“What brought you to Woodstock?” I ask, rapping my fingers a few times along her legs to work out more of my nerves. “I hear it’s the hot bed for dog-catching and telemarketing careers, but…”

She lets out a breathy laugh, then stretches her hands out flat along her thighs. I watch her move, wishing I could touch her there.

“Sort of a family thing. We…we needed to be closer to Chicago,” she says with a lopsided smile and a shrug.

“Woodstock is so not Chicago,” I chuckle, thinking about the ways my hometown is so small compared to the city. There are things I love about being here. The smallness is comforting at times. But the older I get, the more I sense how suffocating it is too.

“No,” she laughs. “But it’s also not Delaware.”

“Good point,” I say.

“What’s your favorite food?” I ask. She tilts her head and offers a suspicious smile.

“Pancakes.”

I nod, then look out to the blackness in front of me to think of another question.

“Have you ever had a pet?” I ask after a few seconds of silence.

“Lots of them. But never very long. I told you…my dad is always rescuing things,” she laughs.

“I’ve never had a pet. I always wanted a dog,” I say, leaning my head back again and looking at her.

“They’re a lot of work,” she shrugs.

“Yeah, but I think I’d be okay with that. I’m good at working hard. And I don’t want a small one; I want one of those big breeds, like a mastiff,” I say, lifting my hands and measuring a wide distance with my arms in front of me.

“You know that means their poop is bigger.”

“The bigger the better, baby,” I joke.

It grows silent again, and I flit my gaze from her to my hands a few times, my stomach twitching nervously.

“Do you like the Excel Program?” she asks.

I suck in my bottom lip and shrug. I never know how to answer that question. It’s like asking someone if they like being really smart. “It’s all right,” I say.

“I bet it’s amazing,” she says, looking to the side, her hair falling over her shoulder slowly, like an avalanche. “You get to go to a college, hang out with professors and learn things like philosophy and culture.”

“It’s not that amazing,” I say. “And I still have to do calculus, and language arts and shit.”

“Whatever. It’s amazing, and you know it,” she says, lifting her foot and nudging my chest with it. I grab hold of her leg and hug it. It seemed like a good idea when I spontaneously did it, but then it got weird instantly.

I made it weird.

We’re both quiet and staring at her leg that I’m now hugging, and I start to laugh at the absurdity. I rock it side to side, like it’s an infant, and she gives into laughter too. She kicks at me with her other leg, so I tug on her and pull her closer to me, holding on tight and moving her into me as if I’m pulling in the length of a rope—until she’s in my lap. Her legs curled up against my door, her body in front of me, and her hands pressed on the ceiling, her laughter fills ever inch of space inside my car.

Her sound fades as her eyes open and her gaze meets mine.

Inches. There are inches in life. Inches that make the difference between a race, that determine your height or pants size, that might mean you make it to the train on time.

I’m living in inches right now, inches and breaths.

Beautiful inches.

“I like you, Emma,” I say. My heartbeat fills my throat; I swallow and feel the heat take over my chest and arms and hands.

She doesn’t answer with words, instead letting her lashes sweep shut while I take in the dusting of freckles along her cheeks. Her lips part with a shallow breath, her bottom one trembling.

“Andrew,” she breathes out my name. It’s a whisper. Like I’m a secret.

Maybe I am.

I move my hand to her cheek, and she lets her weight fall into my palm, her eyes closing again briefly.

“I want to know everything about you, Emma Burke,” I say, sweeping hair away from the one side of her face, leaving my other hand flush against her cheek, my thumbs over those very mesmerizing freckles.

“I’m not very interesting,” she says, her voice tiny and unsure. I can see so much of her nerves in the slight tremors on her lips, the way her hands are now quaking with her grip on my sleeves along my biceps. Her eyes, they tell me so much of her story too.

“You liar,” I smirk. She flinches at first, looking hurt. “You are incredibly interesting.”