Page 89 of What I Like About You

If my life were a novel, I’d totally kiss him right now.

Instead, I lean back in my chair and listen to the music. Nash’s phone vibrates again on the table, once, twice, three times in a row. Molly, Molly, Molly. He scans through the messages, blushes, rolls his eyes, and then stuffs his phone into his pocket. In that order.

I don’t know what to say next, so I check my own silenced phone. There are a million Molly texts too, ranging from the calmwhere are you?to the panickedwhere are you?!?!?toomg please don’t hate me please don’t hate me please—

I lock my phone and toss it in my purse.

We’re quiet through the next few sets, enjoying the mash-up of singer-songwriter and bluegrass music. It occurs to me in this moment that I’ve never had a friend like Nash, not in my entire life. Nash the person, not Nash the pixels. Nash doesn’t make me feel like I need to have something to say all the time. This friendship isn’t based on words.

I can just sit back and listen to the music.

We sit until the lights dim and the music has faded into tomorrow. I need to make a playlist of acoustic covers from tonight and carry it in my pocket. Songs that will remind me of winding up in a coffee shop in lace sleeves and red lipstick, of Nash and Halle in real life, of the most perfect chai latte in the entire world.

I wake up in the passenger seat of the Prius, Nash shaking my shoulders.

“Halle,” Nash says.

I jump. “What the—?”

“You fell asleep as I was giving my grand moonlight tour of Westport. Can’t say I’m not a little bit offended, but you’re forgiven,” Nash says.

I yawn. “Time?”

“Like, quarter to seven.”

“In themorning?”

I rub my eyes—mascara flaking off from the night before—and blink some moisture back into my sticky contacts. I wipe thedrool from the corner of my mouth—oh my God. I try to orient myself. It is tomorrow morning, and I am in Nash’s car. Why am I still in Nash’s car? It’s still dark outside and we’re parked in a spot overlooking the ocean. Ice-gray waves crash against the shore, and not going to lie, my breath catches in my throat when I see that we’re at a beach.

I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen the ocean.

I’m kind of in this half-awake ocean trance, until I catch my reflection in the rearview mirror and see the residue from my once-perfect red lips smudged around my mouth. Instinct—and embarrassment—makes me swipe the back of my hand over my mouth, which admittedly does little to fix the situation.

Nash pops open the center console and hands me a napkin.

I take it, wordless. What do I even say, seriously? Sputter one of my many questions?Why didn’t we go home last night? Why are we at the beach, in December, at dawn? Why do you still look so perfect and I’m, like, a zombie with a half-melted face?

“My parents think I’m at Molly’s,” Nash says. “But I really didn’t want to go to Molly’s.”

It’s tomorrow. I didn’t come home last night.

I reach for my phone. “Oh my God, Gramps.” I’m going to be grounded until graduation. At least.

“I texted Ollie. You’re at Molly’s too.”

Ollie is going to give mesomuch shit.

“Where are we?” I ask.

“The beach,” Nash says.

I roll my eyes. “Thanks.”

Nash laughs. “We’re still in Westport. Sherwood Island, technically.”

“Okay. But why—?”

“Give it, like”—he glances at the dashboard clock—“thirteen more minutes.”

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