Will calls me at 11 am the next morning, hungover and apologetic. "I know I was a huge jerk but please don't hang up on me."

In spite of myself, I smile. "Will?"

"No this is his evil twin Schwill. I don't know if you remember, but we were at this party last night, and I said some things." He coughs. "Bad things."

I sink back onto my bed. "Go on."

My reply seems to encourage him. "I was mean, and condescending, and possibly a little sexist—"

"Possibly?"

"Definitely sexist. And I'm absurdly sorry."

For a moment, I'm not sure how to respond. Giving in now seems too easy, like I'm a total pushover. Laila can string a grudge out for days. But I don't like being mad, especially not at Will, and I can already feel any hurt feelings I'd had being smoothed over by his apology.

So I prop my feet up on my wall and say, "I'm a little unclear here. If Schwill is the evil twin, why is he calling to apologize?"

Will's laugh over the phone sounds relieved. "You make a good point. I clearly didn't think this over. Can I change my story?"

"Nope." I hesitate. "Will, about what you said... I'm sorry I haven't been a great friend lately."

"Yeah, me too," he says softly. Then, "But hey, we have the whole summer ahead of us, so why let this one thing bring us down?"

"Hmm, that's true."

"It is true," he agrees. "And Laila and I made up, so we won't have to worry about any feuding."

I knew that already, of course. Laila had filled me in on the conversation when I woke her up at 8 am, much to her protest. She ought to be grateful I'd shown restraint. I'd been up for hours.

The gist of it was that everyone involved was sorry for all lies, avoidance maneuvers, unwelcome truth bombs and whathaveyous that occurred, and we would all go back to being friends again and pretending we didn't know that Will was in love with Laila. She didn't say the last part, but it was assumed.

Of course then she wanted every detail of my own spectacle, and since I had no desire to repeat it any more than necessary after yesterday, I made her go downstairs so I could tell her and my mom at the same time. If nothing else I could be grateful that the Fisher family made me word perfect in my story.

I told them that Israel and I had been at a party Thursday night (true), and that we'd struck up a conversation while waiting for Laila. In the abridged version Israel insisted on, there was no longtime pining, just a "previously unrealized mutual attraction". He asked if I wanted to catch a movie and I said yes. On that first date—here I had theatrically paused, trying to look shy—we had really connected. Having known each other for the better part of our lives, the relationship quickly became serious.We decided the best way to tell everyone was to show up at the wedding together, so we could get it all out of the way at once.

In reality, last Thursday I'd gotten food poisoning and spent the entire party throwing up in Lisha Malone's bathroom. But nobody at that party was sober enough to remember so I figured we were in the clear.

Now, as I talk to Will, I feel more confident about this situation than I have since Israel and I shook on it. We got through one day. Clearly nothing can be worse than what happened at the wedding, so whatever else may pop up, we'll handle it. We can do this.

"So my band is rehearsing for a gig today," Will tells me. "At 1 in Ben's parents' garage. You want to come by, hear some of our new stuff? Laila said she'd be there."

Will's band, Common Clerics, is this super artsy, folksy, indie acoustic group that has a pretty good following in Montclair. Think Bon Iver, Mumford & Sons, a little Hozier. Will writes most of the songs and Laila helps him with the lyrics sometimes, so I've taken on the role of groupie.

I'm about to tell him that sounds great when there's a knock on my door and Israel pokes his head in. Yesterday's snazzy look is gone, and he's back to cargo pants and a t-shirt with some logo that's too faded for me to read. Disappointing.

"Hey, are you here for your watch?" I say, forgetting I'm on the phone. I'd texted him this morning to let him know it was here.

"What?" Will says on the other end, clearly confused.

"Oh, sorry, I was talking to Israel." I wave him in.

"Who's that?" Israel asks, picking up his watch from my nightstand.

At the same time, Will says, "Israel's there?"

Oy vey. This is already giving me a headache.

"Uh, yeah, he's just here to get something he left in my room." I don't consider how this sounds until it's out of my mouth, and by then it's too late. Oh well.

"Who's that?" Israel repeats.

I mouth, Will.

He frowns, falling onto the bed next to me. "What does he want?"

"Sam? You still there?"

"One second Will." I cover the phone's speaker and whisper, "He just called to apologize. And the band's rehearsing later and he wants me to come see them."

Without warning, Israel snatches my phone out of my hand. I yelp and scramble after him, but he's already saying, "Hey, Will? This is Israel. Samoa's boyfriend."

Oh this cannot be good. I lunge for my phone, but he holds it out of my reach.

"Israel," I hiss. "IsraelgivememyphonerightnoworIswear—"

He fends me off with one hand as I try to climb over his shoulders, all the while talking to Will. "Yeah, she can't come today because she'll be busy. With me. But, you know, good luck with your sing along."

Then he hangs up, just as I'm wrapping myself around his torso in some weird reverse piggyback move to try and reach under his arms for my cell. Without his fighting me back, I end up effectively sitting in his lap.

He crooks one eyebrow at me. "Comfortable?"

I ignore that and grab my phone. He lets me take it back with no struggle now, disentangling himself from my improvised hold.

"Why'd you do that?" I demand, falling back away from him.

He rolls his eyes. "Samoa, the whole point of this is to be unavailable to Will."

"Yeah, well...." Crap, he's right. But I don't want to give up the high ground, so I scramble for something to be mad at him for. "That's not really going to matter when people inevitably find out that the girl in your truck on Saturday wasn't me, now is it?"

Good one, Samoa, I silently congratulate myself.

"She was an out-of-towner. Just passing through on some road trip." Israel starts putting his watch back on, fiddling with the buckle. "I was more worried about Laila calling us out, seeing as you two spend every waking moment together."

"She went on a run Saturday night." I'm distracted watching him try and fail to get the clasp shut. "I actively resist any and all forms of exercise, so we were temporarily—ah, you almost had it! Here, let me do it."

Israel willingly gives his wrist over to me, and as I turn his hand over, I'm surprised at how much bigger it is than mine. I don't think of myself as having small hands, and his aren't disproportionately large. "That's weird," I muse, fastening his watch.

"What is?" Israel wiggles his fingers. He's got a lot of calluses.

I place my palm against his, lining us up so I can see the extra inch or so he has on me. "I guess I've just never seen your hands up close." Now I'm kind of paranoid. I hold my hand up to the light, trying to gauge the size. "Do I have little hands? Am I, like, the human version of those dumb cartoon T-Rex's?"

Israel grabs my hand and turns it over in his, inspecting it very seriously. His fingers trace the lines and curves, as if measuring it. I'd mostly been joking, but his expression is so focused, it gives me goosebumps. I find myself holding my breath.

Finally he brings my hand up next to my face and appears to study the effect. "Looks fine to me." Then, before I can react, he slaps my cheek with my own hand. "Why're you hitting yourself? Why're you hitting—"

"What are you, three?" I yank my hand away, and he busts out laughing.

Grabbing the pillow next to me, I start beating him over the head with it, but he won't quit it. If anything it just makes him laugh harder. So I switch tactics and leap on top of him, pretending to smother him. After a few seconds, he beats his hand against my comforter like a pinned wrestler and I let him go, pleased with myself.

"That's what you get," I preen, smoothing down my hair.

He sits up on his elbows, still chuckling, and I realize I'm not mad at him anymore. Not just for slapping me, but for all the other stuff, too. It's uncanny how quickly he can make me like him again. Just last night I was convinced he was an insufferable jerk.

Ugh, I'm totally a pushover.

I clap in a 'let's get to it' kind of way. "So, what are we doing today?"

"We?" Israel repeats, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

"Yeah, as in, you and I, as in, you told Will that I would be with you all day?" He can't have already forgotten.

"Ah. Well, that, Samoa, is what we in the general society call a 'white lie'." He gets up fully now, stuffing his feet back into his shoes. "I, as in me, as in not you, am going to work."

"What—what am I supposed to do all day?" I splutter.

He shrugs. "Like I know. Call a girlfriend, go to the mall, whatever you normally do."

I almost groan. Do I really have to spell this out for him? "I can't be seen in public, what if word gets back to Will? And I can't have Laila come over either because she and Will are talking again and they'll figure out that you lied."

"That's really a 'you' problem."

"Israel!" I grab his sleeve pleadingly. "I can't be left alone all day, I am not comfortable enough with myself to spend more than an hour in my own company! Just let me go to work with you. I'll hang out with Max, you can pretend I'm not there—"

He's starting to back towards the door. "You can't come with. I am leaving now. Ending the conversation. Goodbye."

"But—"

He rounds the corner of my doorframe, waving a hand in a careless farewell before he disappears into the hallway.

A day of mind-numbing, soul-killing loneliness looms before me. Like a rapidly forming black hole.

Shut in at home?

No human interaction?

Not even Laila?

This is my nightmare.

"You owe me!" I yell, my last hopeless attempt at survival.

For the longest time I think he's already gone. Then, his footsteps thudding down the hallway, Israel re-appears in my doorway.

"How," he asks witheringly, "could I possibly owe you?"

I lower my eyelashes and stick my lower lip out, not enough to be a pout, but enough to make me look sad and innocent. "You were really mean to me last night. You hurt my feelings."

He's gritting his teeth. "I danced with you."

"You asked me to dance. I was doing it as a favor to you."

"A favor to—" He scrubs his hand over his face. "Okay listen. I will give you a ride. If we leave now, I can drop you off. Somewhere that is not my work."

Shoot.

"This is my final offer, Samoa," he warns.

Hmm. Stay shut inside my bedroom like a recluse, cut off from all human contact until I inevitably go mad, or force Israel to continue to interact with me against his will. 

I think it over for all of .2 seconds.

"Deal."