I unsnap a hidden pocket of my purse to make sure I brought him a treat.

14

ABRAM

THIS DOESN’T SEEM like Juliette’s kind of place, but she gets out of the cab and power-walks straight through the entrance like she owns it, so I’m gathering we’re here. I park toward the back of the adjacent lot and wait to see if anything more characteristic of her happens, like maybe she emerges with her earphones in place and starts pounding the jogging path that circles the building, or she brings a random laptop to one of the picnic tables outside, laments the slowness of the Wi-Fi, and gets a jump start on the weekend homework I’ve already forgotten about. With her, the sky’s the limit … among other limits.

Thirty minutes later and she walks out of the Loudoun County Humane Society with a lucky dog: a pure-bred Saint Bernard with a shiny black nose, a well-groomed coat, and a long tongue that he’s using to go to town on Juliette’s hand. She doesn’t seem to be enjoying the licking, but she tolerates it.

In conclusion, every Saturday morning, for the last however many months I’ve been window-watching her, Juliette’s been volunteering at the Humane Society? Come to think of it, I have noticed my very own dog chewing some higher-quality bones lately—assumed they’d been stolen from my neighbor’s fickle Labradoodle.

Just now noticing the twin daggers shooting out from Juliette’s eyes—looks like they’ve been there awhile. In case there’s any confusion over who her target is, she points in my direction and then makes a throat-slitting gesture with the same index finger.

I step out of the car, still excited to see her.

Juliette

MY DAD’S PRETEND-ALLERGIC to all animals, so the shelter’s where I go to get my embarrassing weekly dog fix. Sorry, cats—I just can’t, okay? Dogs are preferable because they have nothing in common with me. I’ve yet to meet a cocker spaniel who’s addicted to her heartworm medication, a golden retriever with too many emotional barriers to count on four paws, a Dalmatian with unresolvable mother issues.…

The attractive young man at the end of my leash is Bing; I named him after the search engine, not Crosby, the depressing “White Christmas” crooner. Bing is a three-year-old Saint Bernard, but to any potential adoption applicants who inquire about him today, he’s practically a puppy, and possibly a pure-bred descendant of a recent Westminster Dog Show winner, depending on if I get my first-ever believable feeling re: someone’s ability to provide a loving home.

“Hey,” is all Abram has to say for himself as we approach him. Bing doesn’t play hard to pet, would much rather sit down on Abram’s foot, lick the taste off his hand, and fall unapologetically in love.

“Why are you here?” I ask, annoyed that he smells good, like some sort of ocean-breeze cologne and the rosemary-mint conditioner his mom bought him last week.

He could ask me the same question, but just shrugs. “Hadn’t seen you in a while.”

He leans down until he’s eye level with the dog while I try to think of something discouraging to say to that. I can’t do it, so I introduce the two of them.

“Abram, Bing. Bing, blah.”

The formalities over, Bing immediately flops onto his back so Abram can scratch his chest properly.

“I can take a hint,” Abram says, winking up at me and scratching away.

Bing lets out a skeptical sigh, so I don’t have to. Cute. Not sure which one I’m talking about.

“We still partying together tonight?” Abram asks me, skipping over the part where I’ve been crazy for the past three days. I make the mistake of noticing the hope in his eyes, digesting it long enough to feel a nagging pinch of optimism myself. I’m not someone to get your hopes up over, I try to tell him with mine, but I’m much better with non-verbal death threats.

“Sure,” I say, covering the dog’s ears. “If Bing gets adopted.”

“Deal.”

Abram insists the three of us shake on it.

15

ABRAM

I ASK JULIETTE if Bing’s dad really medaled in a bunch of dog shows, as we watch him ride away with his new owners. She shakes her head no, her lips curving up, up … and this time the smile sticks. Her capacity for happiness is a lot roomier than she gives herself credit for. I ask if I can give her a ride home, and she can’t think of a reason why it’s a bad idea, probably because it’s a win-win.

A short car ride later, I’m dropping her off at the stop sign at the end of our road. She doesn’t want to further distract her dad if he’s staring out the window when he should be writing, and her reasoning sounds pretty logical to a slacker like me.

“Don’t touch his papers,” I warn her, and her eyes narrow as she wonders how I latched on to that little detail, or maybe why I’ve chosen this moment to remind her I remembered it.

She opens the door, steps out, then pokes her head back inside. “Pick me up at seven thirty?”

“I’ll be there.”

She starts shutting the door, then stops. “In a cab.”

“I’ll be in there.”

“Ask for Asad or Farrukh,” she says, “and I’m really shutting the door this time.”

“No rush.”

“Abram?”

“Yep?”

“Thank you for following my cab today.”

“Anytime.”

She shuts the door less forcefully than she usually does.

Juliette

HE JUST SENT a text asking what kind of costume he should wear to the party. Typing in my response: Don’t ever text me while driving again! Send. Sometimes I wonder if I’m coming off as too flirtatious—such a fine line.

His next message informs me he’s at the car wash down the road, and also that he’s lol’ing. Abram has “lol/ha-ha” disease—rarely sends a message without one or the other—but unlike everyone else in America, he almost always laughs as he’s keying in the chuckles. I tell him I’ll pick up something extra special for him at CVS, which also gives me a reason not to disturb my dad. The threatening You better have some new material written when I get home! text I sent him a half hour ago might be working.

Want me to pick you up there in 20? asks Abram’s text.

Yes, please.

16

ABRAM

FORGOT HOW MUCH EXCITEMENT I can get out of a good, clean game of beer pong; I should start a league or something. Juliette wouldn’t join. She’s standing off to the side of the table, looking out-of-my-league in her red tennis dress, her hair tightened back in a low ponytail. She seems uninterested in the pong proceedings as well as her other Halloween-themed surroundings. Her best friend and my formidable pong partner, Heidi, is helping me keep track of Juliette’s whereabouts in between throws. It’s a tough job, but somebody’s gotta stop my girl from French exiting before I can finally kiss her.

Juliette

ABRAM HAS SUNK every single shot at Heidi’s portable beer-pong table tonight. Apparently that’s impressive, because I’ve been watching from the sidelines like some sort of That’s my man! pong groupie. Maybe I should leave without saying good-bye to anyone? Such a good idea, but then Heidi will get her feelings hurt, and there are only so many times I can right my wrongs with a package of headbands. Let me just grab my purse.…

“Where ya going, Maria Sharapova?”

Since when is Heidi so observant? It’s like she has eyes in the back of her head tonight. Ironic, since there’s also a plastic knife extending from her spine, the centerpiece of her Monica Seles costume.

“Just looking for my Chapstick,” I say, holding up a closed fist of air like I’ve found it.

Heidi yells out a supportive “C’mon!” to celebrate my find—ever the best friend to my worst. She arcs a ball into one of the cups across from her and then holds her hand in the air afterward to rub it in. I like her playing style; the boys at the table are turning in strangely sportsmanlike performances. Abram gives her a high five as their two opponents, Jeff and Aaron, former teammates of Abram’s who are both showing a lot of thigh in their identical Bjorn Borg costumes, seem genuinely happy for her success.