Free We Were Never Here by Jennifer Gilmore Page B

to be just as charming as the smile with all the teeth. “Yes. Aside from that.”
    I sigh. “Being outside. Walking with Mabel. Being near water with Mabel.”
    He nods.
    â€œAlso? Food.”
    I know I should have said friends. Or going to see bands. Or sneaking out to drink beer. Something normal.
    â€œWhat kind of food? Like, what would you eat if you could eat?”
    It’s like Thelma!
    â€œIce cream sandwiches,” I say. “Crab cakes. Milk shakes.” So let’s just say this is all in the Candy Striping Handbook. I will still play along. My heart is already in it.
    â€œVirginia is for crabs!” he says.
    â€œActually, it’s lovers. Virginia is for lovers,” I say, slightly embarrassed by the word. Lovers. “Maryland is for crabs.” But I get it. The District is for cool kids, and the rest of us are suburban losers. I get it. The girls Connor knows are probably all blond and tan and easy in their skin. Everything slides over them; nothing sticks. Or they wear vintage dresses and have short black bangs and wear nose rings. Or they have big black glasses and speak seven languages and have just moved here from London because their parents are diplomats.
    â€œDon’t forget hot dogs,” says my roommate.
    â€œHi, Thelma,” I say.
    â€œHi, Thelma,” says Connor.
    â€œWhat kind?” He uncrosses his legs and places his elbows on his knees. He is killing me. Verlaine stretches out, exposing his stomach, and I scratch him. “Of milk shake.”
    â€œChocolate,” I say. Easy.
    â€œI would miss strawberry,” he says.
    â€œStrawberry!” I giggle. “Very pink.”
    Connor laughs and sweeps his hair—it really is strawberry blond—out of his face. His hands. They are crooked and beat-up and eaten and soulful. They have feeling.
    â€œBooks? What’s your favorite book? Like, what are you reading now?”
    â€œI can’t read in here. I mean, I just can’t.”
    â€œOkay then, what would you read if you could read, I mean?”
    â€œHmmm,” I say. Wuthering Heights is on this swingy table over my bed, but I don’t think he can see it. That’s some intense love in that book. Deadly. Haunting. Dark, dark love. I’m not that far in, but I can’t help but note that everything important happens when the characters are young. It’s like all that matters. “I like lots of different stuff. Like Stephen King, and also The Handmaid’s Tale ,” is what I tell him.
    â€œDon’t know that,” Connor says,
    â€œIt’s about this cult society where this woman has to have sex every month until she gets pregnant.”
    â€œLovely,” says Connor.
    â€œYeah, it’s pretty dark. Okay, what else? Ray Bradbury. Fahrenheit 451 .”
    â€œOh my God, I love that book!” Connor says. “I love Ray Bradbury. Stephen King is good. The Stand. ”
    My heart leaps. I’ve chosen correctly. “Yeah, totally. The Stand. ”
    â€œHey, do you have any music here?” he asks.
    I can hear the sound of Thelma fidgeting, as if to say, please, please don’t play music in here. She clears her throat.
    â€œWe’ll be quiet!” he says to the curtain as he stands and grabs my iPod off its charger. “Promise!”
    Connor knows everything.
    I watch in horror as he scans through my iPod. Books are easier than music. To be right about, I mean. I have some pretty lame stuff on there. Like, “Hey There, Delilah,” which I love, by theway. I’ve got Kelly Clarkson! Kind of as a joke; kind of serious. But thankfully, Tim loaded it up with at least some good music before I went to camp, stuff he knows I love. He put on other women singer-songwriters, mostly Brits, and I think it’s because he knows I love Birdy and he must have listened to Birdy Radio on Pandora. Gabrielle Aplin, Emeli Sandé, Jasmine Thompson. Which, now