But that’s exactly what happened to it: nothing. As far as Graham knew, it was still sitting down there in the cobwebby basement, and what he had always accepted as practical now struck him as a colossal waste.
By the time he reached the hill that sloped down to meet Ellie’s driveway, he was half jogging. The lights were on in the kitchen, and he forced himself to slow down as he reached the steps, taking a deep breath. At the door, he raised a hand, but found he couldn’t knock.
He paced from one end of the porch to the other, then back again, not quite sure what was wrong with him. Suddenly, he felt paralyzed. He paused in front of the doorbell, then turned away, slumping onto the wooden swing, where he sat with his elbows on his knees, his face in his hands. What was wrong with him? He’d never been this unsure of himself when it came to a girl, not even in his old life.
He was still sitting there like that—hunched and miserable, unable to bring himself to knock—when he heard footsteps from inside, and his stomach churned. But when the door cracked open, it was Ellie’s mom who stepped outside. She raised her eyebrows, but said nothing, and Graham rose from the swing.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” he said. “I was just about to knock.”
One side of her mouth inched up into the beginning of a smile, a look he’d seen echoed on her daughter’s face. “That’s what I thought about ten minutes ago,” she said. “I figured I might as well kick-start the process.”
He cleared his throat. “Is Ellie home?”
“Yes,” she said. “But it’s late.”
Graham knew this was his cue to leave, and he felt a flash of annoyance. He straightened his shoulders, digging in. He refused to walk away. Not yet. “Would it be possible to see her for just a minute?”
“I don’t think so,” she said, and he was surprised to see a look of genuine pity cross her face. It took him a moment to understand what it meant, that look, to feel the full impact of it square across his chest.
It wasn’t Mrs. O’Neill that was blocking his way. And it wasn’t her who was saying no.
It was Ellie.
The realization threw him into a stupefied silence, and he found himself completely unable to ask the next logical question: Why not? or What happened? or, worst of all, What did I do wrong? Instead, he simply directed his gaze to the uneven boards of the porch.
“It’s just not a great night,” Mrs. O’Neill said, putting a hand on his shoulder.
The next question came easily, though he suspected that the answer to this, too, would probably be unwelcome. “How about tomorrow?”
She hesitated, opening and then closing her mouth. After a moment, she gave her head a little shake. “Good night, Graham,” she said, and then she stepped back into the house, leaving him alone on the porch.
From somewhere inside, Bagel let out a bark at the sound of the door. As he backed off the steps, Graham looked up. There was only one lit window on the second floor, and in the wedge of visible space, he could see a bookshelf. For a moment, he let himself imagine it—Ellie curled up on her bed, the dog at her side—and the thought seemed to crack at something inside him.
He’d read the scripts. He knew how the story was supposed to go. Boy meets girl. Girl likes boy. Boy kisses girl.
And then? The possibilities were endless. But the one thing Graham knew was that it wasn’t supposed to involve this: standing alone on the wrong side of a door with absolutely no idea what had happened.
He’d thought this was the start of something. But clearly she’d changed her mind, and he felt stunned by how quickly the whole thing had unraveled, the end coming before the beginning really even had a chance to begin. His poor telescope heart—that fragile, precious thing—would have probably been better left in the box.
Part II
SAVED DRAFTS
From: [email protected]
Saved: Thursday, June 13 2013 11:27 PM
Subject: (no subject)
Dear Graham,
I’m really sorry.
From: [email protected]
Saved: Sunday, June 16 2013 3:02 PM
Subject: (no subject)
Dear Graham,
From: [email protected]
Saved: Sunday, June 16 2013 3:05 PM
Subject: (no subject)
Quinn,
I’m so sorry. I wish I could explain.
From: [email protected]
Saved: Tuesday, June 18 2013 5:15 PM
Subject: (no subject)
G—
From: [email protected]
Saved: Wednesday, June 19 2013 8:07 AM
Subject: (no subject)
Q—can we please talk?
From: [email protected]
Saved: Thursday, June 20 2013 9:29 PM
Subject: (no subject)
Dear Ms. Bodine,
I wanted to let you know that I will no longer be able to attend the poetry course in August. Unfortunately, I don’t have the funds necessary to
From: [email protected]
Saved: Thursday, June 20 2013 9:38 PM
Subject: (no subject)
From: [email protected]
Saved: Friday, June 21, 2013 7:18 PM
Subject: (no subject)
Hey Graham,
From: [email protected]
Saved: Sunday, June 23, 2013 10:10 AM
Subject: (no subject)
Dear Ms. Bodine,
I’m so sorry that I won’t be able to come to Harvard for the poetry course after all. Unfortunately, my plans have changed, and my parents and I will be on a family vacation then.
From: [email protected]
Saved: Monday, June 24, 2013 4:51 PM
Subject: (no subject)