“Whoa!” Matt says with an easy laugh. “What’s with the interrogation?”
“Fine,” I say. “Start with an easy one. You probably know Audrey’s my best friend…. Who’s yours?”
Matt pauses, but right when I think he might play it cool and say something dude-ish about not having a BFF, he lets me in a little.
“Drew,” he says. “He’s in our English class.”
“The guy you sit behind?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says. “We’ve been friends since kindergarten. Funniest guy I know,” Matt says with a chuckle. “He’s a great guitar player, too. He’s in a band with some guys from Omaha South. He keeps trying to get me to join.”
“What do you play?” I ask.
“Baseball,” Matt jokes.
“No, seriously,” I prod him. I try to think whether I’ve seen any musical instruments around his house. Just as I’m wondering whether there’s a drum kit stashed in the garage, I remember the—
“Piano,” he says quietly. “I’d play keyboard in the band.”
“That’s cool. You should do it.”
“I guess,” he says, shrugging it off. “So, what do you like to do, besides getting blitzed with frat boys?”
“Very funny,” I say as a stall tactic, silently running through possible responses. What do I like to do? Nothing as cool as playing in a band. When too much time has passed to be comfortable, I reply honestly. “I like to read,” I say. “I’m super quick, and often I read like four books at once. I know that’s sort of nerdy.”
“No, it’s cool,” Matt says. “I wish I read more.”
“And I blog, too.”
Matt looks away, smiling.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing, I just… I know. Aud showed me. I’ve been following your posts. They’re really funny.”
My breath catches: Matt reads my blog?
“Is that weird that I read it?” Matt asks. “An invasion of—”
“Privacy?” I laugh. “It’s hardly private. I just haven’t ever met any of my readers.”
“Seriously? What about your friends back in Frozen Hills?”
I pause for a moment, then say, “Hey, Matt? Want to know a secret?”
He looks at me expectantly.
“I didn’t have any real friends in Frozen Hills.”
Instead of calling me a liar or—worse—asking why, Matt mutters “their loss” and moves on.
“I hear you like Arcade Fire,” he says before grabbing my hand once again, and reminding me that I want to be nowhere but here.
Unfortunately, we reach the other side of the bridge a few short minutes later. We stop, ponder our next move, and then decide to turn back. As we retrace our steps, the view is even better. With the vast city in front of us and the wide sky overhead, I feel free to say anything. Apparently, Matt does, too.
“I’m glad you moved here,” he says, eyes on the skyline.
“I am, too,” I manage to say calmly.