Love and Other Foreign Words by Erin McCahan Page A

long, luxurious moments, we soak in silence in his car. I could ride the whole way home like this. In fact, I do ride the whole way home like this, feeling some disappointment when Stefan pulls into my driveway that the soothing car trip is over.
    â€œSo,” he says as if it is a complete sentence.
    â€œI’d invite you in, but I’m so tired, I’m just going to fall asleep.”
    â€œWell, don’t before I tell you something. Or ask you something.” He thinks a second, moving his big, gold eyes up and to the right. “Or both.”
    â€œOkay,” I say, and wait.
    He inhales. Lets it out. Squirms a little. Inhales again.
    â€œIt’s—you said neither of us—it’s just that—well, what would you say if I told you I like you a lot?”
    â€œYou said that,” I say, smiling because he actually grows cuter when he’s nervous.
    â€œNo, I mean a lot,” he says very seriously. “A lot.”
    I quickly think, trying to decipher—to translate—
a lot
into a language I can understand because, at the moment, I don’t know what it means in Stefan. A lot is a lot, a great deal, very much. But why the gravity? And just when I think I begin to comprehend, he says, “Josie, I think I could fall in love with you.”
    â€œReally?” I ask, stunned. Genuinely stunned. “Why?”
    â€œWhy?” he nearly laughs.
    â€œYeah. I don’t mean why me. I mean why do you think you could? Fall in love, that is. And that would, necessarily, imply with me, so maybe I do mean why me, but more
why
than
me
.”
    â€œWell,” he says, and puffs out a laugh. “That’s part of the reason right there. I mean, the way you talk. It’s like I never know what to expect, and it’s all good. Though sometimes, you know, I have to take a minute to figure it out.”
    â€œTranslating,” I say. “I do it all the time.”
    â€œExactly. I hardly have to talk sometimes, you know. It’s like you know what to say when I don’t. You’re great. You’re fun. You’re interesting. You’re smart. And . . .” He leans in, reaches for my glasses, which makes me flinch. “. . . Sorry,” he says as he slips them off.
    â€œYou realize I can’t . . .”
    He kisses me.
    â€œÂ . . . see without them,” I say.
    â€œThen close your eyes,” he says, and kisses me again, and this time I think about the kiss, his kiss, his lips, his tongue, his teeth when ours bump, and all of it is sweet. Soft and smoother than I imagined. So soft and so smooth that it has the very opposite effect on my nervous system than it should. It doesn’t overload me. It soothes.
    Eventually, he leans just a few inches back and says, “Now would be a good time for you to tell me how you feel about me.”
    Now
would
be a good time for that,
I nearly say. It’s an excellent idea with perfect timing. He waits, eyes bright with anticipation, as I ponder this whole moment.
    â€œDo you, um, do you think you could, maybe, fall in love with me?” he asks.
    â€œCan I think about it?” I ask. “Because I actually want to get it just right.”
    I could not be more serious, and Stefan smiles his contagious smile at me and says, “Yes. I mean, if anyone else had said that, I might be upset, but you . . . See, this is why I really think I could fall in love with you.”
    And he kisses me again, which initially I like, but I admit that now I’m paying more attention to the question and its potential answer than to his lips. Which is too bad since I’m probably missing a really nice kiss.

Chapter Twelve

    I wake at 7:10 a.m. to a handful of texts resembling this one from Jen Auerbach:
    Text from Jen, 12:53 a.m.
    U R missing such a fun after-party call me when you get this unless its b4 2 pm which it will B so call me after 2
    As I scroll