“I hate that I love him,” Mara mutters under her breath.

Sadie sighs. “At least yours isn’t running against the wall because he can’t use the controller.”

“Guys,” I tell them, shaking my head, “maybe I was wrong in approving of your relationships. Maybe you can do better.”

Mara snorts. “Excuse me? Is that a slice of pepperoni on Ian’s shirt?”

Sure is. “Touché.”

Sadie clears her throat. “Hey, guys, it’s great that you’re having fun, but we should really get going if we want to make our flights—”

They groan in a chorus. Like ten-year-olds asked to clean their rooms.

“I just . . . can’t believe they actually like each other,” Mara says, befuddled.

Sadie nods. “I don’t know how I feel about this. Seems . . . dangerous?”

I cover my mouth to muffle my laughter.

Nine

Ian drives me home after we drop everybody off at the airport, following a disturbing phone number exchange among the guys and a few tears from Mara and Sadie. I’m definitely feeling more like myself, because I send them through TSA with a stern “Stop whining” and gentle slaps on their butts.

“Try not to fall into a glacier for at least six months, okay?” Sadie yells at me from within the roped area.

I flip her off and limp back to Ian’s car.

“I see why you love them so much,” he tells me while driving back to my place.

“I don’t. Love them, that is. I just pretend to avoid hurting their feelings.”

He smiles like he knows how full of bullshit I am to the very milligram, and we’re quiet for the rest of the ride. The oldies radio station plays pop songs that I remember from the early 2000s, and I stare at the yellow glow of the streetlights, wondering if I, too, am an oldie. Then Ian slows down to park at my place, and that relaxed, happy feeling wanes as my heart picks up speed.

I told Sadie and Mara that I’d see if he’s interested in going out with me, but it’s easier said than done. I’ve propositioned plenty of people, but this . . . it feels different. I’m not going to be good at it. I’m going to be total, utter shit. And Ian will realize it immediately.

“You could . . .” I start. Then stop. My knees suddenly look incredibly interesting. Works of art that require my most dedicated inspection. “I was thinking that . . .”

“Don’t worry, I’ll carry you upstairs,” he says. He’s wearing jeans and an ocean-blue shirt that matches his eyes and contrasts with his hair and—

It’s scary, how attractive I find him. The depth of this crush of mine. I liked him since the very start, but my feelings for him have been growing steadily, then exponentially, and . . . what do I even do with them? It’s like being handed an instrument I never learned how to play. Being asked to step onstage at a concert hall utterly unprepared.