Kate in Waiting by Becky Albertalli (ereader with android txt) 📕

“Anastasia and Clueless,” Andy and I say in unison.

“With an honorable mention for Pride and Prejudice,” I add. “BBC version.”

“It’s technically a miniseries, so we couldn’t count it,” Anderson says. “And obviously Ella Enchanted would be right in there, but Kate’s got some baggage—”

“Okay!” I say quickly.

Matt smiles at me in the rearview. “I’ve actually seen Clueless. It was—”

“A classic?” Andy says.

Matt pauses. “I’m just going to say yes.”

“Right answer.”

Twenty minutes later, I’m settled between my two favorite boys in a giant nest of pillows. Anderson traces the lines of my palm like he does sometimes during movies, and my brain doesn’t know what to make of that. Just that tiny electric physical contact, and the fact that it’s happening in such close proximity to Matt. It almost feels like Matt and I are touching, even though we’re not. I’m so hyperaware of him—every time the movie makes him laugh, every time his arm shifts, every time he’s concentrating. When the part with the lanterns comes on, Matt just sits there, grinning into his fist. Which makes me grin, too. Because Matt’s just like Rapunzel, the way he’s leaning forward, fully absorbed.

Those paper lanterns. And the boat. And the song.

It’s my favorite part of the movie, the part I most know by heart. It’s almost unbearably romantic—and I don’t even mean the hand-holding part or the almost-kiss or the massive amounts of mutual eyegasming. It’s before that. It’s the part when Rapunzel catches that first glimpse of a lantern, and that’s it. She’s totally lost. She almost knocks the boat over, scrambling to get a better viewpoint. And for the entire first verse of the song, the screen doesn’t even cut to Flynn Rider, because she’s completely forgotten about him. It’s just Rapunzel and the lanterns. She’s standing there, clutching the prow of the boat, and at one point, she does this exhale. Like the world’s so beautiful, she can’t take it.

And then she suddenly remembers Flynn, who’s been quietly watching her the whole time. Holding back, not intruding. He’s just there for her when she’s ready. Anderson thinks it’s hilarious that my number one romantic fantasy involves me forgetting the boy exists, but to me, it just shows how safe Rapunzel feels with Flynn. Her brain doesn’t even have to remember he’s there, because some bone-deep part of her knows it. And there’s that beautifully obvious contradiction. The way being wrapped up in someone can make you more free. The wide-open safety of home.

Scene 47

Saturday feels like a dream before it even starts. There’s birthday dinner for Ryan tonight, but before that is set building, so I throw on my ringer tee and sweats and fight to achieve that perfect messy set-painting ponytail. By the time I make it down to the kitchen, Matt’s already there, eating cereal, wearing—oh my goodness—a Camp Wolf Lake T-shirt. The first shirt I ever saw him in.

“Good morning,” he says. And I just stand there, frozen to the spot, my mind reeling through the greatest hits of our hypothetical future together. Our first apartment. Drinking coffee side by side on the couch, reading the news on our phones. Matt looking sleepy and scruffy in our bed with his laptop, writing an essay. He’ll be getting his PhD in something romantic and nonlucrative like ancient Greek literature, but it’s fine, because by then I’ll be a successful actress. Not like a starlet or celebrity—just a serious working actress. And every night, I’ll play guitar by the fireplace. Basically, our lives will look just like the Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young song, “Our House,” which every single member of my family loves, even Ryan.

“Anderson’s awake.” Matt holds up his phone. “He’s walking over here now. Are we supposed to bring anything?”

“I don’t think so. Just paint clothes. I love your shirt.”

“Aww, thank you.” He smiles.

Matt drives, which means we get to park in the senior lot, which is mostly just a status symbol—and I don’t usually buy into status symbols, but the lemon-sour look on Lana Bennett’s face makes it all worth it. Anyway, there’s something so sweet about walking into set painting day with Matt and Anderson, knowing I’ll be leaving with them, too.

It’s early—just a little past eight in the morning—but lots of the tech people are already here. There are newspapers and giant half-painted sheets of foam spread out over the entire floor of the auditorium lobby. “Should we just . . .” I glance back at Matt and Andy before squatting down across from these sophomores named Suman and Bess. Now that I’m closer, I can see the foam is lined with masking tape in a brick pattern.

“Just paint them gray for now,” says Bess, handing me a paintbrush. “We’re going to add shading later.”

Andy and Matt settle right in beside me, and we fall into a comfortable rhythm. Painting sets is so soothing—I love the hum of the air conditioner and the even back and forth of my brush strokes. Someone’s playing music in the auditorium nearby, and every so often, it leaks faintly through the auditorium doors. Andy’s cross-legged, leaning carefully forward, his bright white T-shirt completely paint-free. But Matt’s bangs keep falling into his eyes, so he keeps pushing them back, and now his hair’s adorably streaked with castle-stone gray.

“Hey. You missed a spot.” Andy nudges Matt sideways. “That’s supposed to be my house. Don’t fuck it up.”

Matt swipes sideways with his paintbrush, leaving a gray streak on the back of Andy’s hand. “Oops.” His eyes are still fixed on the foam board, but he’s grinning. “Missed a spot.” He plants another streak on Andy’s wrist. “Missed another spot.”

Anderson gasps. “Matthew Olsson, don’t you dare.”

I don’t know quite what to make of it. On the one hand, this is starting to feel a little like a rom-com moment, the kind that begins with flirtatious paint slinging and ends with Andy and Matt making out in front of the dramaturgy display. But on the other hand, I can’t imagine having