Page 70 of What I Like About You

“He’s not going for fandom,” Molly says.

“He’s going for agirl,” Sawyer adds.

Nash throws popcorn at them. “Shut up.” He looks at me and hesitates, like he can’t believe he’s about to tell me whatever he’s going to tell me. “You know my cupcake bookstagrammer friend? We met online—”

“Kels,” Autumn interrupts. “Her name is Kels.”

“It’s not weird, I swear,” Nash says. “We like each other’s blogs, and we’ve been best friends for years, but we haven’t met yet. Well, we applied for this blogger panel. It’s a long shot for me, but not for Kels. She’s pretty popular. I’m, um, kind of hoping we meet there. Either way.”

I process Nash’s words.Either way.

It’s not like I forgot about BookCon. It’s just—clearly, I haven’t been thinking about it as much as Nash has.

“It’s not weird, I swear,” Nash repeats.

“It’s a little weird,” Molly says. “I mean, no one even knows who Kels really is.”

Nash looks at Molly like this is a constant point of tension in their friendship; like he’s so tired of having this conversation. “I do, though. In the ways that matter, at least.”

Autumn grades our practice exams.

Molly rolls her eyes.

Sawyer gags.

“I don’t think it’s weird,” I say quietly.

“Thanks,” Nash says. His ears are tinted pink with embarrassment, but his smile is sincere. The subject changes,thank God,and I’m just sitting here in silence, still pretending to work on another stupid practice test while I try to process what this means.

“… You should!Please, Halle.”

My attention snaps up from my test to Molly, who is making puppy dog eyes at me.

I have no clue why, but I pity Sawyer because it’s an extremely hard face to resist.

“Okay?” I answer.

“Oh my God, seriously?” Molly pumps her fists and yells, “Victory!”

“Um.”What did I agree to?

Autumn smirks. “You just got her out of theKung Fu Pandamarathon she’s been putting off since Rosh Hashanah.”

Nash shakes his head. “NowIhave to watch five hours ofKung Fu Panda.”

Molly is doing a victory dance around the bakery.

“Molly bet that she’d get you to come bowling with us before Nash could,” Sawyer says.

“Oh,” I say, a bit blindsided. I really wish they’d stop making bets about me.

“It’s cool,” Nash says. “I’m just glad you’re coming.”

Molly, high on her victory, sets a timer and insists that we settle in for anactualpractice round. Pencils scratch against paper and calculators crunch answers around me but I can’t even comprehend question one. Occasionally, my eyes shift to Nash, watching him answer questions with scrunched eyebrows through my peripheral vision.

I should cross my fingers behind my back and hope I don’t get the panel.

But I can’t. I want BookCon to want me so bad.

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