"Hello?" It's so quiet on the other end of the phone that I have to pull my phone away from my ear to make sure Andrea didn't accidentally hang up. Silence is not what I anticipated when I asked about any paparazzi pictures taken at the wine bar last night. In fact, I was prepared for the opposite: a stern lecture about my mishap, a discussion about how August is now all over the media as my supposed "secret boyfriend", maybe even a cackle. "Andrea?"

"Well, there are, um..." Her voice is pitched two octaves too high, and for once, she seems at a loss for words. Andrea always has something to say, usually with a list of twenty things to discuss at any given time. "There are, uh... memes."

"Memes?" I question, turning onto August's street. I parked my car at Marty's Lobster Shop and I'm walking over as usual, passing Mrs. Harris's house. She's outside, watering the geraniums hanging on her porch. I give her a small wave, but she just glares in response. "What do you mean by memes?"

"Well, maybe more of a gif." Andrea clears her throat. "It looks like you're, um, giving him a... you know what? It's not that bad. I'll handle it, just don't go on online."

"Don't go online?" I stop in my tracks, right between Mrs. Harris's house and August's, the PetSmart bag in the crook of my elbow swinging back and forth. Because, yes, I'm determined to convince August to keep the kitten that's been hanging around his house. Or at least hide it in his house before he realizes it.

"I'll take care of it, don't worry," she says. "I'll make sure it gets deleted."

"From the internet?" I deadpan.

She tries to stifle a laugh. "Okay, maybe I can't delete it, but it will blow over."

"Andrea, you've never once told me 'it will blow over.'"

"You're right, you're right. You might just be trending for a little bit... or the rest of time," she teases. I roll my eyes. "Okay, but seriously though, tell me how the rest of the practice date went?"

"It was okay, I guess." If by okay, meant I completely embarrassed myself, then yes. After deciding to leave the bar, we walked out with no less than twenty people staring, with August following closely behind, probably trying to hide the wet patch on his pants. Thank God they were dark jeans.

As soon as I stepped outside, a small crowd of fans had gathered, wanting pictures and, of course, I stopped to take some with them. A few minutes later, August gave me a bashful smile, his forehead lightly brushing against my temple as he whispered in my ear that he was going to head home to clean up. We haven't talked since, and honestly, I've been okay with that, considering I've been hiding under a rock since.

"I, um, also may have told him he was... hot."

"Oh?" Her voice perks up.

"Objectively hot in a..." I cringe, bringing a hand to my forehead. "...detached kind of way."

"Oh." Her voice drops.

"And when he tried to put his hand on my knee I freaked out, stood up too fast, and spilled wine all over his jeans."

"Oh, Mace."

"Then I— then I tried to help clean up his area."

"You tried to help clean up his... crotch?"

"Yes," I groan.

There's a long pause on her end, and I check my phone again to make sure I haven't lost her. "Andrea?"

"Was he—"she sucks in a sharp breath"—did you feel it?"

"Feel it?" I repeat, and then quickly realize what she's implying. I whisper-yell into the phone, "What? No! I didn't feel it."

Andrea breathes out a heavy laugh into the phone. "Are you sure? I mean, Mace, you were groping him."

"I—" August's words, fuck, Maisie, echo in my mind, making me flush all over again. I shake my head, trying to brush the thoughts away. "What has gotten into you today?"

"Sorry, I know." She clears her throat, her tone shifting back to her usual professional self. "Okay, so you helped him clean up his... area."

"Mmhmm." I rub the center of my chest, turning to glance across the street at the mailman sliding letters into the mail slot of the house opposite August's.

"And you were getting up to what? To run?"

"No, I was getting up to call you. To tell you this isn't going to work. To beg for help. SOS. Save this ship because it's sailing straight towards embarrassment land."

She snickers quietly to herself. "And what did August do?"

"He was perfect, as always..." I say, awkwardly waving at the mailman walking to the next house. He's probably wondering why it looks like I'm loitering on the sidewalk. With my tan oversized hoodie pulled over my head, I probably look homeless. "Maybe a little confused, though."

"Maisie, I know I'm your manager, but I'd like to think we're friends too, right?"

"Yes, of course, you're my friend. I'm not sure what I'd do without you."

"Can I ask you then to consider August's perspective for a moment? He barely touched you, and you almost bolted, leaving a Maisie-shaped hole in the door. From his point of view, it probably looked like you hated every second of it. This is your best friend; it shouldn't be this difficult. You're in love with him, for heaven's sake. Embrace it."

"Shit your right."

"I know I am. Now please, go practice making out or, you know, accidentally fall into his bed. Practice there. That might help the nerves."

"Andrea—"

"Hey." I hear August's voice and spin around to see him walking towards me, wearing his—sweet Jesus— Red Sox hat backward. I have to close my eyes briefly to pull myself together. It should be illegal for August to wear a baseball hat backward because, for all intents and purposes, I am a backward hat kind of gal.

"Oh, hi," I say, opening my eyes and placing a hand over my chest. "You scared me."

"Oh, hi who?" Andrea asks in my ear. "Where are you?"

"I'm at August's," I tell her, pulling my hood off my head.

"Oh, perfect." She pauses for a second. "So, is Ryan with you then?"

"What? No," I say, stepping closer and taking inventory of August's outfit. He's in his favorite heather gray Boston University sweatshirt, the one that's frayed at the collar from years of wear. He's paired it with dark gray sweat shorts and white running shoes. My eyes linger on his muscular calves, toned from... I don't even know what. He just always looks so toned everywhere. "He doesn't come with me when I come here. He says there's no security threat. I have to go, Andrea."

I hang up my phone, slip it into my bag, and look up at him as he removes one of his AirPods, saying, "I wasn't expecting you today."

"Oh, yeah. Sorry, I meant to text you. Some things got canceled and there was paparazzi outside my apartment so I thought I'd just come over. I'm driving back tonight though."

The paparazzi finally figured out where I'm staying, and I didn't feel like dealing with them, so I drove here out of reflex. And, well, because August's house—it's everything. I don't know if it's the salty air of the Atlantic or the gray cedar shingles and quaint shops just a street over, but Green Harbor—his home—feels ingrained in me down to my cells. I love it here. The whale-shaped "whalecome" doormat I got him when he first moved in, the olive green cabinets that seem to have been repainted a thousand times, the wide, weathered hardwood floors that creak with every step, and the ugly pinstripe couch he's had forever that somehow fits the space perfectly.

Just being here feels like taking a deep breath. I'm at home when I'm here. If it wasn't weird, I'd move in and set up camp. It's one of the reasons I haven't bought a house of my own—nothing compares to his.

August nods, quickly scanning me from head to toe. His eyes settle on the PetSmart bag hanging from my elbow, and he points toward it. "What's that?"

"What? Nothing." I quickly hide it behind my back and, changing the subject, point to his AirPod in his ear. "What are you listening to?"

"What? Nothing," he echoes unintentionally. His brows furrow, his eyes darting away from me—to the house across the street, to the bag on my arm, to the mailbox in front of his house—before returning to me.

We stare at each other for a moment, and then I tilt my head, smiling. "August, what are you listening to?"

"I was just about to mow the lawn, and... it's nothing, just the first thing that came up on my Spotify," he says looking down at the AirPod in his hands as the tips of his ears tingling pink.

"Tell me," I insist, stepping closer. He shakes his head. "It's not Sabrina Carpenter, is it? That would make you like a traitor, you know?"

"Who?"

I furrow my brows and rear back slightly, unsure if he's genuinely clueless about Sabrina Carpenter—who, by the way, is very nice in person—or if he's just teasing me.

I extend my hand, opening and closing it as I demand, "Hand it over."

He looks like he's contemplating whether or not to challenge me, but then he lets out a resigned sigh and places one of the AirPods in the palm of my hand. I slip it into my ear, and... it's my song. The one that says only you on my mind. I glance up at him, our eyes locking and I feel flushed all the way down to my toes.

"Is that weird?" he asks, sheepish.

Is it weird that he's listening to the song I wrote about how he's the only person who ever occupies my thoughts, and how I imagine I'm the sole focus of his mind? No. Maybe... Okay, yes. It's weird. But because it's like a secret that he doesn't even realize and I'm singing it right into his ear.

I shake my head and then hand him back the AirPod. "That's actually my favorite song on the album."

He nods slowly, looking down at the AirPod in his hand as if he's processing my song that's still playing in his other ear. I stand there, nervously staring, feeling like he's suddenly piecing the lyrics together.

"I'm going to go inside," I blurt out abruptly, my voice louder than intended.

"Oh wait," he says, removing the other AirPod and slipping them both into his pocket, his hands settling on his hips. "So, um, I'm actually glad you're here because I've been thinking since last night that maybe we should just get it over with."

"Get it over with," I echo, puzzled. "Get what over with?"

"The kiss."

"The... kiss?"

"Yeah, I think we should kiss. Get the hard part out of the way."

My heart stops. He said it so casually like it's no big deal. Just a friend kissing a friend. As if his lips on mine wouldn't be monumental for me.

"You think we should kiss?" I manage to croak.

"Yes. Couples kiss," he continues. "And if we're going to sell this," he gestures between us, "we're going to have to kiss in public at some point. Probably at the Red Sox game on Friday."

"Right." I nod, trying to stay calm.

"Look." He clears his throat. "I know I'm not your ideal choice. We're friends, and crossing that line might be awkward for you, or maybe you're even... I don't know, maybe you're put off by me. But I think we should just get it over with."

Is that what he thinks? That I'm put off by him?

Guilt washes over me like an unexpected rain shower on a sunny day. Andrea was right. I never considered how my reaction might seem to him. I've been so worried about making sure he doesn't find out about my feelings towards him that I didn't even think about his. And now he thinks I'm put off by him.

"August, God, no. I'm sorry. That's not how I feel at all..." In fact, it's quite the opposite. Most days, I want to climb you like a tree, wrap my arms around your middle, and never let go. "It's just that—"

"You don't need to explain."

"No, I feel like I do. Because I'm not put off by you. You're... well, you're my best friend... And I just don't want to ruin that."

"Best friend," he mumbles to himself, nodding as he folds his arms over his chest.

"And you very much are..." How do I say this without confessing I think he's the hottest man I've ever laid eyes on and that I'm desperately in love with him? I settle on, "pretty."

"Pretty," he smirks at that, then corrects me, "Objectively."

I close my eyes, regretting for the millionth time the words that left my mouth yesterday evening. He's never going to let that one go. Reluctantly, I concede, not wanting to argue, and murmur, "Objectively pretty."

"Well, I think you're pretty too, so this shouldn't be too hard," he says, letting his arms fall to his sides and taking two steps closer. He reaches to take off his hat, and oh. You'd think he'd have hat hair under there, but no, it's just his beautiful, thick wavy brown hair that I want to drown myself in.

"Oh, you want to do this right here?" I gesture to the ground as he takes my bag from me and sets it down beside his hat on the grass. "Right now? In front of your house? In your yard? With the mailman across the street?"

"Would you like me to go inside and light a candle?"

"No, I—"

"I can set them up in a heart shape on the floor if you want."

"No, it's—"

"Put rose petals on the floor."

I shoot him a glare. "No... Fine, let's just do it. I mean, kiss. Let's kiss." I clear my throat and adjust my shoulders nervously.

"Okay, good," he says, stepping forward until he's so close that I have to tip my head up to look at him.

I feel as stiff as a board, trying to recall everything Andrea and I talked about on the phone just minutes ago. I'm a mature adult; I can kiss my best friend without making this weird. I can kiss August without freaking out, without falling more in love with him than I already am, or making it seem like I'm put off by him. It'll be like ripping off a Band-Aid. Then he'll go back to being my best friend forever, and I can keep him there in that corner without ruining our perfectly platonic relationship because I can't lose him.

I feel like I should be hyping myself up, bouncing up and down at the top of the stairs like Sylvester Stallone in Rocky, as I give myself this pep talk.

"Relax," he says. Clearly, the mental talk isn't working. "It's just me."

"I am relaxed," I retort.

He tilts his head slightly, unconvinced, as he searches my face. His mouth tips up, a smooth pull of his lips. Leaning in slightly, he whispers, "We've done this before."

My heart lodges in my throat. It was so long ago, so brief, that I convinced myself it didn't actually happen. I thought he had forgotten, or worse, that he remembered and regretted it. We certainly never talk about it— that short millisecond of pure bliss before everything in my life flipped upside down.

"You remember that?" I whisper back.

"Of course, I remember."

"It wasn't really a kiss."

"It almost was."

I swallow hard, my eyes darting between his. "I'm going to kiss you now, Maisie."

"Okay," I breathe.

He leans forward, brushing his nose against mine as I tip my face up toward him. I keep my eyes open, even though it makes everything blur out of focus, his brown hair glowing at the edges of the sunlight. His bottom lip barely grazes mine, and I suck in a sharp breath at the contact.

I feel his lips curl into a small smile before he murmurs, "Do you always kiss with your eyes open?"

Heat blooms in my chest, and I shuffle closer, quickly closing my eyes because I can do this. I can kiss him. I want to kiss him.

I try to quip back, "Oh, you're one to talk. How do you know my eyes are open?" But it falls flat, my voice breathless.

He laughs quietly, and I'm aching for him now, desperate for his mouth to meet mine.

Just kiss me already, I want to yell.

He brushes his lips against mine once more before closing the distance, catching my mouth in a kiss just as his hands find my waist. His fingers gently grip and pull me flush against him.

And—oh. It's so much better than I remember. Without the haziness of the cheap alcohol and the din from the party. It feels like every tiny moment we've shared spilling free. The countless times I've almost reached for his hand while walking down the street, because it felt like a reflex. How many times I wanted to kiss him when he ate those cinnamon pancakes with bananas inside, just to see if he'd taste more like cinnamon or bananas. Every single time I've almost said I love you at the end of a phone call.

I've dreamed of this kiss for years, imagined it in countless ways. But I could never accurately envision how soft his lips would be, or how certain his kiss would feel. Like he's thought about that night at the party too.

My hand inadvertently slips to the back of his neck, fingers threading through his wavy hair, wanting to pull him closer. I want to dip my tongue inside his mouth to know what he tastes like, to hear what he'd sound like if I tugged on his hair. And it's maddening that I have to hold back, that his touch is dulled by the layers of fabric from my sweatshirt, and that I can't feel the full heat of his hands against my skin.

He tilts his head, and I drag a deep breath of him into my lungs, barely stifling a moan. Just when I think he's going to deepen the kiss, there's a sudden creak of a door followed by a loud slap.

It's so loud that we spring apart like two teenagers caught making out under bleachers.

We both turn to look at the source of the noise and see Mrs. Harris's screen door swinging shut as she heads back inside. We watch her through her window, shaking her head as she disappears from view.

"I don't think Mrs. Harris likes us very much," he comments after a few seconds. Or minutes? Hours? I don't know. What is time?

I gather my courage and turn to look at him. He's running his hands through his hair before settling them on his hips. August looks just as he did seconds before our kiss— unaffected and calm.

When he turns to me, I quickly glance back at Mrs. Harris's house. Because the last thing I am right now is unaffected and calm. My hands are shaking, my lips are tingling, and my heart is thundering. It is, quite honestly, a lot to process.

Get it together, Maisie, I tell myself.

"Well, I think that will do," he says. I'm still not looking at him. My eyes are fixed on Mrs Harris's hanging geraniums. They're a pretty peachy pink.

"Mmhmm," I murmur, clearing my throat. I roll my lips together before wetting my bottom lip with my tongue. It tastes like spearmint now. I clear my throat a second time. "Yeah, that will work."

"I'm going to, uh, mow the lawn now," he says, gesturing towards the shed with his thumb. I glance at him from the corner of my eye and watch as he takes a step backward, only to trip over his hat. He quickly snatches it from the ground and adjusts it on his head.

"Right, yeah," I murmur, bending at the waist to grab my Petsmart bag from the ground. "I'm going to do the, um... cat stuff." Because I desperately need to call Andrea and dissect that kiss, unpack it, and then quickly shove it away, hide it deep inside a dark corner of my mind, and never let it see daylight again.

"Cat stuff." He nods, opening the shed. "Great."