But I’ve got nothing, and it’s not for lack of trying.
I want to feel something, anything.
But it’s not something I can control—either a girl feels something or she doesn’t. But maybe with time? Just because the fireworks aren’t instantaneous doesn’t mean they’ll never be there at all.
“Casablanca is playing at the Vista Theatre tomorrow night,” he says. “It’s one of my favorites. Have you seen it?”
I nod. “Yeah. I have.”
“You like it?” he asks.
“Love it.”
“Good,” he says. “So you’ll see it with me tomorrow night. Pick you up at eight.”
It hits me that earlier this year, I’d taken Isaiah to that same theatre to see that very same movie, and then it hits me even harder when I remember that Rick and Ilsa don’t end up together in the end.
I’ve been doing so well lately, not thinking about the stranger I’d spent a week of Saturdays with once upon a time, but tonight it comes as one giant tidal wave, like everything I’d kept pent up all these months crashes over me at once.
I miss Isaiah.
I miss him for reasons I can’t put into words, reasons I feel deep in my bones and in the pit of my stomach and in the ache in my chest I’d grown numb to.
But just as soon as the wave comes, it’s gone, and I’m left with nothing but a handsome soon-to-be pharmacist with football player muscles who wants to take me to Casablanca tomorrow night.
I take this as a sign, and also as my closure.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Maritza
“Oh, hey there.” Melrose stands in my bedroom door as I’m feverishly typing out a term paper at my desk in the corner. “Was beginning to wonder if you still lived here. Feels like I haven’t seen you in weeks.”
“I know.” I shut my laptop lid and face her. “I’ve been so busy with work and school.”
“And Blake,” she says, fighting a smirk as she takes a seat on my bed. “So what’s up with him now? You guys official?”
Shaking my head, I say, “We’re still just hanging out.”
“But you’re hanging out a lot.”
Maybe a few times a week for the past few weeks. I’d hardly call that “a lot.” And most of the time we’re studying together or catching matinees.
I shrug. “So?”
“Clearly he likes you. And you like him too or you wouldn’t spend so much time with him,” she says, like she’s the authority on the intricacies of Tinder dating in the modern age.
“He’s fun,” I say. “And he makes me laugh. And he’s nice. And we have the same taste in music and movies. And for once, I’ve found a guy who believes me when I say I just want to have fun and not worry about labels. So yeah, I’m going to hang out with him.”
Mel rolls her eyes. “You friend-zoned him. Nice.”
“No. I fun-zoned him. There’s a difference.”
“Potato, po-tah-to.” Murphy trots into my room and Mel scoops him up. “What do you think, Murph? Does she need to piss or get off the pot?” She places his smooshy face against her ear. “Yep. He’s in agreement with me.”
“Dork.” I roll my eyes and turn back to my computer, about to lift the lid when a text comes through from Blake telling me he’s outside the gate. Earlier today he texted, asking me to grab dinner with him. Said he needed some brain food for the all-nighter he was planning to pull studying for tomorrow’s Pharmacogenetics test.
“Where you going?” Mel asks as I stand and scan the room for my bag.
“Dinner with a friend,” I say, like it’s no big thing. And it isn’t. It’s nothing—still. He even kissed me two weeks ago after we saw Casablanca. His lips were soft and his tongue was pure peppermint and his hands were in my hair and yet I felt … nada.
Not a single, sleepy butterfly emerging from its cocoon.
“What are you doing, Ritz?” Mel asks.
My brows narrow. “Going out for dinner. I told you.”
“No,” she says, expression fading. “I mean, what are you doing with this guy? You don’t even seem that excited to hang out with him.”
I rest a hand on my hip. “I don’t get where you’re going with this.”
“Are you waiting for yourself to like him? Because I can tell you, he doesn’t make you light up half as much as Corporal Douche Bag did.”
“Wow. Okay. You just went there …”
“I just … I don’t want you to settle for someone who doesn’t make you feel incredible,” she says. “And I also don’t want you to hold off on letting yourself feel incredible all because you’re waiting for some jackass from your past to come waltzing through the door.”
“Trust me. I haven’t placed my happiness on hold for anyone and even if Isaiah came waltzing through my door like nothing happened, I’d have no problem telling him to fuck off,” I say. “That train left the station a long time ago.”