Loathe to Love You by Ali Hazelwood

            “Ha. So you are a notoriously bad Dane. Do you also hate ABBA?”

            He looks briefly confused. Then his expression clears. “They’re Swedish.”

            “What about tulips—do you hate tulips?”

            “That would be the Netherlands.”

            “Damn.”

            “So close, though. Want to try again? Third time’s the charm.”

            I glare, licking what’s left of the sticky pistachio off my fingers. He looks at my mouth and then away, down to his feet. I want to ask him what’s wrong, but the owner of the coffee shop on the corner comes out to retrieve his sidewalk sign and I realize something.

            It’s late.

            Very late. Really late. End-of-the-night late. We’re standing in front of each other on a sidewalk, over twelve hours after meeting for the first time on . . . another sidewalk; Erik probably wants to go home. And I probably want to be with him a little longer.

            “What train do you take?” I ask.

            “I actually drove.”

            I shake my head, disapproving. “Who even drives in New York?”

            “People who have to visit construction sites all over the tristate. I’ll take you home,” he offers, and I beam.

            “Geniuses. Kind, ride-giving geniuses. Where are you parked?”

            He points somewhere behind me and I nod, knowing I should turn around and begin to walk by his side again. But we seem to be a little stuck in this here and this now. Standing in front of each other. Rooted to the ground.

            “I had fun tonight,” I say.

            He doesn’t answer.

            “Even though we forgot to get croissants at the bistro.”

            Still no answer.

            “And I am seriously tempted to buy you a life-size cardboard cutout of Neuer and— Erik, are you still doing that thing where you don’t talk because I’m technically not asking you a question?”

            He laughs silently and my breath hitches high in my chest. “Where do you live?” he asks softly.

            “Farthest reaches of Staten Island,” I lie.

            It’s supposed to be my revenge, but he just says, “Good.”

            “Good?”

            “Good.”

            I frown. “It’s a toll of seventeen dollars, my friend.”

            He shrugs.

            “One-way, Erik.”

            “It’s fine.”

            “How is it fine?”

            He shrugs again. “At least it’ll take a while to get there.”

            My heart skips a beat. And then another. And then they all catch up at once, a mess of overlapping thumps, a small wild animal caged in my chest, trying to escape.

            I have no idea what I’m doing here. Not a clue. But Erik is standing right in front of me, the streetlight a soft glow behind his head, the warm spring breeze blowing softly between us, and something clicks within me.

            Yes. Okay.

            “Actually,” I say, and even though my cheeks are burning, even though I cannot look him in the eye, even though I’m shifting on my toes and contemplating running away, this is the bravest moment of my life. Braver than moving here without Mara and Hannah. Braver than the time I megged that midfielder from the UCLA. Just brave. “Actually, if you don’t mind, I’d rather skip Staten Island and just go to your place.”

            He studies me for a long moment, and I wonder if maybe he cannot quite believe what I just said, if his brain is also struggling to catch up, if maybe this feels as extraordinary to him as it does to me. Then he nods once, decided. “Very well,” he says.

            Before we start to walk, I see his throat bob.