The Cardigan in Question #4
I’ve spent the last few days replaying Saturday night over and over again, and I don’t know what I said or did, but I know that I still want to cash in on that third date.
I like spending time with you. I like that you’re shy and that underneath you’re hiding a cute little sour attitude.
I like your birthmark even though you always turn your head to the side so you can hide it.
I like the way your eyelashes brush your cheeks, and I like the way your mouth tastes.
You can ignore this note. I’m guessing you will, since you didn’t respond to any of my emails, but I just had to try one last thing, because what’s the worst that could happen, right?
I’ll be at the Maribelle Beach Lodge at the edge of campus at 7:00 p.m. on Saturday night. If you decide to come, wear something nice.
—August, like the month
Wrapped in my towel, I sit on the edge of my bed and scroll through five emails I missed over the last few days, along with a handful of texts from my mom.
The first two emails are brief and just checking to see if I’m okay.
But then the third one is long and rambling as August tells me about her little brother, who died when he was only four.
She tells me about her parents, who own a chain of dry cleaners.
She tells me about how she sleeps with the windows open even when it’s cold outside and how she wants to major in ceramics and how she loves the Fast and the Furious movies and how if she weren’t so gay, she would marry Channing Tatum because she has a soft spot for himbos. And shy girls, too.
That evening, I call my mom, and she catches me up on how Grandma Sandra is liking her living facility, and she asks if we can get lunch on Sunday if I’m not too busy. She knows I’m not busy. I’m never busy, but she always asks anyway.
I carry August’s note around in my pocket for the next few days, and on Saturday, I stand over two dresses laid out across my bed.
One is a dark green with a sweetheart neckline and a pencil skirt.
I wore it for college interviews. And the other is my graduation dress—a light pink frothy chiffon thing with a fitted bodice and flowy hemline that grazes the middle of my calves.
The bishop sleeves are ethereal. It’s the kind of dress that asks people to look at you, which is why I chose it for graduation, where I could hide it under my robe and still have the satisfaction of wearing it.
“The pink one,” Lyra says offhandedly as she takes a microscopic white dress out of her closet. “I’m going to a blacklight party tonight. What do you think?”
I almost tell her that I think she’ll be cold, but instead I say, “Super hot.”
She grins and gives me a wink. “Are you feeling better?”
I nod slowly as I hold the pink dress up and examine myself in the mirror. “I’m getting there.”
I see her before she sees me. She waits for me out front in a dark blue velvet dress that hugs her hips. Little gold stars wink in the dim porch light.
Her hands twist together, and I step up beside her, still unnoticed. “Hi.”
She gasps softly, and then her face brightens with a roguish grin. “You showed up.”
“I’m sorry,” I blurt, my hands running the length of my arms. Not because I’m chilly, but because I left my cardigan—the cardigan—in my dorm, tucked safely in a box under my bed.
She waves a hand. “I move too fast. I always do.”
I step closer to her and take one of her hands to keep her from worrying. She hardly notices and probably has no idea how intrepid an act I find that to be. “I move too slow.”
“Where’s the sweater?” she asks.
“Didn’t really go with the outfit.”
“You came back to me.” Her voice is gentle and timid.
“There were too many unanswered what-ifs. I didn’t want to wonder.”
She nods, her teeth snagging on her bottom lip. “I want to kiss you again, Betty,” she says. “But this time, I’m going to let you decide when that happens, okay?”
“Okay,” I whisper, even though I’m scared that, if left to my own devices, we’ll move at a glacial pace that I will find excruciating even if I don’t know how to say otherwise. My ability to overthink knows no bounds.
But maybe if I can show up here tonight, with my birthmark on display, in an eye-catching dress, with a girl who scares the shit out of me and exhilarates me in equal parts, then maybe I can count on myself to be bold.
Maybe I can be the kind of girl who seeks out a kiss.
Maybe moving forward doesn’t have to be about forgetting Jamie but about remembering her and channeling her plucky spirit.
“Fuck it,” I whisper before leaning forward and pressing a soft kiss into August’s lips.
She grins against my mouth. “Wanted to rip the Band-Aid off, did you?”
I nod, and when I pull back, her cheeks are flushed and her eyes are a little wild. “What are we doing here?” I ask.
She points to the sign that reads Welcome, Wedding Guests of Peter and Wendy!
“And how do you know the lucky couple?”
She pulls me through the front door of the inn. “I don’t,” she says with a laugh. “We’re crashing.”
“What?” I tug back on her arm.
But she’s already shaking her head. “No you don’t,” she says. “That’s not how this story ends.”