“Are you sure?” she says finally.

Did she just ask me if I was sure? Me, the mayor of asshole town? The person who was begging for her forgiveness just a few minutes ago? I stare at her, befuddled. “What?”

“I don’t want you to choose me because I’m the easy option,” she says quietly. “I know there aren’t a lot of queer girls around. I mean, I’m sure you know more than I do. But I don’t want you to be with me just because you know I’ll say yes.”

“What are you talking about?” I say. I notice a pair of sophomores glancing over at us, so I lean in toward her and lower my voice. “I want to go out with you.”

The confident Ana from a few minutes ago seems to have disappeared. This new, nervous Ana won’t make eye contact with me and keeps moving potionworking supplies around like her sanity depends on it. “I’ve been pretty obvious about liking you, and you seemed sort of uninterested. So I started to give up.”

“So you like me?” I say, focusing on the most important part of what she’s saying here.

“Yes!” she says, yanking on the magical threads in the fire under her cauldron. The flame goes out. “I’ve liked you all year. And probably before that too, but I didn’t realize I was bi until this summer.”

“Oh my god,” I whisper. My grin is so big my cheeks hurt. “Then go out with me.”

She’s blushing so much that it’s obvious even on her brown skin. “Okay.” She laughs quietly, like she can’t believe what’s happening, and gives me a small smile. Her dimple melts my heart. “Okay,” she says again, more surely this time.

“Okay,” I repeat, grinning at her.

“I’m not out, really,” she says shyly.

“That’s fine,” I say. Nothing else matters besides the fact that she’s into me. “So your family doesn’t . . . ?”

“No, they don’t know,” she says. The wattage of her smile dips a little. She glances around the classroom. “They’re kind of conservative.”

“Oh, gotcha.” Not ideal, but I’d be a total asshole if I made a big deal out of that. Coming out was hard even for me, and my parents ended up being fine with it. We’ll just have to be private about the two of us. “That sucks,” I add.

“Yeah.” Her expression goes serious, then determined. “I don’t know if this makes sense, but sometimes I feel like I’m putting myself into a box for them. Like, I’m the big sister. I fix things; I always do everything right. But this”—she gestures between us—“is something for me. Does that make sense? I’m not great at talking about my feelings, so . . .”