Kate in Waiting Becky Albertalli (best way to read books TXT) 📖

to explain, but there’s a certain kind of closeness that comes with working on a play. Maybe it’s the we’re-in-it-together team feeling, or the vulnerability that comes from creating something, or the slaphappy intimacy of tech week. Maybe it’s hormones. I don’t know the science behind it. I just know it’s a different, leveled-up kind of friendship. Almost like you’re siblings. Except for the part where you get caught making out in the lighting booth, cough, cough, Pierra and Colin.

Uh. I’ll just state for the record, though, that I wouldn’t mind making out with Matt in the lighting booth.

I sit up straighter, cheeks burning. “So.”

“So.”

“So you moved here.”

He smiles. “I did.”

Awkward silence, and it’s a big one. One for the history books. But listen—talking and crushing simultaneously isn’t easy. It’s a whole lot for one brain. Because obviously, you can’t just spew what you’re really thinking, which in this case is basically a bunch of heart emojis. And you don’t want to cast yourself as Generic Stranger Number Six, who speaks only in basic-ass questions like—

“How do you like Roswell?” I ask.

Nailed it.

But Matt leans back a little, staring up at the ceiling. “It’s good! I mean, it’s really different. I think the weirdest part is my dad not being here.”

“Oh.” My stomach flutters. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“No, it’s fine. We’re not close. At all. He’s not very . . .” Matt trails off.

For a moment, we’re both silent.

“Divorce is just weird,” he says finally.

I nod. “So weird.”

“I mean, you get it. How long have your parents been . . . ?”

“Seventh grade. So I’m pretty much used to it.”

“Good to know you get used to it.”

I scoot closer—close enough that our pinkies are touching—which feels insanely brave, but also right. “Do you miss your dad?”

“Mmm.” He smiles slightly. “Not really.”

And something clicks in my brain. Nothing earth-shattering or game-changing. Just this one tiny detail.

Matt Olsson smiles when he’s sad.

I don’t mean it like he’s in denial. It’s more like he’s pushing it back, tucking the badness away. It’s strangely moving. And it makes my whole body feel warm.

Maybe it’s just the intimacy of knowing this tiny thing about him. It’s not a thing you can know from Instagram. It’s something real.

He turns toward me. “Where does your dad live?”

“Oh, just like ten minutes away.”

“That’s really nice. Are you and Ryan there a lot?”

“Wednesday and Thursday nights, plus every other weekend.”

“Is that hard?”

“Sometimes? I don’t know. Mostly it just . . . is.”

He nods. “I know exactly what you mean.”

Scene 15

And now I can’t get that out of my head.

I know exactly what you mean.

It tugs at the edge of my mind the whole time Matt’s here. And even after he leaves, it’s there, stealing my brain away from algebra, and making my squad texts so short and distracted, even Brandie calls me out.

But I can’t stop thinking about it. It’s the most underrated sentence on earth. I know exactly what you mean.

Translation: no, you’re not weird. Even your weird stuff isn’t weird. You make sense.

The thing is, I don’t usually talk about the divorce, apart from the logistics.

It’s not a secret, of course. I just never want to be a brat about it, especially the whole joint custody thing. Because I know how lucky I am. My parents live three miles apart from each other. It isn’t a tragedy. It’s just my life. Split in half.

But it’s hard to explain the way that wears on you. The feeling of constant motion. The fact that you’re never one hundred percent home. The way it falls into this unsettling new normal. It’s just life. It just is.

And somehow Matt already gets that.

Mom and Ryan head out for a college info session, and it doesn’t take me long to give up entirely on algebra. When I’m in this kind of mood, there’s only one thing I’m good for. I tune my guitar, and then I strum until a song takes shape. “Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me,” which I’ve loved my whole life. It always gives me this soft, enchanted feeling, like I’m in an English rose garden, or some rustic meadow dance floor strung with fairy lights.

Once upon a time, it was my parents’ wedding song. You’d think that alone would suck out all the romance for me. But it hasn’t, not even slightly. Maybe some songs are just unruinable.

I sing the first verse with my eyes closed, feeling my way through the chords. My mind keeps drifting back to Matt. Smiling, sad Matt, holding my hand as we stroll down a winter path, right at dusk. I’m dressed like Elizabeth Bennet, and my hair’s collecting snowflakes. “But they never stood in the dark with you, love.”

I know I’m singing too loudly. I know my voice is too earnest, too ardent. But I’m so moonstruck, I can’t help it. I think my heart’s wrapped in clouds.

Someone knocks—and everything freezes. My hand goes rigid against my guitar strings.

“Hello?”

My heart’s hammering so loudly, I can barely hear my own voice. Hello? Maybe I didn’t say it out loud at all. Just in my head. Maybe this is all in my head. I glance out the window—no cars in the driveway. So, the only person who could feasibly be here is Andy, and he’s still with his voice teacher. Ergo, no one’s here. No one’s knocking on my bedroom door. My mile-a-minute brain made the whole thing up, just to troll me.

“Little Garfield?”

Oh my God.

“Um.” Nope. Nope. Not real. “Noah?”

Of course, he takes that as an invitation.

So now Noah Kaplan’s in my doorway, grinning like a T. rex. “Why’d you stop singing?”

You know those stoves where the knob makes a flame shoot straight up? Zero to burning. That’s my face.

“How are you here?” It comes out like a croak.

He crosses the room in two strides, plops onto the edge of my bed. “What do you mean, how am I here?”

“This is my mom’s house.”

“I’m not allowed at your mom’s house?”

“No, I mean, how did you get here? Where’s your car?”

“At home.