“And, and his voice,” I said, helping Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds unpack groceries. The sun was shining, but the world seemed so cold compared to the night before. I could barely sleep, etching his face into my mind out of anxiety that I'd never see him again. Trying to find him on Facebook, Instagram, on anything. Daydreaming of our perfect, perfect life together. “Oh my God. His voice. It was, it was like lemongrass, mixed with chocolate, and they didn't conflict and smelled amazing – ”

“Oh dear,” Mr. Reynolds snorted.

“Micah, that's confusing,” Mrs. Reynolds pointed out.

“ – and, and his hand,” I continued, ignoring them. I pressed my face against a bundle of bananas. “How do you describe a hand like that? It was absolutely perfect. Did I mention he has freckles?”

“Yes, several times,” Mrs. Reynolds sighed, grabbing 2 cans of soup. “There's more to life than freckles.”

“But they were so cute!”

“Now dimples. Those are cute.”

Mr. Reynolds hummed. “No, I have to side with Micah. Freckles can be quite cute.”

“Thank you.”

He raised a brow at me. “Have you ever been this fired up over something?”

“Not since you were a teenager,” Mrs. Reynolds sighed. “All your countless causes. And all your black.”

“I was going through a phase!”

“Micah, hate to be the bearer of bad news, but being a teenager isn't a 'phase'.”

“Have you ever been this fired up over a person? That's the real question.”

“I don't think he was even this enthusiastic for Marie when they were dating.”

“I was enthusiastic,” I insisted, slightly insulted at their insinuation. “We dated for 2 years with no problems.”

“Why did you break up again? I liked you guys together.”

“She didn't want to do long distance. She s - I would've done it, but she didn't want to.”

Mrs. Reynolds hummed, her eyes away.

“I would've.”

“Well, I hope Simon knows how unrelenting you are,” Mr. Reynolds said.

“If he doesn't, that's dangerous,” Mrs. Reynolds said.

I grabbed the loaf of bread and bagels, swinging them around. “You don't understand, though. Haven't you ever met someone where you felt like you had an instant connection with someone?”

“Most people have to know each other for that to happen.”

“Most people are dumb.”

“Well, that isn't wholly true,” Mr. Reynolds said, swinging around a bag of oranges. “I remember meeting John from the office for the first time, and immediately not liking him.” He put them on the counter before turning to me. “I was right. He was an asshole. Glad he got fired. I get it, Micah.”

“Do not, David,” Mrs. Reynolds warned.

“I was right, though,” he grinned.

“My point stands.” I frowned. “I don't want to wait. I want to kiss his cute, freckled face.”

“I see where Simon's coming from,” Mrs. Reynolds said, rolling her eyes. “Micah Cohen, impatient as ever.”

“I just – I don't want this to pass by me because everyone else don't believe in this kind of stuff.”

Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds exchanged glances.

“We, we could be this great story, like Queen Victoria and Albert. Eros and Psyche. I don’t know any other, like, great, healthy-ish romance.” I grabbed an empty paper bag and folded it down into a little square, pressing it flat on the table. How do you go about articulating the suffocating feeling of, “If I don't take this opportunity now and it slides through my fingers, if I couldn't tell Simon how I felt even if it was premature and we ended up not working out, will the regret eat away at me for the rest of my life because I was scared?” No part of me wanted to find out. “If I could have a steak, why would I want to go out for a hamburger?”

“Definitely see where Simon's coming from,” Mrs. Reynolds sighed. “Micah, has it ever occurred to you that he might be right?”

“No.”

She sat down. “And? Friend consensus?”

“Oh, Harley and Fran think I'm crazy, and Georgina is all for it.”

Mrs. Reynolds raised a brow. “No Oscar? Michael? Where's everyone else?”

“I don't know. I've messaged them a few times, but I guess they're just busy with school. They do show up in the group chat sometimes.”

“Have you told Marie?”

I nodded. “Yeah, she said I'm being crazy, too.”

Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds shared a glance.

“Come on. She's always been like that. You know that.”

“I know, Micah.”

“How do you know Simon?” asked Mr. Reynolds. “Did he go to school with you?”

“No, he's 23. I don't think he went to the high school, either. I didn't see his picture in the yearbooks. I met him at that coffee shop everyone used to go to.”

“23?”

“Mhm.”

They don't say anything.

“I don't think it's weird. He was the one who said he wanted me to think about it.”

Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds exchanged glances again.

“What?”

“He's 23?”

“It's only a 3 year age difference.”

“Micah...4.”

“4. Whatever. 3 in January when I turn 20. At least he's not 10 years older than me.”

Mrs. Reynolds raised a brow. “Yes, an age gap of 4 years is better than an age gap of 10.”

I sat down at the table and stretched my arms out. “I'll think about it. I really will, but I don't want to let this slide through my fingers, though. If, if he does come next week – ” God, I hope he did. I'd freaking die if he didn't. “ – I'll bring him over and you can interrogate him all you want. Deal?”

Again, Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds exchanged glances again. They didn't say anything after that, though they seemed to accept my offer with an air of quiet plotting.

I went back to my room, lit my lemon lavender candle to calm down, and started making notes.

I “met” him in the grocery store that afternoon. Mrs. Reynolds forgot milk, and I offered to go get it. I couldn't stay in my room anymore. But Simon was there, at the end of the aisle looking at the ice cream while I got 2 cartons of milk.

He saw me first, but didn't wave or anything. I only realized he was there when I felt his blue eyes on me. I turned, and he looked away. We froze. I waved at him, and this feeling swirled in my gut telling me to go over and talk to him. Touch him. I didn't. He side-eyed me for another second before walking towards the front of the store. He didn't even glance back before rounding a corner and disappearing.

By the time I went to check out, I couldn't find him. I checked out and went home, and I wanted to cry. I picked my nails until they turned bright red.

I wrote out more pros and cons for dating him that night.

3 days later, I saw him walking past the house carrying a flat box. So I basically threw open my window, the darn thing sticking on the window frame, leaned out, almost touching the branches of the mulberry tree, and shouted, “Simon.”

He jumped, the package flying forward like a terrible freaking Frisbee, landing corner first before flopping flat on the sidewalk. He glanced around before finding me in the upstairs window.

Mr. Reynolds descended the front porch steps, going for the fallen box.

“I-I've been thinking about it.”

“Micah, go back in,” Mr. Reynolds called. “I'm not letting you fall out of the window again.”

“That was 4 years ago, and I didn't even fall that far!” I hung off the windowsill for a while before Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds pulled me back in. I could've just climbed onto the mulberry tree and been perfectly okay if they didn't pull me back in.

He said something to Simon before picking up his box and handing it back to him. “Micah, you're living under our roof still.” He turned to Simon again, gesturing to me. Simon said something, still curled into himself, and the way his hands moved, it made it look like he was defending himself. They looked back at me.

“Micah, go back inside. Don't fall out the window,” Simon called.

I flushed. “I – no, that's not fair! You can't make him tell me what to do!” I still shuffled back, leaning down on the windowsill. “Happy, you freaking monster?”

Simon smirked. He smirked, and I melted a little.

“Watch the language, young man,” Mr. Reynolds laughed, “but yes. Very.” He shook Simon's hand before going back to the porch.

I didn't want to watch him go. I shuffled the window closed on its sticky window frame and jumped back onto the bed, face down, counting the seconds until he was out of sight.

I wrote more pros and cons notes for dating him.

I went down to the pier while the sun was setting the next day. I didn't know what else to do with myself – normally, I'd message everyone in the group chat and a few of us would go somewhere, but with that support network gone, I felt adrift. I liked the pier. It was short and everyone I knew hated it because it didn't compare to the one in Port Lindsay, since Alabaster-by-Sea was more known for the beach and the tidal pools. The fishing boats were tied up for the day. I drowned out the sounds to my music in the hopes of not thinking. I wanted someone to talk to, someone to share this awful weight in my chest.

And I got breathless. My chest hurt. I pulled off my headphones. I turned.

He was there, watching me. His lips parted and his shoulders heaving. His eyes wide and blue and beautiful and so freaking sad. “Hi.”

“...hi.” I wanted to ask if he followed me, why we were doing this to each other. I didn't.

Simon didn't say anything for the longest while. He rubbed his arms, glancing away from the setting sun in his eyes, and started a ton of sentences, but didn't finish any of them. He sighed, running his hands over his head. He scoffed.

Every part of me ached to touch him. To close the distance between us, but I couldn't bring myself to move. I wanted him to speak first, to tell me why Simon was here when he could've kept avoiding me until tomorrow. I drummed my fingers on the railing before asking with this great, welling feeling in my chest, “What are you doing here?”

He put his hand over his stomach, pressing into it, before he whispered, “I don't know. I d – I don't know.”

I shuddered.

“Maybe avoiding each other doesn't work when town's this small, huh.”

“You said you wanted me to think about it.”

“...I did, yeah.”

“I have.”

“You have?”

“Yes.”

“And you're not just saying that you thought about it?”

“No. But I don't – it doesn't – what are you doing here?”

“I don't know. I-I saw you, here, and I wanted to avoid you until tomorrow, but I – I don't know. It's like my fucking head isn't fucking listening to me anymore and it's moving me on its own.”

“Do you know how hard it is to avoid you?” I asked, stepping forward.

“Yes. Do you know how hard it is to avoid you?”

“Then why are we avoiding each other?”

“Because I don't want you to feel like I'm taking advantage of you because you're a kid.”

“I am not a kid.”

“Because I don't want you to realize, down the line, that you've made a mistake to date me, – ”

“I won't.”

“ – because I don't know anything about you. No one fucking falls in love like that. I don't get it. Why? Why you?”

I flinched.

“I – no, no, not that, I just – ” He wiped his hands over his face, his eyes glimmering slightly in the setting sun. “I'm doing this wrong. I think – I don't know...” Simon trailed off. “Sorry. I'm just...” He grunted. He wiped his hands over his face again. Simon met my eyes, staring, before turning away. “Look, I...d-do you want to go somewhere...to talk? I-in public, I mean.”

“...yes.”

“Y-you don't have to if you don't want.”

“Yes.”

“I just – I don't know anything about you, and I – ”

“Simon.”

He shuddered, glancing away from me again.

I stepped closer, and my heart thumped in my chest. “...want to get some coffee? I'll buy.”

He nodded. He stepped to the side, gesturing for me to take the lead. “Y-you can always run...if you want. I-if I'm coming on too...strong.”

I let out a breath. “And here I was, thinking I was the one coming on too strong.”

Simon scratched his neck. “Micah, I'm sorry.”

I pressed my hand on his arm. I didn't even realize how close I had gotten to him. “Buy me a drink?”

He frowned. His blue eyes dipped, and he nodded. “...okay.”