“No, I wasn’t,” I say vehemently, the fire in my voice matching the fire in my face.

“Wow, you’re blushing. Were you thinking about kissing me?” His voice is teasing on the surface, but rough underneath, jagged edges and disbelief. It’s a terrible question. It has me considering forgetting architecture and going into public service in order to draft legislation illegalizing direct questions about kissing fantasies.

“Of course not,” I get out.

Fitz’s grin dances irresistibly—no, infuriatingly. “You are not a competent liar,” he remarks. I scowl, and he continues. “Do I need to remind you that kissing me wouldn’t exactly fit into your platonic plans for us?”

“Please,” I shoot back, “you’ve been staring at my lips since we met. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Yes, it does,” he replies instantly. “It means I think about kissing you often.”

I have no response to the confession, which sounded nothing like a confession given his impossible straightforwardness. I’m stunned. Not only by his nonchalance, which is honestly in violation of the laws of nature—but by the irrepressible, boundless excitement I feel when I replay his statement over in my mind.

Which I do. Three times.

I reach for words, knowing I’m leaving his comment to expand in the emptiness between us. But I don’t find them. I don’t think I remember what words are. So I don’t use words. When the traffic ahead grinds to a halt, I stop behind the car in front of me.

I glance at Fitz. But his eyes catch mine, and then it’s not a glance. It’s eye contact. It’s instantaneous, irreversible. It’s our gazes locked together like lips and arms and bodies. This time, I let the fantasy play out. I imagine kissing him. I have a feeling he would be a very deliberate kisser. His mouth pressing precisely to mine, every brush of lips the exact right word in sentences upon sentences of touch. Limerence. The word leaps into my head, which is the moment I know I’m done for.

I don’t know what I’ll do in the next second. Whether I’ll kiss him for real or turn back to the road, leaving the fantasy in my rearview mirror.

My phone rings over the car stereo, deciding for me. It’s connected via Bluetooth, and the ringtone is deafening in the quiet of the car. I tear my eyes from Fitz, a tremor prickling down my shoulders. And in that moment, with the opportunity flown out the window, I know what I would have done.

I totally would have kissed him.

   Juniper

I HIT ANSWER on the stereo display. It’s my dad, and I’m immediately happy to hear his voice. We text every morning, but we haven’t talked on the phone in two days. The wry tenor of his voice fills the car.

“How’s the trip? What did you see today?” he asks quickly. I have a feeling he wants to vicariously tour New York.

I hold a finger to my lips, motioning to Fitz to stay quiet. None of my family knows this random boy has joined my road trip. “It’s great,” I reply. “We did NYU and Columbia, and New York was incredible. I went to all my favorite buildings in the city.”

“Rockefeller Center, right? You say hi to Marisa’s ex-fiancé?”

I laugh. Fitz’s eyebrows wrinkle in confusion. I make a mental note to explain the Prometheus story to him later. “Of course,” I say.

He pauses for a moment. “And how’s Matt?”

I falter, knowing I should have anticipated the question. Fitz watches me warily, undoubtedly putting together I haven’t told my dad about the breakup. I haven’t even told my parents I’m changing my itinerary or extending my trip. I know I have to eventually. I’m just used to hearing no so often, I usually ask them for forgiveness, not permission.

“Matt’s, um, good,” I say, hearing the high strain in my voice. Fitz might not have been completely off when he told me I’m not a competent liar.

“Can I talk to him?”

I’m really glad this isn’t FaceTime and he can’t see every ounce of color drain from my face. “You . . . want to talk to him?” I repeat. My dad and Matt aren’t exactly chatting-on-the-phone friends.

“Yeah,” he says. “I watched a movie last night I think he’d like. Can you put him on?”

“Um.” I’m a deer in the headlights unable to avoid the speeding car that is this interrogation.

“Um?” Dad’s tone revs, and I brace for the collision. “Um, like he’s in the bathroom and can’t come to the phone right now?”

“Uh.” I don’t have it in me to lie to my father. Not even now, when I really, really want to.

“Or um, like you can’t because I saw him today in Springfield, Massachusetts?”

I swear under my breath. I should’ve known this would happen. I live within six blocks of Matt. We go to the same grocery store, he orders Chinese takeout from the same place Marisa does, and he walks his dog in the park where Callie has soccer. The chance of him encountering one member or other of my enormous gossipy family before I came home verged on the upper end of 99 percent. I guess I should be grateful my dad was the one who saw him.

“What happened?” he asks.

“We broke up, Dad,” I say, nearly whispering. It’s hard to admit to my dad in a way it wasn’t to Fitz. I’m in a new world with Fitz, and telling my dad brings the breakup into my old world, into the life I was living and the life to which I’ll return. The family movie nights Matt won’t come to, the birthday dinners in the restaurant where we won’t share a fried ice cream.

“I’m sorry, honey,” he says softly. All the anger is gone from his voice. “I know how much he meant to you.”

Fitz shifts uncomfortably in his seat, and I suddenly wish he weren’t overhearing this. “Yeah,” I say, choking the word out awkwardly.

“Maybe you should come home,” Dad suggests. “We could go ice-skating in the park. Remember how we used to do that when you were little?”

I do remember. We would go every Friday when we first moved to Springfield. I remember thinking the park rink was so small compared to the one in Rockefeller Center. “How about next week? I want to finish my trip.”

“On your own?” He sounds skeptical. “That wasn’t the agreement. I don’t want you driving hundreds of miles by yourself.”

“But I can’t come home,” I protest. I flip my turn signal sharply and merge into the left lane, the traffic finally clearing up. “I’m not done yet. And—” I ready myself for the plunge, knowing I can’t put it off any longer. “I want to extend my trip a few days. I don’t have to be home for Shanna’s birthday now, and there’s more I want to do. I’ll use my own money for the extra nights—”