I sound like Hannah. He brings out the Hannah in me. I’m all over the place.

“It is, indeed, some weird Zen shit.”

I told myself I was going to keep some distance with Ben, but that was only two days ago, and here I am. I used to be so certain about what I wanted. Maybe Mom and Dad were part of that process. Maybe I got more advice from them than I realized.

We are part of the school of fish, the bodies flowing out of Kendall station and up into the cold October night air.

“You didn’t have to come get me, you know,” I say as we reach the sidewalk. I have been possessed by a grouchy old lady. “I could have just met you here.”

“I was in your area.”

“No, you weren’t. It took you an hour to come to my house, pick me up, and bring me all the way back here.” I stare him down. “This isn’t a date.”

“Okay.” But he smiles.

I hate how all the particles in me rearrange themselves when he does that. I pull my hand out of his and slide on my gloves and shove a hat on and stomp ahead until Ben calls, “You’re going the wrong way.”

Right. I am in entirely new territory. His territory.

Ben keeps smiling as we pass Lafayette Square. He gestures toward a nightclub and restaurant on the left.

“We usually get dinner at the Middle East after. You’ll like it. We could go to a show there sometime, if you want.”

“A show?”

“Like, a concert.”

“Oh.” I’ve never been to a concert before. That’s Hannah’s thing. I glance at the marquee. “Who are the Dresden Dolls?”

“Only my favorite band. And I might just have an extra ticket.” He glances at me. “Nate’s coming. I promise I’ll only try to kiss you three times. Four if I’m feeling especially bold.”

“You are—” I throw up my hands. “I actually have no words.”

“Just yes will suffice.” He stops. “We’re here, by the way.”

Ben steps inside the doors of the yoga studio his group uses on Friday nights, and I don’t have a choice but to follow him in. It’s cold outside. And, despite the fact that Ben talks about death like it’s the weather, I want to sit beside him and breathe his air.

But the last yoga studio I was in was my mom’s.

I stand on the sidewalk for a minute, lost in a spacetime bubble.

“Mom, I can’t twist like that!”

She laughs. “Mae, honey, just put your head—no, put it under your arm. Yes, like that.”

I glare at her. “This is harder than advanced calculus.”

“How are you going to get around a space station without bending, hm?”

“I’m going to float through it. Obviously.”