By then it seemed silly to get off the phone just to avoid hearing pee hitting a toilet bowl, so I told him he could stay on the phone if he wanted. 

He did not take me up on it, then or ever, though from then on, I often peed mid–phone call. With his permission, of course.

Now I’m doing this humiliating (causing someone to feel ashamed and foolish) thing, touching the picture of his face like I can somehow feel the essence (spirit) of him that way, like it will bring him closer to me than he has been for two years. 

There’s no one to see it, and still I feel embarrassed.

Kidding! I reply. Next time I’m home, we should go get sloppy(Toconsume so much alcohol that you start heavilyslurring words) with Mrs. Lautzenheiser.

I send it without thinking, and almost immediately my mouth goes dry at the sight of the words on-screen.

Next time I’m home.

We.

Was that too far? Suggesting we should hang out(Spending time with someone)?

If it was, he doesn’t let on. He just writes back, Lautzenheiser’s sober now. She’s also Buddhist.

But now that I haven’t gotten a direct reply to the suggestion, positive or negative, I feel an intense desire to push the matter. Then I guess we’ll have to go get enlightened with her instead, I write.

Alex types for way too long, and the whole time I’m crossing my fingers, trying to forcefully will away any tension (nervous).

Oh, god.

I thought I’d been doing fine, that I’d gotten over our friend breakup, but the more we talk, the more I miss him.

My phone vibrates in my hand. Two words: Guess so.

It’s noncommittal((of a person or a person's behavior or manner) not expressing or revealing commitment to a definite opinion or course of action), but it’s something.

And now I’m on a high. From the yearbook photos, from the selfies, from the idea of Alex sitting up in bed texting me out of the blue(something happens unexpected). Maybe it’s pushing too hard or asking too much, but I can’t help myself.

For two years, I’ve wanted to ask Alex to give our friendship another shot, and I’ve been so afraid of the answer that I’ve never gotten the question out. 

But not asking hasn’t brought us back together either, and I miss him, and I miss how we were together, and I miss the Summer Trip, and finally, I know that there is one thing in my life that I still really want, and there’s only one way to find out if I can have it.

Any chance you’re free until school starts? I type out, shaking so much my teeth have started to chatter. I’m thinking about taking a trip.

I stare at the words for the span of three deep breaths, and then I hit send.

5

Eleven Summers Ago

OCCASIONALLY, I SEE Alex Nilsen around on campus, but we don’t speak again until the day after freshman year ends.

It was my roommate, Bonnie, who set the whole thing up. 

When she told me she had a friend from southern Ohio looking for someone to carpool(an arrangement between people to make a regular journey in a single vehicle, typically with each person taking turns to drive the others.) home with, it didn’t occur to me that it might be that same boy from Linfield I’d met at orientation.

Mostly because I’d managed to learn basically nothing about Bonnie in the last nine months of her stopping by the dorm to shower and change her clothes before heading back to her sister’s apartment. 

Frankly, I wasn’t sure how she even knew I was from Ohio.

I’d made friends with the other girls from my floor—ate with them, watched movies with them, went to parties with them—but Bonnie existed outside our all-freshman squad-of-necessity. 

The idea that her friend could be Alex-from-Linfield didn’t even cross my mind when she gave me his name and number to coordinate our meetup. 

But when I come downstairs to find him waiting by his station wagon at the agreed-upon time, it’s obvious from his steady, uncomfortable expression that he was expecting me.

He’s wearing the same shirt he had on the night I met him, or else he’s bought enough duplicates(the same clothes) that he can wear them interchangeably. I call out across the street, “It’s you.”

He ducks his head, flushes(his face turns red). “Yep.” Without another word, he comes toward me and takes the hampers

and one of the duffle bags from my arms, loading them into his back seat.

The first twenty-five minutes of our drive are awkward and silent. Worst of all, we barely make any progress through the crush of city traffic.

“Do you have an aux cable?” I ask,

digging through the center console.

His eyes dart toward me, his mouth shaping into a grimace. “Why?”

“Because I want to see if I can jump rope while wearing a seat belt,” I huff, restacking the packets of sanitary wipes and hand sanitizers I’ve upended in my search. “Why do you think? So we can listen to music.”

Alex’s shoulders lift, like he’s a turtle retracting into his shell. “While we’re stuck in traffic?”

“Um,” I say. “Yes?”

His shoulders hitch higher. “There’s a lot going on right now.”

“We’re barely moving,” I point out.

“I know.” He winces. “But it’s hard to focus. And there’s all the honking, and—”

“Got it. No music.” I slump back in my seat, return to staring out the window. Alex makes a self-conscious throat-clearing sound, like he wants to say something.

I turn expectantly toward him. “Yes?”

“Would you mind . . . not doing that?” He tips his chin toward my window, and I realize I’m drumming my fingers against it. I draw my hands into my lap, then catch myself tapping my feet.

“I’m not used to silence!” I say, defensive, when he looks at me.

《People We Meet on Vacation》

by Emily Henry  从朋友到恋人

只是搬运工加个人笔记。