Revived (Cat Patrick)

is positive stuff out there.”
    I feel like there’s a balloon inflating in my chest.
    “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” I say.
    “Yeah, well, it’s true.”
    Matt squeezes my hand. I wonder if he’s going to stop and kiss me, but he doesn’t. I’m disappointed, but instead I choose to focus on his sturdy grip and the way it makes me feel strong, like I can do anything, charged, like I’m plugged in.
    I’m completely content until we reach the end of the walkway: That’s when I get anxious about our impromptu first date being over. As if he feels the same way, Matt slows his pace, then stops. We lean against the railing, admiring the view.
    “Home?” Matt asks after a few moments.
    “Late-night food?” I ask back.
    “Even better,” he says, sounding a little relieved. He takes my hand and leads me back across the wide street, through the parking lot, and into the familiar passenger seat of his car.
    “How is it possible that you don’t have a girlfriend?” I blurt out on the way to what Matt says is his favorite diner, ignoring how completely stalker it sounds.
    “Who says I don’t?” he answers. I flip my face toward his, shocked and instantly jealous.
    “What?” I say a little too loudly, which makes Matt laugh.
    “Just kidding,” he says through chuckles. “I did last year, but she started college this year. We felt like it wouldn’t work long-distance. Well, I felt that way. She wanted to stay together.”
    Now, in addition to jealous, I feel inferior. My lanky fifteen-year-old self is no match for a college girl. Possibly reading my anxiety, Matt adds, “She’s a bitch.”
    We laugh together, and it brightens my mood again. I look out the window at the old and new buildings, thinking the conversation’s over. But then we stop at a red light and Matt turns to face me.
    “Even if she wasn’t at college, it’d be over,” he says. “I like someone else now.” I have to look away so Matt doesn’t see the grin spliting my face.
    When we arrive at the diner a few minutes later we find that despite it being a Sunday night, we’re not the only ones with the greasy-spoon idea. We have to circle around and park a few blocks away, and when we get out of the car, I suggest cutting through an alley.
    “This isn’t the greatest part of town,” Matt protests.
    “Nothing will happen,” I say with a shrug, taking off alone. His choices are either to let me walk alone or to follow. He jogs a little to catch up with me. Aside from a tense moment with a large rat, we reach the diner unscathed. When Matt and I walk through the door, he turns and looks deep into my eyes.
    “What are you afraid of?” he asks.
    The question catches me off guard and makes me feel vulnerable. So I swallow hard and overcompensate: “Nothing,” I say carelessly.
    Matt looks at me like he did after the bridge-railing-as-balance-beam incident.
    “Okay, fine,” I say, exhaling. “Bees. I’m afraid of bees.”
    Two hours later, full from too many fries and a too-big milk shake, I try hard to suck in my stomach as Matt walks me to the guest bedroom door.
    “That was really fun,” I whisper, keenly aware of his parents’ presence just three doors down.
    “Yeah,” he whispers back, smiling. He steps toward me in that way that guys do in the movies when they want a goodnight kiss, and butterflies flit inside me like I’m at the top of a roller coaster, ready to drop. I raise my chin a little to tell him that it’s okay.
    Matt’s lips taste like vanilla. His warm chest brushes mine. His arms stay at his sides, but his left index finger wraps around my right. It’s a long kiss, but there’s no tongue—only sweet softness. And then, too quickly, it’s over.
    I look up and admire his face at close range. In the low light, his dark eyes are black, but there’s nothing sinister about them. Our fingers are still intertwined, but our chests are no longer touching. I’m glad about that because my heart is racing. He breathes out and I breathe in.
    “I should go to bed,” he whispers.
    “Okay,” I whisper back.
    Neither of us moves.
    “I don’t really want to.”
    “Me, either.”
    Still, we stand, watching each other. The house shifts. A toilet flushes.
    “Okay, I’m going now,” Matt says.
    “Okay.”
    “Night,” he whispers.
    “Night,” I whisper back.
    Matt takes a step away and our fingers detach. I get that quick panicky feeling like when a glass tips to spill, a