Free Back When You Were Easier to Love by Wing Smith Emily

“And?”
    “Kudos on not leaving your phone number, by the way,” he goes on, like I didn’t say anything. “Very PI, very hard to trace, et cetera. You’re lucky I even bothered tracking it down. Oh, and expect a call from Mattia.”
    “So are we on?” I ask, shoving some packages of fruit snacks to fill the extra space between my clothes. “I’m very busy here, you know.”
    “I’m sure you are,” Noah says. Sometimes I’m thankful for the phone world, where I don’t have to see everybody’s body language when they talk. I can imagine Noah rolling his eyes, scoffing. But thanks to my being nowhere near him, I can just as easily imagine him looking all excited and on board.
    “I’m taking that as a yes,” I say. “So Thursday morning, pick me up at seven o’ clock.” It pains me to say it, but I have to be practical. “We have a solid ten-hour drive and we want to get there before it’s too dark. I’ll be waiting for you on my front porch.”
    “Yes, ma’am,” he says, and because I can imagine him any way I want to, I picture him saluting.

LATEST TUESDAY AFTERNOON: DETAIL #3, REVISITED
    “What phone plan on this good green earth doesn’t have call waiting?” Mattia calls exactly two-point-one seconds after I hang up with Noah. “That was him, right? What did he want?”
    “Hi, Mattia. I’m fine, thanks, how are you?”
    “Seriously, Joy. I gave Noah that note this morning. Did I open it first? No . Did I ask questions? No. I was but your humble messenger.”
    I groan and fall onto my bed. “And I thanked you.”
    “Then,” she continues, “after class, Noah asked me for your number. Did I ask why he wanted it? No . Did I mock him about being into you? No . Again, I simply delivered the requested information.”
    “And I bet he thanked you, too.”
    “I don’t want thanks, I want answers. And I want them now.”
    I sigh, slowly sitting up. “It’s not a phone kind of conversation.”
    “Fine. Tomorrow on the way to school.”
    “It’s not a way-to-school conversation, either.”
    “What kind of conversation is it?”
    It’s a let’s-not-have-it-at-all kind of conversation, and I’m trying to put that tactfully when Mattia says: “Okay, I’ve got it. Sleepover tomorrow. Just you and me, to kick off the superlong weekend. And you can let me in on all your juicy but conflicted feelings toward Noah.”
    How sad is it that Mattia uses the term “conflicted feelings” in about half of her conversations? “Sorry, I can’t,” I say.
    “Why not?”
    “Plans.”
    “Can you be a little more vague?”
    “Plans to go to Claremont. I’m making a campus visit.”
    “Without me?”
    “You said you didn’t want to go!” I so don’t want to get into this. Mentally, I recalculate. “Fine, we’ll have a sleepover.”
    “Okay, okay, don’t sound so excited.” Mattia is thoroughly confused, like I’m the one being all codependent. “See you tomorrow morning, right? Minus the attitude.”
    “Okay,” I say, shaking my head.
    I need a vacation.

THIS I BELIEVE
    In English sophomore year I had to write an essay called “This I Believe.”
    It was based on some idea from National Public Radio, where people wrote in about their beliefs. The essays weren’t necessarily supposed to be about your religious beliefs, but mine was.
    Because the thing is I do believe. I believe in God, and I believe in Jesus Christ, and I believe in my religion. I go to church every week, pray every day, read the Book of Mormon and the Bible. I don’t drink alcohol, tea, coffee—even caffeinated soda.
    I believe in waiting, so I’m okay with the rules—nothing even resembling sex until I’m married. No dating before the age of sixteen, no wearing clothes that might give guys the wrong idea, being very careful with kisses—I believe all of that. I believe in repentance, forgiveness, integrity.
    Even now that I live in a town where it’s hard to tell where belief ends and culture begins—I