I blink at the rounded, soft gray wall of my bedroom, confused for a moment. I’ve always loved it up here, with the gauzy white curtains fluttering in front of big windows and the twinkle lights woven along the tops of them. And I missed the worn purple armchair, the one my mother has had since college and passed on to me years ago. My room is cozy, but today—well, I feel strange waking up in a turret. I used to think it was cool to sleep in a tower, but now it seems a little childish, like I never stopped playing princess.
Not to mention it felt even stranger falling asleep in a room by myself after so many months. It took me weeks to get used to sleeping across the room from Iris first semester… which is funny, considering everything that’s happened.
I stretch from my toes to my fingertips, yawn until I see stars, then lie back and listen. The house is quiet. I curl my phone into my palm and walk down the short staircase that descends from my room, stopping at the middle-level bathroom. I peek into the shower to find my shampoo and conditioner sitting in the same spot where I left them at the end of winter break, back when Lionel seemed better—no frenzied footsteps heard through his door at two in the morning when I got up to use the bathroom, no trays of untouched food sitting outside his room at all hours of the day—but still not quite himself.
I pause on my way downstairs and press my ear to the door to see if I can hear him flipping the pages of the New Yorker or maybe an old novel by his new literary crush. All I hear is the soft whir of the fan he uses for white noise. He’s asleep, like any other normal person on summer break.
In the kitchen I fill the robin’s-egg-blue kettle with fresh water and turn on the flame under it. I keep waiting for light to peek over the mountaintops in the distance, but the sky remains hazy and gray and then I remember June Gloom. The sun won’t be out until lunchtime, at least.
The whole world seems to be asleep. It’s even too early for Mrs. Maldonado to be kneeling in her garden next door, obsessively checking her tomato plants for aphids. I should probably enjoy the silence, but it makes me uncomfortable in the same way I didn’t feel right lying up in my room.
I bring my old yellow mug out to the front porch along with a spoon and a plastic bear filled with honey, then settle into the porch swing and rock back and forth, carefully, so I won’t spill hot tea all over my legs. I started drinking tea in New England because that’s what all the girls in my dorm drank, and it was always easier to do what they wanted than stick out even more than I already did.
I bring the yellow mug up to my lips to blow on my tea at the same time footsteps pound down our front walk, followed by a voice that’s too loud for this morning.
“Suzette?”
“Shit!” The hot liquid scalds my upper lip, the tender, soft skin on the underside. The heat goes straight north to my nose, and I touch gingerly around my ring, still amazed that I haven’t managed to accidentally rip it out in the few months I’ve had it.
“Hey, sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.” Emil Choi is standing in front of our porch. “You okay?”
He’s the son of my mother’s best friend. His long brown legs stick out from a pair of gray running shorts, and the sneakers on his feet are scuffed and worn. He’s already run at least a couple of miles if he’s come from his house in Silver Lake, but he’s barely broken a sweat.
“Hey, Emil. Yeah, I’ll live.” I go back to sucking on my lip.
“Heard you were coming back,” he says, his nonchalance overpowering the air like a blast of cheap cologne. “When’d you get in?”
He knows exactly when I got in—our moms talk every day—but I decide to humor him. Because it’s too early to be so bored and there’s no one else to talk to and, well. Emil isn’t so bad on the eyes. His mother is black and his father is Korean and he is the perfect combination of them, with his creamy brown skin and dark, serious eyes.
“Yesterday. Are you always up so early?”
He shrugs and plants his foot on the bottom step of the porch, leaning forward in a lunge. “It’s better when not a lot of people are out. I have the sidewalks to myself.”
“I can’t believe you do this on purpose.” I take a tiny sip of tea, keeping my eyes on him the whole time so there are no more surprises. But there is one more—the new shapes behind his ears. Hearing aids. Those are definitely new.
“I hated running at first.” He scratches his head where thick black curls are beginning to crop up. “But then I kind of started to hate it less. Now I can’t live without it.”
I squeeze more honey into my mug. “That’s fucked up.”
“Never said it wasn’t.” Emil grins and I give him a small smile back. “What are you doing up so early?”
“Jet lag.” I scoot back into the corner of the swing, suddenly self-conscious that I’m wearing my pajamas. They’re just cotton shorts and one of Mom’s old Wellesley T-shirts, but I feel exposed. I’m not even wearing a bra. And I want to ask about the hearing aids, but I don’t know how.
Emil and I didn’t exactly grow up as close as our mothers are. They’ve joked about us ending up together since we were babies, but I’ve always kept a safe distance. We were in the same crowd of bookish, artsy kids before I went away, but it would seem too easy to date Emil. I don’t want my mother handpicking my boyfriend. And anyway, I’m not so sure Emil—or any other guy—is my type these days.
“So… DeeDee’s tomorrow?” He’s kind of hopping in place from foot to foot now, and when I give him a strange look, he says, “Gotta keep my heart rate up.”
“Are you going?” DeeDee has been texting me about my welcome-back party for the past two weeks, and she was so excited I would’ve felt bad asking her to cancel it. I’d rather spend a night alone with her, rehashing all the stories that were too important not to text about immediately but that are better told in person, even if it’s a retelling.
“Yeah, of course,” Emil says. “I mean, I was planning on it. I could give you a ride if you want? We live so close and I’m already going that way, so—”
“Sure.” He looks surprised at how quickly I agreed to it, and I guess I am, too.
I’ve always known my friendship with Emil could be more if I wanted it to be, and it’s getting harder to ignore how much cuter I find him the older we get. I’ve never let myself give in to it because there would be no real surprises with Emil. I know everything there is to know about him.
But the summer already feels so uncertain, not knowing if I’ll stay here or go back to Massachusetts at the end of August, so I figure it can’t hurt to let my guard down for a few weeks. Besides, I haven’t seen any of my old friends in months and I don’t want to show up alone, even if they’re all there to see me. I’m not much for entrances—grand, fashionably late, or otherwise.
“Okay, well… cool.” Emil starts jogging backward, unable to hide the smile creeping up on his face. “Pick you up around seven tomorrow?”
I nod and, for a moment, let myself enjoy that I can make him smile like that. “Later, Emil.”
He gives a wave and I watch his wiry frame jog away, and when he glances back over his shoulder, I am still looking in his direction.
then.
My stomach hurts when Mom tells me to wear my nice dress.
We’re going to her boyfriend’s house for dinner, and it’s just him and Lionel. And Mom never tells me what to wear. She lets me pick out all my own clothes when we go school shopping.