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I wish my breath wouldn’t catch in my throat when his thumb strokes up my index finger—gently. Delicately. I have to wonder if he’s doing it without thinking, because he’s staring out at the pit, looking pensive. I’m glad we did this, that stroke of his finger seems to say, and so I counter with one of my own. Me too, I tell him with a rub of my middle finger along one of his knuckles.
“Barrett?” he says. It must be the adrenaline that breaks my name into three syllables. His eyes leap to mine again, jaw pulsing. I don’t know what’s on the other side of his question.
Standing on the edge of the pit feels like we’re on the precipice of something, only I’m not sure what. Even if it’s nothing grand and metaphorical, it certainly seems that way.
“Sink or swim,” I say, and it’s a blessing that I only have a second to linger on the way he squeezes my hand before our feet leave the ground.
Breaking the surface feels nothing like diving into a real pool. It’s not painful, but I can feel it, my feet legs hips chest punching into the pit, the plastic giving way and making room for us.
Either because neither of us is a graceful jumper or because one of us leaped a moment before the other, our bodies tangle, one of my arms thrown across Miles’s back, my right leg twined with his left. If I’m too sweaty or too heavy, he doesn’t say anything, just lets out a rush of breath followed by some disbelieving laughter. The heat of him combined with the cool plastic of the balls is enough to completely overwhelm my senses, my skin buzzing in a weird and wonderful way.
“This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” I say.
We’re only submerged up to our necks, but it’s still ridiculous, trying to move ourselves through the multicolored spheres. The full reality that we actually pulled this off hits me in waves, and then I can’t stop grinning. I feel light, like nothing we did before tonight matters. Like if the universe really is keeping score, it starts right now.
Miles ducks when I lob a ball at him, then pops back up with his cheeks a warm pink, his hair an electric-charged chaos. Mine must look absolutely wild. He throws back his head, his face open and warm and like nothing I’ve seen before, as though he’s lit from within. Lovely—it’s the first word that comes to mind, and it’s the only one that seems to fit. He’s let go, finally allowing his body to relax and simply savor the pure joy of something.
And this—this is the real smile.
DAY EIGHTEEN
Chapter 23
ANNABEL COSTA, EDITOR IN CHIEF of the Washingtonian, passes my story back across her desk with a furrow between her brows.
Sure, it’s a little unorthodox to come to an interview with an article already written, but I spent the morning hunched over my laptop while Miles went to his 400-level classes—just in case he was right that getting on the paper will fix my timeline.
“It’s clearly very well researched,” Annabel says, a hint of disappointment in her voice. “And you’re a talented writer. But without any quotes from Dr. Okamoto herself, or from any of her colleagues… I’m afraid I can’t do anything with it.”
My shoulders droop. I can’t quite explain to Annabel the complicated ethics of not being able to quote someone I technically didn’t interview—in this timeline. I did the best I could, cobbling together information from other articles and feature stories, and it felt incredible to dust off my skills. My last piece for the Nav, a profile of a beloved, retiring English teacher, feels forever ago. But, ultimately, I know Annabel’s right. The story doesn’t work if it’s only my voice.
The rest of the interview is lackluster, mainly because I can’t summon the energy to be interesting. For the first time, I wonder what Annabel does on the days I don’t show up. Writes me off completely? Savors the bonus free time?
It lasts longer than my first two attempts, mainly because of the time it took Annabel to read my article, and when she leads me out of her office, there’s a commotion in the middle of the newsroom.
“System’s down,” says a guy at one of the computers. “I can’t open anything on our server.”
Annabel lets out the kind of sigh that indicates this must happen often. “Shit. Is Christina here?”
“On it,” a girl calls from the doorway, rushing inside in a blur of leather jacket and blue hair, tossing her bag onto a chair before plunking herself down next to it. “Sorry. That three-hour coding class is no joke, and neither are the lines at the counseling center.”
“Thank god,” Annabel says. “I don’t know how we’d keep this running without you.”
As I leave the building, I wonder if it doesn’t matter whether I get the job or not—I may never be able to see one of my pieces in print.
I’m deep in my feelings when a jingly tune stops me in the journalism building’s parking lot. Miles is behind the wheel of a bright pink ice-cream truck with THE BIG FREEZE painted on the side. He hangs an arm out the window, waving me over.
In spite of everything, I start laughing as I approach the driver’s side. “They let you drive this off the lot?”
“Got a great deal on it too.” He frowns. “You seem less Barretty than usual. Everything okay?”
I pull in a deep breath, then let out a heavy sigh. “My article wasn’t good enough. I knew it wouldn’t be, and I guess I could try to redo it, but… I don’t know. So now that feels like a dead end.” I rake an anxious hand through my hair. And none of this is getting us closer to Devereux, whether she exists or not. Maybe she’s a dead end too.
“Maybe it just wasn’t the right story,” Miles says.
“Maybe,” I say, and then, because I don’t want to linger on it: “I think some ice cream might cheer me up.”
We park the truck in the quad and stick a sign on it that says FREE ICE CREAM. As a result, we become the most beloved people on campus. For the next couple of hours, we busy ourselves scooping. We’re not the best at it—there’s a steeper learning curve than I might have imagined—but people don’t seem to care when the ice cream is free. The truck is small, and we keep bumping against each other, trading mumbled sorrys as we wait for the line to die down. Spoiler alert: it never does, and neither does the electricity along my skin whenever we reach inside a container at the same time. Because my body is both deeply confused and deeply traitorous.
