Andrew and I linger by the hummus and crackers for a few minutes, neither of us speaking. I can hear the tick . . . tick . . . tick of the clock in the living room and the quiet buzz of the refrigerator. I reach for another cracker, eager for something to do, and bite into it. The crunch echoes loudly in the room, practically ricocheting off the walls.

And then I begin to giggle, quietly at first because I’m trying to hold it in.

“Really?” Andrew asks. “I thought we were done with this.” But he begins to laugh too, and before I can help it, I snort, spraying bits of cracker out of my mouth and across the countertop. “Gross!” He’s laughing harder now.

I open my mouth and stick my tongue out, showing him the rest of the chewed cracker.

“You look like a baby bird,” he says.

“Oh, should I feed some to you?” I drop my head down so the mushy cracker in my mouth is dangerously close to falling out and onto him.

“No!” He jumps up and away from me, putting his arms up in a cross to ward me off, as if I’m a vampire.

“Fine,” I say, swallowing the cracker.

He grins at me. “Really admirable seduction technique though. I can hardly resist you.”

My smile drops as I remember why we’re here. We stare at each other for a minute and I don’t know what to do. I clear my throat. “Should we . . . get started?”

“Oh,” he says, suddenly jumpy. He runs a hand through his hair, and it calms me down a bit. It makes me feel better that he’s nervous too, even though he’s the one who’s done this a million times.

“Yeah,” he says. “Let’s go upstairs. I’ve got it all set up.”

“What did you set up?” I ask, surprised. I follow him up the stairs, and when we get to his room, I’m comforted by its familiarity. There’s his old navy blue carpet, frayed at the edges. There’s the pillow I sewed for him in home economics back in sixth grade, misshapen and bright pink because I knew it would embarrass him. The smell of his room is just the same as always, like cut grass and pine and something earthier, the musky smell of boy, and it calms my nerves. He’s just Andrew.

The only thing that’s different now is his bed. The usually rumpled sheets have been straightened—maybe even washed—and the blankets that always form a messy pile on the floor have been folded neatly and put away. And on top of the bed he’s sprinkled a bunch of flowers.

“They’re just from one of the vases downstairs,” he says, scratching his nose. “No big deal.”

“No, it’s really nice,” I say, feeling warm and cozy inside.