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

“We’re not bf-gf,” I say flatly.

Noah’s face lights up. “Has anyone ever told you about your initials?”

“I know my initials.”

“Kate Eliza Garfield,” he says. “Keg!”

“Very exciting.”

“But,” he says, leaning so close our arms are touching. “The ironic thing is, you don’t drink. That’s what’s ironic. And iconic.”

I just look at him, shaking my head slightly. I should be so annoyed right now. I mean, Noah’s being objectively annoying. Those are just the facts. But I find him so weirdly charming, it’s almost infuriating.

“I’m not really that drunk, Kate. Katypie. Hey, why do people keep calling you Katypie?” He turns toward me, wide-eyed. “Is it because you like pie?”

“Do you actually want to know?”

“Yes!” He turns to face me head-on, his face gleaming in the lamplight. We’re almost home, just a few houses away from our cul-de-sac.

“Okay, well. My mom’s name is—”

“Maggie,” he says. “Maggie Garfield. She never changed her last name back, did she? Why not? Is that weird of me to ask? Garfield’s a good name, though. It reminds me of the cat.”

“It reminds everyone of the cat. Do you want to hear this or not?”

“Yes! Yes, I’m ready.” He frowns solemnly. “Go.”

“You don’t have to make that face. It’s not a sad story.”

He beams. “It’s a happy story?”

“It’s not even a story. It’s just that people used to call my mom Magpie, so I made everyone call me Katypie. I was like five.”

“So it’s a cute story.”

“If you say so.”

“I say so.” He smiles down at me. And then before I can entirely process what’s happening, he reaches forward with his right hand, trailing his fingertips along my cheekbone.

Like a Disney movie. Like Rapunzel.

His fingertips fall still, and he stares at me, smile faltering. It’s wild. He doesn’t look like Drunk Noah the fuckboy. He looks like an earnest-eyed geek with his heart on his sleeve.

“Hey, Kate?” he says softly, and my cheek burns hot beneath his fingers. I open my mouth to reply, but I think my lungs have stopped working.

He smiles slightly. “I’m really glad we’re friends again.”

Friends. He’s standing here cupping my cheek, but we’re friends. Then again, friend was his word to describe Madison Reynolds, and that was definitely more than fingertips on cheekbones. So maybe that’s just how Noah operates. Maybe it’s how f-boys operate in general. A little bit of eyegasm and some calculated face touching, and suddenly you’re expressing your friendship all over Sean Sanders’s refrigerator.

I take a step back, and Noah’s face falls. He pulls his hand back, letting it drop to his side.

“Sorry.” He swallows. “Kate—”

“You’re good. We’re good.” For a minute, I just stand there with my arms crossed while my heart dials slowly back down to normal.

“Kate. I’m so sorry.”

My mind’s spinning. He’s got this wide-open, purely smitten, totally un-Noah look on his face. But who am I to say he’s smitten? It’s not like you can actually know how a person’s feeling just from their face. Because for one thing, they could always be acting. And acting itself is kind of bullshit. It all comes back to the idea that certain gestures show certain feelings. Ms. Zhao’s always saying how the emotion of the scene should be readily apparent, even without dialogue. But it’s all a fucking joke. It’s a bunch of stupid associations we make because we’ve always made them, and because everyone else makes them.

I mean, just the idea that you could read on someone’s face that they’re in love with you? That’s ridiculous. In real life, we’re a bunch of fucking messes who have no idea what our own faces are telegraphing, much less anyone else’s. I could stand here right now and convince myself Noah’s in love with me. And then, watch, he’ll turn around and announce he’s been dating Madison for a month.

Not to mention—

“And what about Mira?” I blurt.

Noah’s brow furrows. “Mira? What do you mean?”

“You want to be friends again? Why’d you bring me to Mira’s house, Noah?”

“Kate, seriously. I wasn’t thinking—”

“And then you tried to pressure me to sing in front of her? After what she did?”

He looks down at his feet, before meeting my eyes again. “You mean the variety show thing?”

“The variety show thing.” I laugh flatly. “You mean, when she posted a video to mock me? And then took screenshots and made a whole new account just to mock me even more?”

“Kate. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking—”

“Whatever. It was a long time ago.” My throat goes tight, and I start walking again, quickly. I feel—God. I feel so stupid already.

He rushes to catch up. “Wait—”

“Forget I said anything.”

“It’s not fine.” He rakes his hand through his hair. “Kate, I swear. I swear to God, I wasn’t—”

“Just stop! Okay?” I try to swallow, and it hurts. “I get it. You were just drunk and trying to be funny.”

“Kate—”

“Can we just stop talking? Please?”

He snaps his mouth shut and nods.

And all the rest of the way home, there’s this silence, hanging like a force field between us. Noah lingers for a moment when we reach my door, and it strikes me all over again how uncertain he looks. He’s half hugging himself, right arm crossing his body to his shoulder.

“So I guess I’ll see you at rehearsal tomorrow?” He glances down at me nervously. “Sorry I made things weird—”

“No, I’m—”

“Seriously, I’m so fucking sorry.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.” He bites his lip. “I’m . . . gonna go.” He takes a few steps back, toward the cul-de-sac.

A part of me wants to watch him go, just to fully absorb this weirdly off-brand, off-his-game version of Noah. But even more than that, I want to lock myself in my room and forget this whole week ever happened.

Scene 65

By the time I wander downstairs in my sweatpants, Dad’s already camped out at the kitchen table, sipping coffee and reading his iPad. “Hiya, Peapod. How was the party?”

“Fine,” I say. “Ish.”

“Fine-ish?” Dad says.

“Yup.”

“Well, your brother got in late,” Dad adds, obviously grasping around to keep the conversational ball in the air. He