“You’re nervous,” he says. “Am I doing something to make you nervous?”

“No. This is just the first time I’ve showed it to someone. And it’s probably not like what you’re expecting. It doesn’t actually look like water. It’s more like . . .” Of course, I can’t find the words, which is why I brought him here in the first place. Words can’t become the colors and curves and rhythms of waves.

He leans toward me and puts his hand over mine, pulling back on the door so I can’t open it. His neck is only an inch from my lips. He smells fresh but warm, like soap mingled with something indefinable—his heartbeat?

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I don’t want you to show me if you don’t want to.”

I stare into his eyes. Do I want to? Or am I getting talked into this too? I turn to look at his hand over mine. His grip has relaxed, not pulling anymore, and he’s waiting for me to decide. In or out.

In.

I turn the knob and push. Panic spirals inside me. I anchor my hand to the door frame to keep the room from spinning and let my eyes follow Reed to the center, where my bed and dresser have been pushed. I focus on his face. I don’t want to but I have to, because if he doesn’t understand, I’ll see it now, in the way his eyes flit over the four walls I’ve spent weeks painting. And then I won’t be able to just like him because he’s handsome and he smells beautiful and the feel of his skin on mine makes my heart race.

But his face tells me nothing. He turns a slow circle, then walks to the far wall to where his shoes crinkle the tarp that lines the room. He lifts his hand, and his fingers trace a turquoise current to the corner, then down the length of the next wall as it rises and falls.

“It looks like it’s moving,” he says, voice low and soft.

He feels it. I lean into the door frame.

“How did you do this?” he asks. “I mean, have you seen something like this somewhere?” He stops turning and looks at me.

I shake my head. “It’s my idea. I’ve been obsessed with murals for a while. It just took a few years of begging for my mom to give in. I like the idea of making art that wraps around you. Or me, I guess.”

“Amazing,” he whispers. “Why the ocean?”

“I don’t know.” I fold my arms. The panic is gone, but I’m suddenly cold. “It’s endless, but hidden too. And something to hide in.”

He’s staring at me, not moving, not talking, and I hear my words. I don’t talk this way to anyone but Mo.

“What are you hiding from?” he asks.

“What?”

“You said something to hide in. I was just wondering . . . nothing,” he says. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay. I . . . I’m going to paint coral on the lower half of that wall behind you and the left side of this one.” I tap the wall beside me with my fingertips and pretend I’m not changing the subject. “And I’m still researching ocean life for the rest. It’s taking me too long to decide, but I’m paranoid about it looking cheesy.”

“I can’t imagine you painting something cheesy,” he says. “Not overtop of this.”

I can’t believe he’s in my room, beside my bed, leaning against my dresser like he belongs here.

“Why are you standing way over there?” he asks. “Isn’t the idea that it surrounds you?”

“Yeah,” I say, leaving the safety of the door frame. But once I’m close to him, I won’t be able to really see him anymore. No distance, no objectivity.

I walk to where he’s standing, so we are staring at the same blue wall. I think hard for something to say, anything to say, but then I feel the lightest pressure of his hand on my waist and abandon hope. I will not be coming up with words. His other hand is on the other side of my waist, and I can smell him again. I feel the faint tickle of his breath on my neck and wonder if my legs are going to give out. Is that just his breath, or do I feel his lips brushing the side of my neck? I’m almost sure it’s his mouth when my phone buzzes from inside my purse and I jump several inches. He takes a step back and lets his hands drop.

“Sorry,” I mutter, digging into my purse. “It’s probably my parents.”

I’m wrong. I glare at Mo’s name on my phone. I’m going to kill him.

“Do you need to get it?” Reed asks.

I shake my head and drop it back into my purse. “Just a friend. I’ll call him later.”

“Are you sure?”

He is almost smiling, his lips perfectly shaped and parted a little. I glance up at his eyes and realize he saw me staring at his mouth. I nod. “I’m sure.”

He moves to close the space between us, but the phone buzzes again before he can reach me.

I close my eyes to hide the frustration. “It’s him again.” I check just to be sure. Yeah.

“Wait, the one who’s moving?” Reed asks.

“Yes.”

“Why don’t you take it?” he says.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not a big deal.”

I press talk but keep watching Reed. He walks over to the window, the single break in the waves, and waits.

“What’s up?” I say into the phone and rub my eyes with my thumb and index finger. I can’t yell at him with Reed right here. I’ll save it for later. “Mo?”

“I did it,” he says. He sounds out of breath. Or scared.

“Did what?”

“I talked to my mom. I asked her if she’d, you know, give consent.”

I suck in all of the air in the room. I’m such a ditz. He said he was doing it tonight, and I totally forgot. “And?”

“And it was messy.”

“So . . .” My heart is falling, everything slipping from me, and my thoughts are blurred but not too blurred to understand. Whatever I was feeling before this phone call is gone because that’s it, the only chance Mo has, shut down by one weak woman who doesn’t care about her own son. I feel tears spring to my eyes, then panic to blink them away before Reed sees. “So that’s it.”

“No. She said she’d do it. She wants me to stay.”

Suddenly I can hear what I didn’t before: The tremor in his voice isn’t fear. It’s excitement. Relief rushes through my veins, and I’m back to wanting to kick Mo in the shins. Hard.

“She said she’ll come to the courthouse with us tomorrow morning and sign whatever she has to sign.”

“Tomorrow morning,” I repeat. What he’s saying makes sense and it doesn’t. Too many contradictions: Mrs. Hussein said yes, but knowing her, she might back out, but Mo will talk her back into it if she does, and we’ll get married, which means Mo’s practically safe, but of course we’re both totally screwed if anyone finds out. And the marriage will be the biggest contradiction of all—pretending to love each other when, well, we actually do love each other. I don’t know whether to laugh or sob. “That’s . . . amazing.”

“I know.” His voice is jittery, and the words are coming too quickly. “It’s soon, but I don’t trust my mom not to flip out and tell my dad if we wait too long, and I know he’s going into Louisville to say good-bye to a few colleagues.”

“Um, I have to work at noon,” I say slowly, strangely numb. I don’t mention that I was planning on going to Myrna’s for more brushes in the morning—it seems unimportant, less than unimportant, now that I’m trying to wedge a wedding into the schedule. “Is that enough time? How long does it take to get . . .” I stop myself in time. Reed is looking at me. I can’t believe his lips were just touching my neck.

“The courthouse opens at nine,” Mo says, “so based on how long all my other courthouse weddings took, I’d say you should be fine. Oh, and I think we should do it in Taylorsville, just in case. It would be too easy for someone to find out if we did it here.”

I’m not listening. Reed has turned away from me and is holding his hand out to another ribbon of color, tracing the indigo current now.

“Annie? Hello?”

“Yeah, sorry. I’m just . . . relieved.”

“I know,” Mo says. “I feel like I can breathe for the first time since my dad told me we were leaving. So tomorrow is okay?”

I release a shaky breath. “Yeah.”

He laughs, a weird un-Mo-like chuckle. “Can you believe this?”

“Yes. I mean no.” Reed finishes tracing the indigo wave and comes back to the center of the room. “I have to go. I’ll call you later.”

“Sure. Wait, are you still at that baby shower?”

“Sort of.”

“Oh, sorry. Yeah, call me later. I don’t think I’ll be sleeping tonight.”

“Okay, bye.”

I slip the phone back in my purse. “Sorry about that,” I say, my brain circling and circling for a lie that makes sense, but I can’t even remember what I said aloud.

“What’s amazing?” Reed asks.

“Hmm?”

“On the phone. You said, that’s amazing.”

“Oh, right.” I swallow, and miraculously the lie Mo told my dad lands on me. “Mo’s been trying to get some special student visa. He just found out he can stay.”

“That’s great,” Reed says. “Are you okay? You look like you’re going to faint.”

“No, I’m fine.” I sit down on the bed because I’m not entirely sure I won’t faint. “It’s just such great news, I . . .”

He furrows his eyebrows and I’m almost convinced he knows I’m lying, when I realize it’s more likely he misunderstands what Mo means to me.

I stand back up and take two steps toward him. I can’t explain it properly. He needs to meet Mo, see us together, to understand that Mo isn’t a threat. Except now more than ever, I don’t want him to meet Mo. But that doesn’t make sense either, because a fake marriage that nobody will ever know about is not going to change anything between anybody. My head hurts.

My phone chirps. A text. “Sorry, I have to check it,” I say, pulling the phone back out. Of course. “It’s my parents. They’re on their way home.”

“Your phone doesn’t want us alone together in this room, does it?”