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

“For what?”

He looks like he’s not sure if I’m kidding. “For last night. For bringing you to Mira’s house. For drinking and being weird.”

“Noah, you already apologized like twenty times. And you’re fine! I’m not—”

“I know, I know. You’re not mad. But I still feel really gross about it. I feel like I’m giving you the wrong idea about me—”

“You know I’ve known you since we were eleven, right?”

“I know, but you think I’m a fuckboy.”

I bite back a laugh. “Okay. So . . .”

“So I’m mad at myself for proving you right.”

He looks so serious about it that I have to hug him. “Noah, you’re not that kind of f-boy.”

“What do you mean that kind of f-boy?”

“You’re not a jerk. You’re barely a dudebro. You’re not even that slutty—”

He snorts. “Thanks.”

“I mean it.” I nudge him sideways with my shoulder. “After all, I’ve only actually seen you sloppily make out with one girl—”

“Okay, just so you know, that started out as a dare. Madison and I are friends. It’s totally, totally not like that.”

“It’s fine—”

“Also, I’m a way better kisser than that. Way better. That was not representative.”

“I don’t know. Maybe I should ask Camilla—”

“Kate, I’m serious.”

“Noah.” I tilt my palms up. “I don’t care, okay? You can kiss whoever you want, however you want.”

“I wish you did care,” Noah says.

My breath hitches. “What?”

“I don’t know.” He shakes his head. “I’m not saying—okay. I want to tell you something, but I don’t want you to think I’m, like, a total dumbass—”

“I’m not going to think that,” I say.

God, my heart is just—not keeping its cool right now. Not even a little bit. It’s beating ten miles a minute, and Noah keeps inhaling but not speaking, and I swear I’m not—

“I broke my wrist during training,” Noah says finally. He’s staring at his feet. “But I didn’t break it playing baseball. It was the dumbest thing.”

He pauses, but I don’t speak. I have this sudden feeling that I’ll shatter the moment somehow if I move or breathe or anything.

Finally, Noah continues. “We were spending the weekend at this campground place. Kind of like an ensemble building exercise.” He grins, eyes flicking toward me like he wants to make sure I didn’t miss him whipping out the theater terminology. I grin back.

“Anyway, Jack and a couple of the guys met these girls staying at this other campsite, and so they made this whole plan, where we were all going to sneak out after curfew and meet up in the woods outside the campground. Just drink and hang out. And it actually worked. Coach Franklin went to bed early, and Jack was texting with this one girl, and finally we all crept out super quietly. And it was totally pitch-black out. This was like way, way outside of Atlanta. I don’t know if Ryan’s ever told you about this place. He hates it. It’s crawling with insects.”

I bite back a smile.

“Anyway, it’s like twelve of us, and we’re really deep in the forest, and then I just—freaked out.” He pauses, taking a deep breath. “It wasn’t even the curfew thing or getting into trouble or being in the woods with bears—”

I gasp. “There were bears?”

“I don’t know,” Noah says. “I kind of wish there were, because then I could just be like, yeah, I broke my arm running from a giant fucking bear. But no—I was just, like, overwhelmed. It was just the whole situation and the random girls and thinking, what am I even going to talk to these girls about, and not knowing if it was supposed to be like a hookup thing or a chill thing, or what. And anyway, we were basically all the way at the meeting point, but I just, like, bolted.”

“Which is when the bear started chasing you.”

“Right.” He smiles. “Then the bear—ha ha. Anyway, I tripped over a root and landed like this.” He demonstrates on his cast-free arm, pressing his hand flat on the concrete. “So yeah. I broke my wrist running away from hot girls. Voilà.”

I grin into my fist. “Oh, Noah.”

“I know.” He exhales. “So here’s the thing, and I’m just going to say it. And it kind of ties back to last night.” He shuts his eyes. “I don’t really tell people this, but I’m kind of . . . not good in social situations? I just get really weird and overwhelmed and I don’t feel that comfortable, which is why I drink sometimes. And I know that’s bad—”

“It’s not bad.”

He smiles slightly but doesn’t speak.

“It’s not, like, necessarily healthy, but it doesn’t make you a bad person. It just sounds like social anxiety. Also, anyone would be overwhelmed by that party. A bunch of hot girls and bears in the middle of the woods?”

“Good point.”

“And don’t even get me started on whether the bears were wearing pants.”

He nods soberly. “They weren’t.”

“Didn’t think so. Pervs.”

Noah laughs. “So you think I have social anxiety, huh?”

“It’s not a bad thing.” I shrug. “I think I’m like that, too.”

“But I don’t see you drinking and making an ass of yourself.”

“Yeah, because I’m not a fuckgirl,” I say, and he bursts out laughing. “But seriously, why do you think I do theater?”

“Because you suck at sports?”

“Shut up.” I swat him, smiling. “Because I like having a script. I like being told where to stand and what to do with my hands. Like—I don’t know. I would have run from those girls, too. Because it’s the ambiguousness of it, right? No one gives you lines. No one even tells you what show you’re in.” I sigh. “Theater’s so much better than real life.”

“Theater is pretty great,” he says. And then he looks at me so intently, I feel like I’ve swallowed a sunburst.

“Anyway, now you know why I was acting like a drunk fuckboy last night.”

“It’s okay. Seriously.”

“I just don’t like that I was so focused on making myself feel comfortable that I made you uncomfortable. Like. That’s not cool.” He shakes his head.