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

Scene 49

By the time we head back to Taco Mac, Mom, Dad, and Ellen are just kind of hovering around the hostess stand. Dad hugs us and gives Ryan a card that no doubt contains money, and then he shakes Matt’s hand and says, “You don’t look like Anderson, so I’m guessing you’re Matthew.”

“Anderson’s not coming,” I inform Dad. “He flaked out.”

“Oh, that’s too bad! I had a great bank robber story to tell him.” Once in ninth grade, Anderson dutifully nodded along while Dad yammered about criminals who screwed up and got caught, so now Dad thinks Anderson’s really into incompetent criminals. He’s not.

“I’ll fill him in,” I say.

We end up at a table, not a booth, which is a good thing in this case. But I’m smack-dab between my parents, who have Ryan in their crosshairs. “So baseball’s keeping you busy, huh?”

“Neil, it’s the off-season.”

Dad laughs. “Then, Ry, I’d like to know where you’re running off to every afternoon.”

“To the gym.”

“It’s part of their training,” Mom chimes in. “Ryan and his teammates are doing a sixteen-week program. From what I’ve seen, it’s very challenging.”

“Matt, do you train as well?” Dad asks.

“Do play rehearsals count?”

“Ah, you’re a thespian,” Dad says. “So you and Kate probably spend a lot of time together.”

Matt nods.

“Now tell me, how do you balance that? Theater and baseball. I bet that gets busy.”

Mom and Ellen exchange totally unsubtle weary glances.

“Dad, Matt doesn’t do baseball. He just said that.”

“Well, he said he wasn’t training—”

“You have to train. If you do baseball, you have to train,” I say, like I know anything about sports. But Ryan just smiles wryly and nods. I smile back at him, looking quickly away. It’s funny. I always forget how extra close I feel with my brother at family dinners. Like our parents are an event we have to cringe through together.

Luckily, Dad saves the biggest cringe for after dinner, sidling up as we head out to the parking lot. He waits until everyone’s a few yards ahead before lowering his voice. “Now, are you and Matt an item?”

I freeze in my tracks. “Dad.”

“Just asking.” He tips his palms up. “Since you brought him to family dinner—”

“Okay, first of all, not a date. Second of all, definitely not a date. Third of all, his mom is literally right there.” I shake my head. “Dad, they’re staying with us. I told you that.”

“You did? Oh, that’s right, the tree.”

“Yes.”

“So you’re not officially dating? He seems like a good kid.”

“We’re not officially dating or unofficially dating or any kind of—”

“Kate! You coming?” Matt calls. He’s standing next to Mom’s car, waving me down.

I don’t even realize I’m smiling until Dad raises his eyebrows. “Not dating,” I repeat firmly.

But then again, the way I feel sliding into the back seat next to Matt, maybe my heart never got the memo.

Scene 50

Mom and Ellen head out to a movie around eight, and then a Jeep full of f-boys swings by to pick Ryan up at nine. It’s not that I’m trying to keep tabs on the household or anything. I’m just messing around with my guitar, and I happen to be on my bed, facing the window, and the blinds happen to be open.

And it just so happens I’m alone in the house now with Matt.

Except fifteen minutes later, Matt leaves, too, without even trying to talk me into coming. Maybe I shouldn’t have shot Ryan down so forcefully about that party. I mean, Matt’s taking his own car, so he’s clearly planning to stay sober. We could have been the token sober people together. I can just picture it. Matt and I, tucked onto a couch somewhere, drinking plain orange juice and taking bets on which f-boy will be the first to puke. Just a couple of wry outsiders.

Unless Matt’s not actually an outsider.

Who knows? Maybe he and Michelle McConnell are actually friends. Maybe they’re “friends” in the way Noah and that girl Madison are “friends.” I’m sure Noah will hook up again at this party, too. And maybe Matt and Noah will do that dudebro fist-bump-hug thing when they see each other. Maybe Noah will change into a crisp, preppy button-down like Matt did, and neither of them will mention the fact that they spent their whole day painting sets for the school musical.

It just bugs me. So much that I whip my phone out to whine about it to Anderson. I even type out a text, OMG guess where our boy is going right this second, except—

Something stops me from hitting send.

Maybe it’s the fact that Anderson’s been so weird about Matt staying here. It’s hard to know where his head is with it. Literally, one day he’s making gleeful declarations about sexy toothbrush encounters, and the next day, he’s sending passive-aggressive texts. He lives at your house now, remember?

I shove my phone under my pillow. I know I’m being cowardly and avoidant. But thinking about Anderson hits me in this weird, guilty place, and I need a break from that now. I just want to play guitar and sing, and I have the house to myself, so why not. I start with “On My Own” from Les Mis, because it’s the ultimate pining crush song. But it ends up reminding me too much of Anderson—go figure—so I switch to a slow, acoustic version of Abba’s “Super Trouper.” And then “Our House,” which I privately dedicate to Ryan in honor of his birthday, even though he’s generally unimpressed these days by anything involving me and guitars. It’s actually one of the first songs I taught myself, back in eighth grade.

But now I just feel odd, almost disconnected. I finally give up halfway through, my left hand still pressing the frets for an F chord.

I can’t stop thinking about Anderson.

It’s like one of those flashback montages from a movie, the way my mind cycles back through every little moment from set