Free You and Me and Him by Kris Dinnison Page B

think she’s humiliated,” he says. “Not in the way you think. When you like someone, you do what you have to do. I think what she did was brave in a way.”
    “Yep, the girl has guts,” I say. “I don’t think I could ever put myself out there like that, not without some guarantees.”
    “Hormones win every time.”
    “So you think it’s all just physical?”
    “No. But we don’t get to choose who we fall for.”
    “Nash said that same thing the other night,” I say.
    “Nash is a smart guy.”

    Since we didn’t get to finalize all the plans at lunch on Friday, Nash is frantic all weekend. He texts me repeatedly about the schedule, his wardrobe, where we should eat, where we should park. He’s in full cruise-director mode, trying to anticipate every detail. Nash is both adorable and exasperating when he has a crush. The whole world becomes about setting up a series of encounters that happen accidentally on purpose. Some of the guys never even realize they’re being stalked, and most of the ones who do freak out.
    So Nash is putting a lot of eggs in this Seattle trip basket. In a way it’s Tom’s own fault. Most guys would have blown Nash off by now. They become either consciously or unconsciously uncomfortable with his attentions and push him away or run in the other direction. Tom just keeps hanging out like it’s no issue at all. He must have some idea how Nash feels, but Tom is so friendly all the damn time; it’s hard to tell what he’s thinking. He’s given Nash the only thing a crush feeds on, the only thing that keeps a crush from dying: hope.
    Late Sunday night, Nash calls for what I sincerely hope will be the last time.
    “Okay,” he says without saying hello. “I have a checklist.”
    I yawn, trying to communicate how completely not interested I am in this final neurotic manifestation of Nash’s nerves.
    “You ready?”
    “Yep,” I say.
    “Gas in car,” Nash says.
    “Check.”
    “Kick-ass playlists for trip.”
    “Check.”
    “Are you sure?” Nash sounds skeptical. “None of your indie-folk-sensitive this-is-the-soundtrack-of-my-life kind of playlists. I’m talking about really cool stuff.”
    “Check!” I say, a little louder.
    “Money?”
    “Check.” I yawn again. “Wait, money for me, or do you need me to bring money for you, too?”
    “Both?” Nash says. “Pretty please?”
    “Yes, check.” I can raid my piggy bank and pay it back out of my next paycheck.
    “Thanks, Mags,” he says. “I want it all to be . . .”
    “It’s going to be great, Nash,” I say. “He’s going to have a great day. We’re all going to have a great day.”
    “Okay, you’re right. I know,” Nash says. “I just really, really want this to be special.”
    “It will be special, Nash. But if I don’t get some sleep, it will be special because we all die in a fiery car crash when I fall asleep at the wheel. Now, good night.”
    “Good night, Mags.”
    I hang up the phone. I try to read, but my mind keeps wandering back to Seattle and Nash’s plans. All the questions I have about Tom and Nash and whether my best friend has a chance in hell are front and center, making me restless.
    The image of a soft, sweet comforting Twinkie pops into my head, and I wonder briefly if my dad still has some stashed in the garage near his workbench. When my tendency toward tubbiness made itself clear, Mom banned all junk food from the house. No chips, candy, ice cream, and definitely no delicious, spongy, cream-filled snack cakes. Twinkies have always been Dad’s favorite, his kryptonite. But our house has been a Hostess-free zone for about six years now. Except for, I discovered one day when I was thirteen, my dad’s workshop. There, in a toolbox shoved under the workbench, he kept a few choice snack foods that would make Ms. Perry squirm. And I know for a fact that he stocked up when they briefly stopped making Twinkies a couple years ago, although I have no idea where he’s hiding that