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another thing I like about New York City. You can walk everywhere.‖

    Amy arrives a few seconds later. I feign nonchalance in telling Wes I‘ll be on IM tomorrow night. He grins and says I should drop by their first meet next week to root for the team.

    ―Yeah.‖ I smile back. ―I‘ll be there.‖

    ―Cool. The strawberries were wicked dee-lish, by the way.‖

    ―I‘m glad.‖ I smile wider.

    ―And I guess I won’t be seeing you at practice Wednesday, expatriate,‖ Wes pesters Amy as they switch places.

    ―You can count on it, Gersh…. Hey, Dom, you didn‘t turn on the heat!‖

    Wes says, ―Oh, sorry.‖ He holds out his hand. ―Dom didn‘t get the chance. I have the keys.‖

    Amy starts putting me through the third degree before we even turn the corner. After recounting everything I remember, I end with, ―Sitting next to him just now was so—‖ I can‘t think of the right word. ―Ames, I don‘t know how this is happening so quickly, but I think I could really, really like him.‖

    ―Wow.‖ Amy turns to me, her eyes solicitous. ―Even though things were kind of awkward tonight?‖

    ―Yeah, I just know there‘s chemistry there…. I also kind of like that Wes is on the quiet side. It probably means he‘s deep.‖

    ―Well, this is all uncharted territory for me. I don‘t think I‘ve met a guy yet I liked that much, as more than just a hookup.‖

    ―It‘s kind of nice.‖ I pause and look out the window. Just a few minutes into a new year and already so much possibility. ―A little frustrating, but nice.‖

    7

    Subject: Food!

    Date: Wednesday, January 16, 12:14 a.m.

    Hey Dom,

    This Sunday my parents are having the trackies over to our place. We‘re probably gonna order up Chinese and watch some of the James Bond marathon on Spike TV. It‘d be great if you could come too. Even though she jilted the team, feel free to invite Braff so there‘ll be someone else there you‘ll know.—Wes

    If you can believe it, this is the fifteenth e-mail Wes has sent me since New Year‘s! It‘s also the shortest. He usually writes upward of eight to ten paragraphs, and the subjects run the gamut from Family Guy (his favorite TV show) to how the only thing he hates about being vegetarian is the nasty protein shakes his coach makes him drink. Even though the tone of what he writes is still platonic, I‘ve convinced myself that flirtation is better measured by quantity than quality.

    Wes and I have been sticking to e-mailing because we haven‘t been able to find common time to IM like we did before New Year‘s—track practice keeps Wes from getting home until eight or nine some nights, and I have to go to bed super early to make seven a.m. Science Quiz practice. I don‘t mind, though. There‘s something special about corresponding with lengthy e-mails the way people used to with snail mail.

    On Sunday I arrive at Wes‘s fifty minutes late and in a bad mood because Grandma was particularly unpleasant during brunch this morning, my bike is in the repair shop, and Mom, who promised to drive me, was held up at an emergency faculty meeting. On top of everything, Dad was rummaging through our fridge this afternoon for a beer and accidentally toppled the tray of chocolate-dipped strawberries I made especially for tonight.

    When I ring Wes‘s doorbell, a tall blond lady in a pink sweatsuit answers.

    ―Oh, look at that red hair! You must be Dominique! I‘m Wesley‘s mom.‖ She takes my hand in both of hers. ―Wesley has said wonderful things about you.‖

    ―Oh…that‘s nice of him,‖ I say, honestly a little shocked. Talking to his mom about me has got to be a good sign. It‘s funny—his mom, with her big hair and pastel clothes, is so old-school Florida Fabulous while Wes is so understated. But I can see where Wes gets his sharp nose and cleft chin from.

    Mrs. Gershwin leads me to the den, where Mr. Gershwin is hunched over some papers at his desk. He‘s also wearing a