Confessions of an Almost-Girlfriend. Louise Rozett

bother, Jamie. You don’t have to explain—”

      “I do. There’s a lot of stuff I gotta explain,” he says, his eyes locked onto mine.

      The fact that he knows he owes you some explanations means something. My anger starts to deflate. But where the hell was he all summer? Did it take him months to come up with these explanations he claims he now has? My anger balloons up again. Well, so what if it did? Not everybody knows how to explain how they feel. You have to cut people slack sometimes. Now my anger just sits still, not knowing what to do. Suddenly I find the entire situation…funny.

      “Did you just say you’re going to explain something to me? Seriously?” I tease. “You mean, I’m finally going to get some actual explanations out of Jamie Forta?”

      After a moment of what looks like confusion, a little smile crosses his face, and I feel a shift. I don’t know how to explain it in a normal way. It’s like we’ve always been standing on two different levels, with him above me. But just now, the levels moved closer to each other and we’re not so far apart anymore. We’re almost—but not quite—on equal ground.

      I guess another way to say it is that Jamie doesn’t hold all the cards. I actually have a few of my own, and I like it.

      “Next Saturday,” he says.

      Next Saturday. Next Saturday? As in, Saturday night?

      “Dinner,” he adds.

      Last year, Jamie and I had covert conversations in his car in various locations, hidden away. But we never spent any time together around other people.

      “Are you finally going to be seen with me in public?” I say, pretending to be astonished. “We better not tell anyone or we’ll both end up in jail this time.”

      His smile gets a little wider and he actually laughs—that beautiful, delicious laugh that feels like a reward whenever it’s let out. It practically makes me giddy. And it dawns on me that Jamie likes it when I make fun of him. That’s why the playing field is leveling out. Because I’m teasing him.

      “I can’t believe it,” I say. “Jamie Forta and me, on an actual date.”

      “You don’t have to keep saying Jamie Forta, Rose.”

      “Oh, sure I do. In these big moments, when explanations are being promised and public outings are announced, it’s important to address you by your full name. The occasion calls for it.”

      His smile makes me want to get into his car and go anywhere with him. It’s a little intimidating to feel that for someone. It makes you wonder if you’re going to do something you don’t really want to do, or shouldn’t do. I mean, I haven’t seen or talked to Jamie in months, and after one kiss and a couple of moments of me being really mad, I’m ready to have his hands on my bare skin again. Because that was amazing. That felt like…everything.

      But I guess the point is, even though I’m feeling what I’m feeling, I’m not getting in the car with him. Although, why is that? Is that just because it’s late at night and I’m staying at my friend’s house and I don’t want to get in trouble with her parents, or get her in trouble? Or is it actually because I have enough respect for myself not to drive off in the middle of the night with the guy who didn’t bother to call me all summer?

      I push off the car to show him—and myself—that I’m going back inside now.

      “I’ll call you,” he says.

      “I’ll believe it when I see it,” 2.0 answers. I feel all sassy as I walk past him, even though what I said doesn’t exactly make sense—you don’t really see someone call you. But I don’t care. I look over my shoulder and Jamie’s still smiling, looking at me like he’s seeing me in a different way. A new way. A way he likes.

      It was worth torturing myself all summer long just for that one look.