’t know. Mostly it just . . . is.”
He nods. “I know exactly what you mean.”
Scene 15
And now I can’t get that out of my head.
I know exactly what you mean.
It tugs at the edge of my mind the whole time Matt’s here. And even after he leaves, it’s there, stealing my brain away from algebra, and making my squad texts so short and distracted, even Brandie calls me out.
But I can’t stop thinking about it. It’s the most underrated sentence on earth. I know exactly what you mean.
Translation: no, you’re not weird. Even your weird stuff isn’t weird. You make sense.
The thing is, I don’t usually talk about the divorce, apart from the logistics.
It’s not a secret, of course. I just never want to be a brat about it, especially the whole joint custody thing. Because I know how lucky I am. My parents live three miles apart from each other. It isn’t a tragedy. It’s just my life. Split in half.
But it’s hard to explain the way that wears on you. The feeling of constant motion. The fact that you’re never one hundred percent home. The way it falls into this unsettling new normal. It’s just life. It just is.
And somehow Matt already gets that.
Mom and Ryan head out for a college info session, and it doesn’t take me long to give up entirely on algebra. When I’m in this kind of mood, there’s only one thing I’m good for. I tune my guitar, and then I strum until a song takes shape. “Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me,” which I’ve loved my whole life. It always gives me this soft, enchanted feeling, like I’m in an English rose garden, or some rustic meadow dance floor strung with fairy lights.