But this is real life, which means this is the hardest part of all. And one of us has to break the silence.

“Hi,” I squeak.

His Adam’s apple rolls forward as he swallows. “Hey.” And then a second later, he adds, “I was scared you wouldn’t be able to get out.”

Why is the talking part so hard? Surely the kissing part is way easier to make up for all the trouble it takes to talk. I hold my arms out. “Well, I did.”

“Maybe we should go somewhere.”

“Okay.” I hadn’t even thought of where we might go or what we might actually do. “Lead the way.”

Once we’re both buckled in, Malik reaches for the radio, but then I guess he thinks better, because he pulls back. “Guess I came here to talk, didn’t I?”

I bite down on my lips, trying to minimize my smile. He turns off my street like he knows where he’s going.

“I’m shy,” he finally says. “And not in some kind of endearing way. It’s like crippling sometimes.” He pauses. “I get so in my head and I overthink every little thing. But I don’t want to be that way with you.”

“I don’t want that either,” I say quietly.

“It’s so easy to talk to you. It’s like I’m not even talking to anyone.” He shakes his head and lets out an exasperated sigh. “That didn’t sound right. I just meant that the way I feel when we’re talking online or texting is the way it feels to, like, talk to my sister or cousins. Not that I think of you as a relative or something! But like that head thing is gone. When we talk at night, I don’t think about if something will look or sound stupid. I can just be me.”

“I get that.” I’m economical with my words. I don’t want to spook him.

“But in person . . . well, first off, we’re at school. And everyone there thinks I’m just . . . when you don’t talk much, people make up this version of you that exists in their head. And it’s especially worse when you’re the only Indian kid in school. Like, I was just walking to class the other day and some kid asked me if I could look at his phone and tell him if he had a virus. Just because I look like every tech guy he’s ever seen in a movie.”

Something about his words comforts and frustrates me at the same time. I very much know what it means for people to create expectations of you based on appearance, but at the same time, I fit in here in a way that Malik doesn’t. I’m white. So as he slows to a stop at the red light before leaving Clover City, I don’t ask where we’re going. I only say, “I’m so sorry you have to deal with that.” Comparing my situation to his doesn’t really do much, but I want him to know that he’s not alone. “People have certain ideas of me too.”

He turns toward me, and our gaze locks in unspoken understanding. I hold my breath, scared that the slightest sound will cause this moment to dissolve.

“Anyway,” he finally says as the light turns green, “I’ve just never been good at showing people the real me. Sometimes it’s just easier to let them believe in the version of me they’ve built in their heads.” He clears his throat. “You want to listen to some music for a little while?”

I nod. “Yeah, that’d be nice.”

He reaches for a mix CD that’s been written across in black Sharpie and says COUNTRY MUSIC THAT DOESN’T SUCK.

He holds up the CD. “No plug-ins for my phone in the car, so I gotta make my own mixes.”

“You listen to country?” I ask, not doing a very good job of masking my surprise.

“Only the kind that doesn’t suck,” he responds with the hint of a grin.

Everyone in the world probably thinks it’s some kind of requirement to love country music if you live in Texas, but to be honest, I only started giving Dolly Parton a try after getting to know Willowdean. I’m more likely to turn on a movie or a TED Talk for background noise, but sometimes the only thing that can put me to sleep is Dolly’s Blue Smoke.

But Malik’s taste in country is a little folksy and more updated. They’re the kind of songs that you magically know the words to before the whole thing is even finished. And soon enough I’m singing along to an Old Crow Medicine Show song. At least that’s what Malik tells me.

He looks to me and grins.

My cheeks burn as we turn into the only gas station we’ve seen since leaving town.

All the lights seem to flicker like the electricity is being pumped out like gasoline. The sign above the convenience store reads QUICKIESHOP, but Malik circles around to the back, where I expect to find a grimy back door and a pair of Dumpsters, but instead there is a diner called the Bee’s Knees. The bricks are painted in black-and-yellow stripes and the huge window stretching from one side of the diner to the other covers the back parking lot in a warm honey glow.

“I’ve never even heard of this place,” I tell Malik.

He turns off the music and unbuckles his seat belt. “Most people haven’t. That’s the best part.”

I follow him inside, and the older woman behind the counter with a name tag that reads LUPE says, “Hey, hon, your usual spot is open.”

Malik leads me to the booth farthest from the front door and asks, “Is this okay?”

I eye the tiny booth and hope I can suck it in enough to make it work. I nod.

Malik sits down and immediately pulls the table closer toward him to give me a little more space. “Thanks,” I tell him.

I can’t even bring myself to make eye contact with him. Not because I’m embarrassed, but because for once it’s nice to not be the only person in the room who is aware of the space my body takes up. To me, the gesture is so sweet that I feel a lump in my throat forming.

“Of course,” he says.

Love is in the details.

“How’d you find this place?” I ask.

He reaches behind the mini jukebox and hands me a menu. “Priya. My older sister. This used to be her hangout. Everything in Clover City shuts down by ten or eleven, so the only twenty-four-hour diners we have are crawling with people from school. But this place is a little out of the way.”

“I’m never really out that late, but that makes sense.”

“My parents aren’t what you would call strict,” he says. “My sister and her friends would study here all night. When I was a freshman and she was a senior, she started bringing me with her. Plus this is one of the few places still open when I get out of work on Fridays and Saturdays.”

Malik works at our only movie theater, the Lone Star Four, and it’s like this whole facet of him that I don’t even know. “When did you start working at the theater?” I ask.

“Last spring. If Priya was going to leave me her car, I had to find a way to pay for gas. I love it there, but late-night weekend shows put me home so late I’m already jonesing for breakfast.”

“Must be nice not to have strict parents. My mom is beyond strict. She would never let me have a job where I work that late.”

He shrugs. “It’s sort of weird. With my aunties and uncles . . . they’re in their kids’ business all the time. Priya says they’re like ingrown hairs.”

I laugh. “That’s an interesting way of putting it. What makes your parents different?”

“Well . . .”

“I’ll be over in a sec!” shouts Lupe from across the diner.

“Thanks,” calls Malik before turning back to me. “I mean, it’s not that weird for my family or for Hindu culture, really. Especially with the older generations.” He pauses for a moment. “My parents had an arranged marriage.”

That is definitely not what I expected to hear. I smile maybe too widely. “Wow!”

“But they love each other. They really do.”

I lean in a little. “You don’t have to convince me.”

“I know,” he says, “but it’s sort of crazy, because sometimes I feel like they were meant to be. Like, they were specifically built for each other.”

“Must be nice,” I say. “So does that mean you’ll . . . get married that way, too?”