“I know what you mean,” laughed Ginette. She was happy to hear that Pete always had fun with her, too. And it made her feel that strange lightness again. And the lightness gave her the courage to try—again—to ask him if they were dating or going out or if they were boyfriend and girlfriend or what.

“Pete?” she asked.

“Yeah?”

The lightness she was feeling grew inside her and seemed to take control of her body and she felt like it was hijacking her head and her heart and it suddenly pushed three small, immense words out of her mouth.

“I love you.”

Whoa. That was not quite what Ginette had intended to say. She had intended to ask Pete something like, “Are we dating?” or “Are we boyfriend and girlfriend?” or “Do you like me the way I like you?”

But she didn’t ask any of those questions.

Or any question at all.

She went straight to another statement: “I love you.”

And she felt like some sort of cosmic shutdown was happening. Like all motion in the universe was ceasing. She could have sworn it made a sound—like the vvvrrrmmm of a giant machine losing its power.

And she just stared at Pete.

And Pete just stared at her.

And neither of them breathed.

And then Ginette suddenly gasped for air as if someone had just revived her with CPR, and she laughed a loud laugh.

And couldn’t believe what she had just said.

And her laughter decrescendoed into a hopeful smile.

And she looked at Pete and waited for him to say something.

But he didn’t say anything.

And then Ginette’s smile turned into a look of concern.

And then it turned into a pained frown.

Because Pete still wasn’t saying anything.

He was still just staring at her. Like a deer frozen in headlights.

He stared at her for so long like that, that Ginette felt like she had broken time.

And then Pete suddenly gasped and sucked in some air as if he, too, had just been revived by CPR.

And he turned away from Ginette. And looked out at the horizon, his eyes still wide.

And then Ginette turned away from him. And looked out at the horizon. Her eyes were wide, too.

And Ginette and Pete sat in the silence. And the stillness. For a while. And the stillness felt like it was full of motion. And the silence felt like it was full of sound.

Ginette had stopped breathing again, so she suddenly had to suck down some more air so she wouldn’t pass out. She turned to Pete, who was still staring out at the horizon, and grunted a throaty, frenetic laugh again, hoping to coax some kind of a response from her best friend. Or former best friend. Or future boyfriend. Or whatever Pete was. And her laughter seemed to echo around in the still, quiet night. Even though there was nothing for the sound to bounce off, so there couldn’t have been an echo.