Another Day. David Levithan

was magical. There’s no other word to describe it. I could hear my friends yelling as they were caught, as the game played out. But I was in a completely different place. I was seeing the world from above, which is an extraordinary thing when it happens for the first time. I’d never flown in a plane. I’m not even sure I’d been in a tall building. So there I was, hovering above everything I knew. I had made it somewhere special, and I’d gotten there all on my own. Nobody had given it to me. Nobody had told me to do it. I’d climbed and climbed and climbed, and this was my reward. To watch over the world, and to be alone with myself. That, I found, was what I needed.”

      I’m almost crying, imagining him there. Every now and then he’ll tell me something about when he was little, but not like this. Usually he only tells me the bad things. The hard things. Mostly as an excuse.

      I lean into him. “That’s amazing.”

      “Yeah, it was.”

      “And it was in Minnesota?”

      I want to show him I remember what he tells me – his family’s moves, how cold it was there – so he’ll feel he can tell me more.

      I want to tell him more, too. I always want to tell him more, but now that I know he’s listening – really listening – it means something different.

      “You want to know another day like this one?” I ask, moving even closer, like I’m building a nest of our bodies in order to catch all the memories.

      He pulls me in, settles the nest. “Sure.”

      “Our second date,” I tell him.

      “Really?” He seems surprised.

      “Remember?”

      He doesn’t. Which is fair, because it’s not like we labeled everything as a date. I mean, there were plenty of times before our first date where we were in the same place with other people, flirting. I’m talking about the second time we arrived together and left together and spent most of the time together.

      “Dack’s party?” I say.

      “Yeah . . .”

      Still unclear. “I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe it doesn’t count as a date. But it was the second time we hooked up. And, I don’t know, you were just so . . . sweet about it. Don’t get mad, all right?”

      I don’t want to ruin it. I am afraid I’m ruining it. Why don’t I just stop when things are good?

      But then he says, “I promise, nothing could make me mad right now.” And he crosses his heart. Something I’ve never, ever seen him do before.

      Smile. I’m not ruining it. I’m really not. “Okay,” I say. “Well, lately – it’s like you’re always in a rush. Like, we have sex but we’re not really . . . intimate. And I don’t mind. I mean, it’s fun. But every now and then, it’s good to have it be like this. And at Dack’s party – it was like this. Like you had all the time in the world, and you wanted us to have it together. I loved that. It was back when you were really looking at me. It was like – well, it was like you’d climbed up that tree and found me there at the top. And we had that together. Even though we were in someone’s backyard. At one point – do you remember? – you made me move over a little so I’d be in the moonlight. ‘It makes your skin glow,’ you said. And I felt like that. Glowing. Because you were watching me, along with the moon.”

      I have never said this much to him. In all the time we’ve been together, I’m not sure I’ve ever let the words come out like this, without inspecting them first. I thought I knew what we were, and that was good enough for me.

      What is this? I think. Because now he’s leaning over and kissing me, and it’s making everything romantic. Justin has been able to do romantic things before, sure. But he’s never made everything seem romantic before. The universe, at this moment, is romantic. And I want it. I want it so badly. I want the touch of his lips on mine. I want the way my heart is pounding. I want this nest, my body and his body. I want it because it’s that unreal kind of real.

      There are so many other things we could say, but I don’t want to say any of them. Not because I’m afraid of ruining it. But because right now I have everything. I don’t need anything more.

      We close our eyes. We rest in each other’s arms.

      We’ve somehow made it to the better place you always want to be.

      I don’t even realize I’m falling asleep. We’re just so comfortable that I guess we go there.

      Then my phone is ringing, the ringtone so much shriller than the ocean. I know who it is, and even though I want to ignore it, I can’t. I open my eyes, shift away from Justin, and pick up the phone.

      “Where are you?” Mom asks.

      I check out the time. School’s been over for a while now.

      “I just went somewhere with Justin,” I tell her.

      “Well, your father’s coming home tonight, so I want us to all have dinner.”

      “That’s fine. I’ll be home before that. In an hour or so.”

      As soon as those words leave my mouth, the clock that had stopped begins to tick again. I hate my mother for causing this to happen, and I hate myself for letting it.

      Justin’s sitting up now, looking at me like he knows what I’ve done.

      “It’s getting late,” he says. He picks up the blanket and shakes it out. Then we fold it together, drawing nearer and farther and back nearer again, until the blanket is a square. Usually we just roll it up and throw it back in the trunk.

      It feels different, driving home. It’s no longer an adventure; it’s just driving home. I find myself telling him all the things he never wants to hear about – other people’s relationship drama, the way Rebecca’s really trying hard to get into a good school and leave the rest of us behind (which I fully believe she should do), the pressure I feel to do well, too, or at least good enough.

      After a while, the sun has set and the headlights are on and the songs we’re choosing are quiet ones. I lean on his shoulder and close my eyes, falling asleep again. I don’t mean to do it, but I’m just so comfortable. Usually I’m leaning in to him to prove something, to claim something. But now – it’s just to have him there. To rebuild that nest.

      When I wake up, I see we’re getting close to my house. I wish we weren’t.

      The only way for me to avoid being depressed is to create a bridge between now and the next time we’ll be like this. I don’t need to plan exactly when we’ll get there. I just need to know it’s there for us to get to.

      “How many days do you think we could skip school before we’d get in trouble?” I ask. “I mean, if we’re there in the morning, do you think they’d really notice if we’re gone in the afternoon?”

      “I think they’d catch us,” he says.

      “Maybe once a week? Once a month? Starting tomorrow?”

      I figure he’ll laugh at that, but instead he looks bothered. Not by me, but by the fact that he can’t say yes. A lot of the time I take his sadness in a bad way. Now I almost take it in a good way, a sign that the day has meant as much to him as it has for me.

      “Even if we can’t do this, I’ll see you at lunch?” I ask.

      He nods.

      “And maybe we can do something after school?”

      “I think so,” he says. “I mean, I’m not sure what else is going on. My mind isn’t really there right now.”

      Plans. Maybe he’s right – maybe I always try to tie him up instead of letting things happen. “Fair enough,” I say. “Tomorrow is tomorrow. Let’s end today on a nice note.”

      One last