I rolled my ankle trying to get on a raft, slipped into the water, and was nearly sucked down the steep tube of “rapids” on my ass. Luckily Seth grabbed me, and I wasn’t hurt, but I think I am single-handedly responsible for millions of dollars of additional safety features at the Ocala Splash Attack.
I still feel emotional thinking of that day. How Seth held me as we climbed off the ride, me crying, him squeezing water out of my hair. It was romantic teenage trauma-bonding at its finest—like we were inside a John Green novel. We really do have the profile of two romance tropes. Seth the sensitive, cinnamon roll of a boy, and me the manic pixie dream girl. (Or manic pixie nightmare, more accurately.)
“I genuinely thought you were going to drown,” Seth says. “I couldn’t breathe for hours. Maybe days. Actually, I kind of can’t breathe right now, remembering it.”
He puts his face to the air conditioner vent and takes exaggerated gulps of air.
I pat his back. “Easy there. Head between your legs.”
He laughs but stiffens under my touch.
I quickly remove my hand.
“You were so sweet afterward,” I say.
He glances at me. “I was always so sweet.”
It chastens me.
“You were. You spoiled me. I’m not sure I ever thanked you for that.”
He shakes his head. “You don’t have to thank people for being nice to you.”
“Maybe you should when you’re bad at reciprocating it.”
I don’t just mean in high school. I mean in life. But especially with him.
“You were nice to me, Molly. You just have a different way of showing it.”
“Yeah. An alienating one.”
He gives me a long look. “Are you okay?”
“What do you mean? Yeah. Of course.”
“You seem like you might be depressed or something.”
“I’m actually not depressed,” I lie. “Which is a rare and momentous occasion for me.”
“Good.”
“I guess I’m just doing the thing you told me I do. Deflecting my feelings.”
“What are your feelings?”
Sadness that I let him get away.
“Oh, I don’t know,” I say. “Nostalgia for the past, perhaps.”
He nods. “I suppose we bring it out in each other. Talking to you is like fanning through my high school yearbook while listening to Dashboard Confessional.”
“Pretty sure that’s not a compliment.”
“Oh come on. You loved emo.”
“I did not! That was all you, Rubenstein.”
“Oh right. You loved NSYNC.”
“Don’t make me turn this car around.”
“You wouldn’t dare. Then you’d be stuck with me.”
Stuck with him. God, I wish.
I’m so stupid. He’s been here for days, and instead of trying to reach out I just looked at my phone a lot, wondering if he would text me. And now he’s leaving, and things are weird, and all I want to do is tell him the feelings he confessed all those months ago turned out to be mutual.
I’m carrying a torch, too.
We pass the first sign for LAX.
I don’t want to let this man out of my car.
“You know, Seth,” I say quickly, before I can lose my nerve. “You haven’t been here for very long, and it sounds like you could use a longer break from work. You don’t have to leave yet. I have a spare room … You could stay and I could show you around the Eastside. Or, ooh, even better, I could drive you out to Joshua Tree and we could go hiking and eat greasy bar food and buy expensive incense. My friend Theresa has a gorgeous place out there. It’s only two hours—”
“Molls,” he interrupts, laughing a little in a way that seems forced. “That’s super nice of you to offer, but I have to get back.”
I want to die at this very reasonable rejection, but I’ve got momentum now, and I know I’ll regret it if I don’t just fucking say it, so I gather my courage and take a deep breath and plow on. “I guess I just think it would be nice to spend some time together. You know, we had a great time at the reunion, and then things went sideways, which might be my fault because, as you pointed out, I sabotage things and get in my own way. But I guess what I’m saying is … I like you, and I miss you, and I wish you would stay.”
