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Whatever the reason the universe singled us out, Miles and I found each other in this strange echo of a world. And that means something.
“Maybe it wasn’t that college was supposed to change us.” I inspect what I think is a perfect sand dollar, only to turn it over and find a chip. “Maybe it was never supposed to.”
“That’s sort of a dark way of looking at it.”
I shake my head, because it’s not coming out right. “Maybe people weren’t wrong when they said college was going to be this amazing, life-changing experience,” I say. “Because I’ve gone through nearly thirty first days at this point, and every time it’s felt amazing, I’ve been with you.”
It takes about a metric ton of courage to say this, so I’m shocked when Miles scoffs.
“What!” I say. The rain turns even heavier, splashing my cheeks and blurring my glasses, but neither of us moves. “I’m trying to give you a compliment over here. And maybe be a little profound. Let me have this.”
“You can’t really believe that. That I—that I’d be the reason anything is amazing.” He trips over that last word, not meeting my eyes.
“Miles, do we need to have a talk about self-esteem?” I stop walking, hoping it’ll make him turn his head. When he does, the uncertainty on his face breaks my heart. He really doesn’t believe me. It makes me want to start my own newspaper only to fill it with things I like about him, photos of him caught off guard. Especially photos that show off his ears, and his eyes, and the curve of his jaw. “You’re right that when we met, you were a bit rigid. But we all have our cushy comfort zones, and some of them are cushier than others. Harder to leave. You have your passions, and your ways of doing things, but you’re also so—so open. You want to soak up every bit of newness you can, categorize it, analyze it, make a plan to do it again. And most of all, I think you want to enjoy it. That’s why it feels amazing. Because I get to see everything through your eyes, too.”
And this. This is the reaction I was hoping for, but the reality of seeing it spread across Miles’s face is even better than I imagined. He clings to the smile at first, holding himself back, as always, but it’s too powerful even for his practiced jaw muscles. It grows and grows, his eyes glimmering, until it could light up this entire beach.
I’m no longer filling up a newspaper. I’m starting a whole media conglomerate just to declare the unabashed brilliance and quiet charm of Miles Kasher-Okamoto. We’ll interview the world’s top scientists and run ads for every upcoming period piece. We’ll have an entire website dedicated to his smile.
That’s what makes me feel lucky, like Miles said earlier: the fact that I get to learn all these hidden parts of him.
“Thank you,” he says in this earnest, perfectly Miles way. I’m not sure anyone has meant a thank-you more than he does in this moment. “For a while at the beginning, you were so intimidating. Even though I’d met you dozens of times before, I still couldn’t figure out the right things to say around you.” He inches closer. “And nothing could prepare me for actually getting to know you.”
“I can’t possibly still intimidate you.”
He shakes his head, bringing up his sleeve to swipe raindrops off my glasses. “Not in a bad way. In a thrilling way, because I never know what you’re going to do or say next. You’re challenging and frustrating and fascinating all at once, and hilarious in this unique way that always keeps me on my toes. Making you laugh feels like winning the lottery. When you laugh at something I’ve said—even if you’re laughing at me—there’s no feeling quite like it.”
Fascinating. It’s my new favorite word. For years I’ve pretended I was the farthest thing from insecure. That I wasn’t lonely.
All this time, I’ve been fascinating, too.
“You’re funny,” I insist, because somehow I get the feeling it’s not an adjective Miles has ever associated with himself.
When his arm bumps mine, it stays there. His fingers wrap around my cold ones as my heart thumps wildly inside my chest, and I want to give him another adjective: brave. He is so brave, and he makes me want to be brave, too. With my thumb, I draw circles on his knuckles, on his palm. He closes his eyes for a moment, hand trembling but never leaving mine.
“When you talk about what happened in high school,” he says, “I just… feel so bad for all the people who could never appreciate this side of you. It’s a fucking shame.”
“Miles, stop.” I need more than our fingers threaded together. I throw my arms around him and hold him close, inhaling his Irish Spring soap and something that’s purely him, this intrinsically Miles scent that I cannot get enough of. He’s solid heat as he hugs me back, so tightly that I think I’d float away if he let go. Now I let myself touch the hair at the base of his neck, gently slide my fingers through it. It’s probably for the best that we’re not making eye contact, because it would only stop my heart. “I’m going to cry.”
He laughs, and I feel the rumble against my throat. “I mean it. I could wake up on the same day a thousand times, and every single one would be different because of you. Every single one would be life-changing. Because of you.”
He says this with his mouth a whisper away from my skin, and when I exhale, the icy tip of his nose finds my pulse point. Pauses there. And then, ever so slowly, he traces a searing line along my neck.
Oh.
Up, up, up, until I’m positive I’m seconds away from passing out. And it’s the nicest thing I’ve ever felt. I’m stuck on an inhale, worried that if I move even a fraction of a centimeter, he’ll stop.
But he doesn’t.
His mouth moves across my jaw, warm and wanting. But instead of finding my lips, he diverges, arcing toward my right ear instead. A hot, urgent breath, either his or mine or both, and then I feel his tongue sweep away a raindrop. And another. Jesus.
I shudder against the wind, against the sensation of Miles this close to me, mouth tucked right beneath my ear.
“Still going to cry?” he asks, voice rough.
All it takes is for me to start to shake my head, a shift that brings my mouth right up against his.
Yes.
