Up until now, Felicity has never crossed her legs in the car. She used to believe that, if there was an accident, her legs would be shoved inside her chest, break her ribs, pierce her heart, and then she'd just be this little pretzel thing. Lifeless. Bloodied.

But now, she's past the point of caring. She'll take being a lifeless, bloodied pretzel. Jenny would poke fun at her for being morbid, which is something Felicity absolutely refuses to think about. A scab on her ankle from a recent basketball game provides distraction, and the crossing of her legs ensures her scab-picking remains discreet. She can't imagine John being excited about passenger-seat scab picking.

She likes John, she does, but she can never bring herself to focus on him for too long. He just . . . wears her out. The way he constantly asks for her hand, like a child separated from his mother, then proceeding to hold it all wrong and awkward and sweaty. Or how he'll make a truly gross sex joke and then get all quiet and apologetic until Felicity lies and tells him she doesn't really mind, not at all — "It's not hurting me". And then John will grin and say, "That's what she said", and then take her hand again. . . . And again. . . .

Felicity eyes him now, glad for his eyes to be off her, glad he's not talking. She didn't think someone could talk as much as he usually does. Which might not be a bad thing, if he didn't have the magic ability to make her outlandishly uncomfortable. Most of the time, Felicity just looks away from him, watches the road or her habitual foot-tapping or her hands. Anything but John.

He has a very boyish, roundish face. Felicity still can't decide if it's cute or not. Somehow, it doesn't suit him at all. And somehow, it suits him perfectly. John is tall — tall-tall — but he still has baby fat left to lose, and he doesn't wear a belt or pants that fit right, so everything just looks saggy and off-kilter. Despite it being nearly summer, he never takes his winter jacket off, and then constantly complains about being too hot (which always inevitably winds down to a sex joke).

Also, he walks like a duck.

Part of Felicity doesn't know why she keeps letting him do this — take her out. Treat them like they're some kind of item, even though they've hardly been talking for two weeks. Hold her hand. In freshmen bio, another time, Felicity's teacher said that the way you lace your own fingers together is genetic. It's the same for hand-holding. Maybe John and Felicity just have really opposing genetics or something.

She should tell him how she feels, she knows. She dreads being with him, beyond anything he controls, and his presence is a stressful timesuck. Still, Felicity likes feeling liked. Even if she's not really into it at all. Even if she kind of hates it.

John cranks up the radio dial again, despite the actual volume being as cranked as it can be in his dinky 1994 Mercury Topaz. (It's not very cranked.) Originally, Felicity didn't mind his Rolling Stones Greatest Hits CD, but the fact that John kept trying to serenade her with "Under My Thumb" over and over and over again was starting to creep her out. After the tenth bout on one pointless car ride, she'd sweetly suggested the local oldies station, and John had eagerly jumped at the opportunity to please.

Now, he howls. Hall and Oates would probably be incredibly offended right now. John sounds something like a drunk husky as he pours his soul out and wonders what went wrong?, and Felicity wishes she had noise-cancelling headphones. Or no ears. What would she be doing right now if Mr. Simp wasn't belting classics?

She thinks about this a lot — what it would be like if. If this, if that. What would it be like if Jenny hadn't hooked up with now-senior Mark Sanders at her brother's graduation party last year? (It still grosses her out.) When Jenny had made a joke about going to Homecoming as maybe something more than friends, then looked serious, where would they be now if Felicity had jumped on board?

What would things look like right now if Felicity hadn't pulled away after her best friend kissed her?

Felicity doesn't like to think about her 'if's. They're depressing, and they're dumb, and there's really nothing she can do except wait out this whole Mark Sanders thing, so that's that. No more 'if's. 'If's don't really exist. You'll never get your 'if', so you might as well quit thinking about whatever it is that's holding you back and just . . . shut up. Move on. Get over it.

You'll be fine.

She tells herself this all the time. Like when Jenny quit texting her as much. Or did Felicity quit texting first? She can't remember; it feels like centuries ago. Or, when Jenny didn't get her a birthday present and told her there was something up with her credit card, and then told Felicity less than a week later about some funny, judgemental bat she saw when condom-shopping. You'll be fine, you'll be fine. When John makes yet another sexual innuendo, then looks at her and attempts to bite his lip, as if this is supposed to be the sexiest, most-magazine-cover-worthy face in the universe. Or when he awkwardly takes her hand immediately hereafter — you'll be fine. You'll be fine. You'll be fine.

Most of the time, it works.

John continues his howling, and even adds in a few grunts for emphasis. His gaze catches on Felicity's briefly, and he smiles. Snarls. Wiggles his brows, and does that stupid lip-bite. "Maybe it wouldn't have gone wrong if he knew how to hit that spot," he says as the song winds down, and Felicity forces a snort before turning to the passenger-side window.

Sometimes, she wants to wonder what . . . all that would be like — penises, vaginas, the apparent mashing that follows — but she can't. At first, she tried to ask Jenny for details, but it hurt to think about Jenny and Mark (so gross), so she stopped. She doesn't want to hear about it, she doesn't want to think about it, and she most certainly has no desire to "do it". Especially with poor John.

"Nature park?" John asks, decranking the radio and glancing over quickly at Felicity before returning his eyes to the nonexistent traffic. He's already turning, though, so what does it matter what Felicity thinks?

She smiles a tight-lipped smile, feeling her cheeks push up and harden awkwardly. John likes her dimple. He says all the time that he wants to kiss it — but Felicity says she's not ready for that yet. They haven't kissed. To his credit, John hasn't told anyone they have (as far as Felicity knows, at least), but he brings it up too often for her liking. I'm more than my lips, she keeps thinking, even though she'd never say it. I'm more than a mouth. I'm more than a body.

John wants certain privileges. He's not particularly quiet about it.

"You know," John says, "my brother used to come here all the time with his first girlfriend."

And there it goes again: John's pitiful, unrequited love for his brother, college freshman Ned, who is a complete douchebag and weirdo and creeper, and who Felicity has met just once, years ago when he worked a concession stand for the basketball team. Once was more than enough.

"Oh?" she says politely from the passenger seat, close to prying off the scab completely at this point. She doesn't check if the slight stickiness beneath her index finger is blood, but she finally pulls away, draws her hands into a tight ball in her lap. Her seat belt tightens as John turns again, too sharp.

He pulls up the long gravel road leading to the more secluded parking lot of the nature park. Infamously secluded. Cameraless. And right at this moment, completely abandoned.

"Yeah. They, uh, they had their first time up here."

Ew. Felicity didn't need to know that. There was no version of this world in which Felicity would ever need to know that. She wants to ask him why he even thinks she might want to know this, how this pertains to literally anything. It's pointless. She already knows. And she hates it.

Felicity hates everything.

It was months ago, Jenny's sudden phone call: "I hooked up with Mark Sanders." Jenny's giddiness was unassailable. "At Brian's grad party. We—"

"Wait. What? What? All the way?"

Tense beats of silence. Then, all giggly: "All the way."

"I didn't know you had a thing for Mark Sanders," Felicity had said, hugging her favorite pillow to her chest and trying not to feel so hollow. Why did she feel so hollow?

"I do. Well, I do now."

"You didn't before?" Felicity couldn't believe she was hearing this. Jenny was. . . . Jenny wasn't. . . .

"It was super impromptu. Like, it just kinda . . . happened, y'know? I dunno! Ach!"

Felicity shut down then. She hasn't really rebooted yet.

The parking lot is disturbingly deserted, and as soon as the car is safely parked, John — without looking at her, without seeing her — puts his hand on her thigh. Her bare thigh, the one that is loosely crossed atop her other leg. Everything in Felicity tightens, and not in a good way. She understands a good way — with Jenny, everything within Felicity was tight and warm and sizzling and nervous and wanting. With John, it's just tight and uncomfortable.

The radio is still on. The universe hath dictated Creedence Clearwater's "Proud Mary" to be the track to accompany Felicity's current torture — where does John think this is going? His hand is clammy and grossly soft against her thigh, his fingers so treacherously light against her skin that unbeckoned goosebumps prickle up everywhere.

Super impromptu. Just kinda happened. Y'know?

If Felicity wanted, she could know. She could know right now. Does she want John? No. As she feels him watching her from the corner of his eye, she's sure she doesn't. The idea of being with him is actually a little repulsive — which has nothing to do with John, but everything to do with Jenny. Jenny. Jenny. Jenny.

Felicity's guts are strangling themselves. That's what it feels like. Repulsion. Disgust. She doesn't want this. She thinks of Jenny, thinks of the way Jenny tucks her hair behind her ears and thinks of the way Jenny purses her lips when she laughs. Thinks of the way Jenny used to insist on sharing a blanket during their long-since-abandoned movie nights. Thinks of the way Jenny once pressed her lips, her body, against Felicity's.

Thinks of the way Jenny looked at the ground, beet red and ashamed, when Felicity drew back and stammered she had to go.

Thinks of the way they never brought it up again.

Jenny likes Mark Sanders now. An impromptu-liking. Jenny never did things impromptu before — except maybe that kiss. That was such a stupid thing to do, to pull back and effectively push Jenny away. Why did she do that? Felicity can't even remember. Was it fear? Nerves? Reflex? If only she knew. If only she could remember.

She and Jenny could be on the same page again. Felicity can imagine calling up Jenny: "I hooked up with John Roe." And she'd hear the remorse in Jenny's voice as she interrogated Felicity. And she'd hear the wanting in Jenny's voice. And Felicity would say something offhand like, "It's not all it's cracked up to be, is it?" And Jenny would say, "Yeah, guys are overrated" or something else to that effect, and suddenly they'd resume their old friendly flirting, and, and. . . .

It won't happen.

John's hand has started to crawl up her thigh. Probably because Felicity hasn't said 'no' yet. Silence is a yes, right? That tightness is up all the way to her throat now. She has the faint realisation that, even if she does say no, it'll come out weak and strained and unsure. In her head, her thoughts are like a viciously pounding war drum — no no no no no — but out loud?

There is no out loud.

Felicity opens her mouth a few times like a fish out of water.

John slowly turns into her, slowly leans in.

And then the impossible happens.

Marci Griffiths's "Electric Boogie" bursts forth from the pocket of Felicity's cutoffs, and she's on it in an instant. John pulls his hand back like he's been burned, rubs the back of his head sheepishly, purses those wide lips and turns his head away.

"Jenny?" Everything inside Felicity turns to gushy liquid. Chills race over her arms, up her back. "Hey?" Her voice isn't her voice. She doesn't care.

"Mark and I broke up," Jenny says. She hardly sounds upset — if there's one thing Felicity knows, it's when her best friend is upset. "I'm sorry. Just, um, how fast can you get here?"

Felicity doesn't even turn to look at John. "I'll be right there."

"Thank you." It's a whisper.

"Bye." Another whisper.

"Bye." Jenny hangs up.

Now Felicity turns to John, runs her tired eyes over his slouching profile, sees all the different parts of his shaggy, thin hair sticking up every which way. She does feel bad for him. A little. "Hey, Jenny's having an emergency. I totally get if you don't want to give me a—"

"It's cool," John says dismissively, already trying to start up the engine. He sighs once, tries it again. The Mustang revs to life. "Jenny Kim?"

The fact that he even has to ask shows Felicity how little they know about each other.

Felicity gives directions, but otherwise, they're both silent. She's grateful for it. "It's this one," she says, already unbuckling. She'd moved past the scab and on to rolling the sleeves of her flannel up and down, up and down.

"Can I call you later?" John asks, but there's this sense of resignation that tugs Felicity's heart just slightly.

Felicity opens the door and steps out onto the curb before responding. "I don't know if that's the best idea. . . ." It's not the best idea. It's not even a good idea.

John tries to conceal the disappointment; Felicity can tell by the way he swallows a few times, blinks slowly, tries to steady himself a little bit more. "Okay."

"See you at school?" she asks, even though she'd be fine with never talking to him again.

"Sure." Felicity shuts the door, and he rolls down the window. His gaze is knowing — a little sad, maybe, but nothing beyond that. He understands. "Hey, have fun with your Jenny Kim. And good luck."

He drives away, and Felicity swallows. Hard.

The door swings open, and there is Jenny. She's already dressed in what Felicity knows is her favorite pair of pyjamas, the shortest of shorts and a sweatshirt from her dad's Cornell days. Her makeup is completely intact, mascara and eyeliner unmarred by tears. Jenny's eyes are still that beautiful, illuminous black-brown, no sign of redness, not puffy in the slightest. She doesn't even seem upset. In fact, she seems happy. It makes Felicity's heart thump harder and harder in her chest.

"Hey," Felicity says, wanting to take her in. All of her. It should be redundant. Felicty knows every inch of her. She knows that if she were to look down at Jenny's bare legs, she'd see all slight-but-firm muscle. Or how if she were to look at her sweatshirt, she'd still be able to see the slightest hints of the lean curves Jenny hid beneath the thick red fabric. But she can't help it. She hasn't seen Jenny in centuries. She needs to soak her in, all of her, to remind herself that Jenny is still there, that Jenny is still Jenny. Jenny is Jenny is Jenny.

Jenny smiles at her shyly, lip gloss shining in the early evening light. The sun is setting already, even though it's warm and spring. "Long time, no see," she says.

"No kidding," Felicity whispers. They stare for a few moments, a sudden unsurety hanging heavy between them. They used to be so tight, and ever since the kiss, it just hasn't been the same. Felicity wants the old them back.

But.

She also wants more.

What if she took more?

Felicity wants more. She always has. Really, it's more than a mere wanting. It's a need.

She reaches out and takes Jenny's hand, and even though she tries to hide it, she's second-guessing herself hardcore. Yet it's perfect — not wrong, not awkward, not sweaty. Their hand-holding-styles match. "Tell me everything," Felicity breathes — because it really is breathing. She couldn't hold it back if she tried. Nothing has ever come more naturally than being with Jenny.

"Of course," Jenny says, tugging Felicity in through the door. "But first."

She shuts the door behind them. Felicity finds herself boxing Jenny against it, all loose arms and strict eye contact. They're smiling. For Jenny, it's all soft and shy. For Felicity, it's all sunshine and teeth. Natural. It feels so natural.

Jenny's free hand comes up to cup Felicity's cheek, and when their lips meet, this time, Felicity doesn't pull away.