i would listen to this super jammy-jam after. ;D

My soul is tingling.

Jamie hasn't answered the door yet, but I know she's going to. My fingers are clawing at my arm, itching and itching and itching through my single layer of wet fake fur. I can hear my blood in my ears, moving faster than usual. Totally not because her parents' cars aren't in the puddle-filled driveway. Not at all.

The Wheeler's barn-red door swings open, raindrops running down the paint, and there stands Jamie. Jamie, with her long, auburn hair. Jamie, with her soft, freckled skin. Jamie, with her torturously smooth lips. She says nothing, just gives me her Jamie Smile and leaves me flabbergasted for a moment. Everytime she gives me that smile, I'm flabbergasted. I don't even think "flabbergasted" is the right word for it.

Breathless. Shocked. Mega-shook. Dead. Alive.

From her giant fluffy robe tied tightly about herself, I can't tell if she's wearing pajamas or not — for her, it would have been a choice; for me, it was a demand. "Wear pajamas," she said over text. "Pajamas are cozy. Pajamas are warm. Pajamas are the best."

I hope she finds my giraffe onesie amusing.

Jamie has these laughing eyes. They're small and amber and so full of light, I sometimes wonder if someone's shining a flashlight behind them. Right now, those eyes are focused entirely on my onesie, and I find myself smiling confidently. How, I don't know.

"I'm a snacc," I say, placing my hands on my hips. The fluff of the onesie is a little wet from the rain — of course it starts raining as soon as Jamie invites me over. I had to drive slowly, carefully. It was torture.

Finally, Jamie laughs. When she does, her whole body crouches down into it. She's not even hysterically laughing, yet her body is shaking. I can see it as she almost falls into the door.

This is the best feeling in the world. Making Jamie laugh.

"You are such a snacc," she says after her laughing fit is over. A hand moves to wipe the corner of her eyes, as if she had actually just come close to crying.

Just . . . good gracious. Everytime she moves, my heart swells.

I find myself leaning against the doorway and staring down at her. You know how people in those old romantic black and white movies look at each other, with the doe eyes and those little, content smiles? (We watch these types of movies together all the time. It's torture.)That's the only way I've ever smiled at Jamie. I can't help it. I've become that stereotypical rom-com guy, hopelessly in love with his amazing, gorgeous, stunningly perfect best friend.

Jamie steps back and beckons me in. "Okay, like, it's raining. Inside."

Inside. Holy sweet potato fries. Is this happening? Is this actually happening?  Me, and Jamie, completely alone at her house, no parents just outside the open door? Am I dreaming? I would so have this kind of dream. This is a dream, isn't it?

As I walk in, I can't feel my legs. Jamie grabs my wrist and tugs me in faster, then shuts the door. She shivers as one final burst of cold air comes in, drawing into herself and breathing on her hands. "It's cold," she says, observing me with those eyes.

"Yeah, it is," I say, because I'm bad with conversation, I guess. All I'm thinking about is her. I'm fairly certain I could kiss her right now. What, just push her up against the wall a little and let my hands entangle themselves in her hair as she presses her face into mine? Shouldn't be hard. Wouldn't be hard. It'd probably be the single greatest moment of my life.

But . . . I'm a chicken.

My hands find my onesie pockets and shove themselves inside. I don't trust them not to do something stupid. "So, my onesie has pockets," I say due to a lack of ideas. "Freaking pockets."

Jamie gives me this amused eye roll. "You're easily amused, Gracie Minnie."

"Ahem, it's 'Grayson Minnette'. You're just so uncultured, Jimmy Squealer." She laughs again, this deep, full sound, falling against the wall again. I know for a fact I'm not even that funny. Jamie just likes to laugh. And . . . I just like Jamie.

She's got to be a head-and-a-half shorter than me. How does she look this . . . pure? I mean, she's in a coffee-stained, neon blue leopard print robe that looks like it hasn't been washed since we met eons ago in kindergarten, and I know for a fact that she probably hasn't brushed her teeth since this morning, at best. (And that she had garlic bread with her lunch.) Her flaming hair is unbrushed, untamed, and utterly beautiful. She's beautiful. So beautiful.

"So, the living room is a mess. As always," she says as I take off my shoes and set them on the rubber mat. A fallen October leaf from outside ended up sticking to the sole, but I don't know if I can just flick it off inside her house. I decide it doesn't matter. "Would it be fine if we were to go to my room instead? The TV is smaller — I mean, the room is smaller as a whole — but it's actually clean."

Hold up. Jamie is asking me to come to her room? Oh my funnel cakes. Hell yes.

I shrug and hope that it looks natural. "Whatever works. Do you parents mind?"

"Eh, they're not home. And, you know them. They wouldn't care anyways."

"Ahhhhh, I see." Oh my goodness oh my goodness oh my goodness oh my goodness—

The smile Jamie gives me is suddenly shy, something I haven't seen much of from her. "C'mon, Gray."

For a second, it looks like she might take my hand, but she obviously changes her mind, instead turning and walking smoothly down the hallway with all the confidence of a trapeze artist.

She's magic, I swear.

Following her is like falling down some hole towards a warm light. It feels like, at any moment, your world is going to flip upside down, and you'll suddenly be ten times as happy. She could make you fly, if you deserve to.

Jamie tries to open her bedroom door at the end of the hall, seemingly forcing all her weight against it. It doesn't budge.

I find myself placing a light hand on her midback. "Do you want any help there?" I ask quietly. It feels so intimate. I'm forcing myself to breathe evenly as my heart races along the track of Stupid Teenage Boy Fantasies and leaves me in the dust.

Like, if my life were a movie, she'd be turning around right now, and I would kiss her once, softly, with an "It's okay; I'll get it". She'd stand there, stunned a moment whilst I open the door like some charming, seductive stud, and then one of us would take the other's hand or something, and it'd suddenly be like, "Hey, wow, there's a bedroom right here—"

"Sure," she says, smiling over her shoulder at me. If I were to have a penny for every time I thought would be a good time to kiss Jamie Wheeler, I would have many, many pennies. ("Many" being something equal to, like, a gajillion.)

We press all our combined weight against the door, and it begrudgingly slides open. Slowly, slowly, then — wham. The door opens, and we stumble into Jamie's room, with me ending up at the foot of the bed, and she . . . on the bed. Hair fanned about her head. Sprawled out. Right in front of me.

I can't decide if I hate or love this.

Jamie is laughing hard now; she sounds vaguely animal-ish, which is freaking adorable. My heart melts, more than just a little. Her body is curled up into itself, and she just might be crying.

"OhmyGod," she wheezes. "OhmyLorrrrd."

"You okay?" I ask her, reaching over and poking her thigh. I try not to think about how it's her freaking thigh I'm touching. Best friends can poke thighs, right? Right?

Jamie waves me off and sits up. I can tell it's a struggle. She's still shaking from a few residual hiccups of laughter. "Yeah. Oh, yeah. I'm fine. I'm okay." She's smiling. Smiling smiling smiling. I swear, I hear music when she smiles.

Slowly, with small, methodical hands, she unties her robe. She's just got a tank top on underneath, and some ex-gym shorts. Her skin, lily-white, seems to shine in the dim hallway light coming in from the doorway. Moments like this, moments where I realise how beautiful she is, I think I could cry. Not even because of my lovelorn, teenage mind. Not entirely. It's just, the thought of such a thing as lovely as her existing . . . it blows my mind.

I would do anything for her.

Oh my God. I'm in her bedroom.

My heart. My heart is squeezing in on itself, telling me to act, telling me to freeze, telling me to disappear. Telling me to take her. Take her now. I just pretend I don't hear it.

"Okay, so, I'm about to show you something that is going to change your life." Jamie is on her knees now, leaning forward towards me. I can see down her shirt. Just a little bit.

Yeah, I'm not even going to go down that road.

Her eyes are lit up, watching me, taking in how I move, how I breathe, how I react. I smile slightly. "Okay." This happens a lot. Jamie is a connoisseur of cheesy old movies. (She was totally wrong about The Ghost and Mrs. Muir, though.)

"OKAY." She jumps off the bed. "Sit. I command thee."

I laugh and flop back onto the bed. My limbs hang off on all sides as I fan out. I can only imagine her curling up next to me like this. Honestly, if I don't have a heart attack by the end of tonight, I'll be surprised. "So comfy. What is this, half a twin?"

"It's a queen to me. Now, let's get down to business, Ping." Jamie drops to the floor and digs under her bed. I roll over and peek down at the floor to see her awkwardly crouched, only visible from the waist down. I pull back and lay down again. I don't want to be a weirdo (as tempting as that is).

I hear shifting, and then a little grunt. "It actually smells under here," Jamie says from beneath the bed. "Ten-out-of-ten was not expecting this."

"What does it smell like?" I'm trying not to laugh.

"Feet. Tomato soup with way too much freaking basil. Muskrat." I hear her chuckling to herself. "Ooh, found my remote!"

"Congratulations."

"Why, thank you." There's a little more scuffling, then: "OW."

"You okay?" I ask immediately, jolting up to a seated position. My legs are swinging off the bed before she even has time to answer. I'm probably overreacting, I think before I go back to ignoring my innermost thoughts.

Jamie slowly backs out from under the bed. "Um, I think so? I just whacked my head really hard." Her hand is pressed against her hair, and I crouch down next to her, really, really tempted to pull her gently by the waist onto my lap so I can inspect her for damage. Hi, you can just call me Grayson the Studmuffin.

Instead, I wait for her to sit up, then tenderly touch her shoulder. "Seriously, Jamie — you okay?"

She smiles tightly. "I'm fine. Thanks." Her eyes perk up again. "Ooh! I have popcorn."

"Popcorn?" I smile, even though my heart is still hammering pretty darn hard. I was honestly scared she'd hurt herself for a moment. Did not like that feeling.

"And hot chocolate. Aren't I the best?"

"Super the best."

Jamie stands up, pats the top of my head a few times, then stalks off out of her room. "I'll be right in!" she calls. So I just sit on her bed, and wonder what she looks like when she sleeps. (In a totally non-creeper way, I swear.) (I don't think swearing against it makes it any less creepy, but I'm trying anyway.)

She's back within a few minutes, two pastel mint mugs held awkwardly as she tries to balance a ginormous bowl in her arms. "I'm the best," she notes, snagging her desk chair with her foot and bringing it over to the bed. She hands me my hot chocolate, and I take an overexaggerated slurp.

"You are pretty best," I say. "Need any help?"

"The bestest. And, no."

I snatch the bowl from her. "This is me disagreeing with you."

How awkward would it be taking off this onesie? I mean, if things got heated. Maybe they will. It's a legitimate concern. They totally could. Probably. Right?

"Okay, so I called you here to show you something." Jamie is resting her feet up on the bed. What would she do if I tickled her feet? (Probably kick me in the nose.)

Around a mouthful of popcorn, I say, "Gwhut?"

"It's called Ghost Man and The Werewoman: A Love Story. It's the worst thing ever. Okay, 1983. These totally wasted guys are like, 'Hey, let's make a movie about a werewolf who eats her fiance', and then they freaking stick together through their weird, downworld afterlife drama, and it's supposed to be like Romeo and Juliet, but it's super not, and it's really bad, and there's all this reaaaally low-quality gore makeup — like, you know how you could totally see Chris Hemsworth's eyelid in Thor: Ragnarok?"

"Yes." We couldn't stop laughing when we saw it in theater.

Jamie takes a quick swig of cocoa. "Okay, yeah. It makes that look heavenly. It makes me using a red crayon shoved up my butt to draw a smiley face art. It makes dogs turds look absolutely delicious."

"Does it makes blobfish look like Chris Evans?"

"It makes blobfish look like Chris Evans." She takes another sip. "Though, let's be honest: blobfish are mega hot."

"Oh, totally." I roll over onto my back and stretch, lookings over at her the whole while. "I'm excited to watch this work of art."

Jamie sighs. I love that sound. "I literally cannot wait."

We start the movie.

The opening music is cheesy, with way too much harpsichord, and too little literally-anything-else. "I can already tell that I am going to find this enjoyable," I say as words so overdone they're hardly legible appear on the screen. My eyes fixate on her. On Jamie.

She's glued on the screen, her lips slightly parted, curled up into a ball in her chair. We're so close, I could touch her hair. I want to. I want to touch her.

It comes out of nowhere. "Jamie." My voice is soft, light. It's hardly my own. I want to grimace — there's no taking it back.

Jamie looks over. "Hmm?" She sounds warm, velvet. She looks so unsuspecting, it hurts.

"Jamie . . . I—Okay. You're always on my mind." I sit up, focusing on the bowl of popcorn on the edge of the bed. Look up at her. Look. At. Her. My gaze grazes her, finally stopping to focus on her eyes. Her big, gorgeous eyes. "I really like you. A lot. Maybe more than like, which is probably weird because we're best friends, but I can't not."

She sucks in an almost inaudible breath as I scooch closer to the edge of the bed, letting my legs hang off, encasing hers. I press on. "I like you, Jamie. It hurts sometimes, honestly. You're so . . . freaking wonderful." I swear, I won't cry. "I-I just want you to know that."

"Oh, Grayson." I've wanted to hear those words for so long. But, not in the way she's just said it. She sounds sad. Sad doesn't feel like desperately-in-love-back. Her hands find my own; they're cold, and I wish I could warm them. But I don't move, don't rub her fingers between my hands and breathe on them like I want to. I sit still, and I wait.

"I mean it," I tell her. "I really do."

Jamie looks down at our hands. "I know you do. Grayson, I've been meaning to tell you for a while. . . ."

"Jamie—"

"Stop." The breath she draws in is rough, shaky. "Grayson, I'm gay."

Now I'm the one looking down at our hands. I think my heart has stopped beating. "Oh. Okay. Like, as in, 'liking-the-same-gender' gay, or is this umbrella term gay, like, like, girls and guys?"

"The first one."

"Oh. That's . . . cool."

She gives me this nervous laugh. She sounds close to tears. "Yup. Pretty coooool. . . ."

I look over at the screen. "Did they find his wig on the side of the road?" I need this change in conversation. I need it.

Jamie squints at the leading male, frowning. "I think so. The only question is: what kind of animal?"

"A dead one?"

"What kind of dead one?"

"A really dead one." Suddenly, we're laughing, and we're still holding hands, but it doesn't feel weird somehow. Just like that, it's gone. The pain stabbing the back of my eyes. The fists squeezing my heart. The pipe shoved down my throat. All of it.

I feel pretty fine right now.