You and I fit like my favourite sweater
And there's no doubt about it, I'm this forever
There isn't a version of us where we aren't together
Your rainy days, my sunny weather
Sweater, from FOUR's first album, Nights Like These
I wake the next morning to the sound of rain pattering against my window. It's my favourite sort of morning, my favourite sort of weather.
Thinking about days starting makes me think about meeting Holland in that coffee shop - if you can even call it meeting, it was practically the opposite of a meet-cute - and how everything could have been different. If I hadn't gone to that Starbucks. If he hadn't gotten the address wrong. If I hadn't decided to have a shower. If he hadn't felt so bad about the whole thing.
It's sort of crazy to think about it, all of these different realities, about as far apart from us as the thickness of a piece of tape.
All of that just makes me want to write more, makes my head overflow with ideas. It's a strange difference from just a few days ago, when I had no ideas at all. When I was feeling barren and desperate and sad. (I still feel sort of desperate and sad, but in more of a tragic-writer sort of way.)
I wander down to the kitchen and make myself a cup of tea, then wander back up to my room. I don't have any classes today - I'm lucky enough to have Fridays off, which feels positively decadent - so I can dedicate the whole day to writing if I want.
The next hour sort of blurs into this phase of mind dumping ideas into a Google doc, no form, no pressure, just absolute stream of consciousness. It feels good. It's reminding me of what writing is supposed to be like.
After an hour, I pick up my phone and text Holland. I've got no idea where he is or what time it is, so I just say:
Good morning. Hope its not the middle of the night now or that I don't wake u up
Then I put my phone down and keep writing, ideas flowing out like a blur. I'm on my way to having the beginning of a solid outline when my phone buzzes.
Ah, it's around 6pm here. Getting ready for a show.
I wince. I can't imagine what the jet lag must be like on these tours - I have no idea how they do it.
Good luck with ur show! You're in brazil?
I'm guessing - I haven't memorized all of their tour dates yet.
Sao Paulo, yeah. It's amazing here. Gorgeous - and warm.
So weird to think about - it's cold and raining here right now.
We're also about a day ahead - I think that's the weirdest part.
True. Also I love the cold rainy weather. So I'm happy.
That makes sense. It suits you. What are you doing right now?
Well I don't have any classes today. So, I'm writing.
Ah it's the perfect weather for writing.
Exactly!
As we're texting, I'm starting to realize that it's almost lunch and all I've had to eat was half a piece of toast I swiped from Anya. So I stick my phone in my pocket and head back down to the kitchen, a smile on my face.
Once again, texting with Holland is just - it's just so nice. I know that's like, a weird word to use, but - getting to know him. Learning the way he texts and the way he translates the world into these texts. What he thinks is or isn't important to mention.
I just love getting to know him.
I pull out a pan and get busy making a grilled cheese sandwich, enjoying the calm and silence of the house. Some of the others might be here right now, I'm not sure, but if they are their in their rooms. Soon, I've got a grilled cheeze sizzling in the pan and a glass of orange juice ready on the table. I practically scarf down my lunch - I was so engrossed in my writing I didn't realize how hungry I was.
After I wash my plate and leave the pan to cool on the stove, I pull on my boots and a jacket and a toque, wrap a scarf around my neck and stuff my mittened hands in my pockets. The rain's let up enough that I'm alright in my rainjacket, no risk to my jeans getting soaked.
I walk down our driveway and down the road, breathing in the crisp air and waving at passing cars so a) they think I'm friendly and b) they're more likely to see me and less likely to run me over. My phone's silent in my pocket, and I imagine Holland backstage some stadium in Brazil, getting ready for a show, probably joking with Ever and Will and plotting revenge on Noah for whatever he did on the flight.
I imagine him thinking about me, and then feel foolish. It feels weird to assume that I could take up as much space in his brain as he takes in mine.
It feels selfish. It feels fangirl-crazy, it feels extravagant. But then I remember him saying that he saw a sunset and it made him think of me, and that makes me wonder.
Maybe.
Maybe.
After my walk, I make (another) cup of tea and settle back into one of the has-to-be-magically comfortable couches in the living room, pulling out a book and sinking into another world.
Days like these feel decadent, but after the week I've had, I think I deserve it.
I'm not pulled out of the world of the book until nearly 3pm, when Soph comes crashing through the door, a gust of wind blowing in after her.
"How was your class?" I ask absentmindedly, looking up from my book.
"Good," she says. "Sorry, I'd talk, but I've got like, less than 20 minutes before I have to leave for my next class. I just really needed to come back and get some actual food. Also I forgot my textbook," she says, like the textbook is an afterthought. For Soph, it probably is, never mind that there are a million places on campus where she could get food.
I just smile and sink back into my book. The rain's lulling me into a sort of a half awake state, and I almost think I could fall asleep. Soph leaves, and I finish my book, then head upstairs and write some more.
It's days like these that really make me stop and think - this could be my life someday. This could be my job.
Obviously writing isn't always easy, but still - I could be doing this all the time. No guilt, no shoving it in the small spaces between classes, or hating when I want to write anything but what I have to do for some stupid assignment for class.
Sometimes I have a hard time imagining my future, so I love days like these, where it feels clear. Where it feels like something I could actually have.
I wonder if it's ever like that for Holland. Having those times where he's realized he's made it. I want to be able to talk to him about dreams, and how strange life is. I want him to be here. I want to discuss my deepest hopes with him, and that's what makes me realize that Maggie was right.
I'm really all in on this.
Me and Holland spend the rest of the evening - well, the evening for me - texting sporadically, until I fall asleep with my phone clutched to my chest, a goodnight text from him still dancing behind my eyelids.
It's two days later when he gives me his phone number. It's completely unexpected - that's another level of trust, I know, for him - someone who has barely any privacy as it is. Someone who the world - including me, I know - wants to know every bit of him they can.
It's text, just a couple of words.
I want to be able to hear your voice. Can I call you?
This is me asking for your phone number btw. In case that wasn't clear.
It was clear. And it was a no brainer, for me at least. I gave him my number right away. It made texting a lot easier, especially considering the crappy wifi I had most places on campus and my less than stellar monthly data plan.
He called me first. I was standing in the kitchen on a Tuesday morning, waiting for the water to boil. It was the middle of the night where he was, and I wasn't really expecting anything when my phone rang. It startled me like it always does, because no one really calls me. I text all of my friends, and my dad wouldn't be calling me at 7am on a tuesday unless there was an emergency.
When Holland's name flashed on the screen, I felt briefly like throwing up before I took a deep breath, pulled myself together, and answered the phone.
My nervousness did not follow the rules of logic. We'd met in person hardly four days ago. We'd been texting nearly constantly since. Why would a phone call make me so nervous?
"Hi."
"Cass, hi." He sounded happy. Tired, a little bit of roughness in his voice, like maybe he'd been singing all day. Or just gotten off stage.
Every bit of nerves immediately disappeared. God, it was different, actually talking to him. It made me wonder why we hadn't done this before.
"How are you?" I ask, smiling through the phone at him.
"Good, good," he says. "You?"
"Just waking up," I say. "Making tea."
"Is it early there? Did I wake you up?"
"No," I say, "I was already up. I have classes today."
"Good," he says. "Feel free to just not answer if I ever mix up the time zones and call you at the wrong time."
There are two things about that sentence that make me ridiculously happy - him talking about calling me again and that fact that he's tried to memorize the time change between us. I've been trying to to - horribly - but it's reassuring to know I'm not the only one.
"I'll always answer," I say. "Even if you call in the middle of the night. It's - it's really good to hear your voice."
"You too," he says, apparently not put off by the embarrassingly lovesick things I just said. He never seems to be.
"What's it like there," he says, which seems to have become a bit of a tradition between us - telling each other what the weather is like.
"Dark," I say. "Misty. Cold. I think it's supposed to rain today. You?"
"Hot," he says. "I think I might be melting, honestly."
"Opposites," I say, smiling through the window at the sun just starting to peek over the trees.
"Mm," he says. He voice goes crackly for a moment, and I straighten, trying to pick out his words.
"You're breaking up," I say. "Can you hear me? Holland?"
The line goes static for a moment, then clears, his voice coming through. "-hear me?"
"Yeah," I say. "Lost you for a second."
"Sorry," he says. "We're driving right now, must have lost service for a second."
"I thought it might have been me," I say. "This is house is old and very probably haunted, things tend to be weird around here."
"You believe in ghosts?" He asks. There's a smile in his voice.
"Are you making fun of me?" I counter. "No, I wouldn't say I believe, but - there's been some weird shit in this house, Holland believe me."
"I do," he says. "And I wasn't making fun of you. Will's a believer, too - you two would get along."
There's an indignant voice in the background, then a shout of pain from Holland.
I try not to laugh. "Are you being murdered?" I ask. "Do I need to call the police?"
"Someone's gonna get murdered," Holland grits out. "Someone who should remember I know where they sleep."
I do laugh at that, outright. Holland goes silent on the other end and I think I've lost him again. "Are you still there?" I ask, when I've gotten my breath back.
"No, yeah," he says. "It's just - you have a really nice laugh."
I blush, fidgeting with the edge of the kitchen counter. Someone comes in behind me, and I turn to see Anya, looking tired but curious when she sees I'm on the phone. I wave and turn back around, tucking my phone between my ear and my shoulder so I can finally finish making my tea.
"Thanks," I say.
"You're blushing, aren't you," he says, and now he's smiling, I can hear it.
"I - no," I say, blushing even more.
"You're horrible at taking compliments," he says, and I blurt out an automatic, "sorry!" emphatic and half laughing.
"Why do you always do that?" he says.
"What?"
"Apologize."
I shrug, sitting down at the table with my tea. Anya's sending me a knowing look from across the table and I glare at her, waving her off.
"Must be the Canadian in me," I say, and Holland laughs.
"Maybe," he says. "I'd tell you to stop but I know you'll just apologize for that, and we'll just go around in circles forever."
"Very wise," I say, drinking some tea.
There are more muffled voices on the other end of the line, and when Holland speaks again, he sounds apologetic. "Sorry, I have to go, love. Can I call you later?"
"Um, yeah," I say, and he says bye and hangs up before I can fully process the fact that he just called me -
That he just called me love.
I can't help but smile, thinking about him thinking about calling me later. The fact that he took the time to call, when he's clearly really busy. The fact that he called me love, like it was normal, easy, like he didn't even have to think about it.
"God, the two of you are disgusting," Anya slumps forward on the table.
"What?" I say. "You barely heard any of our conversation, and you didn't hear anything he was saying."
"Doesn't matter," she says. "I can tell from the look on your face. Lovesick."
Love.
I know Anya doesn't mean it like that, but it takes me off guard. It hasn't even been a week. Could I really already be falling for Holland? Like, falling in love falling?
I know the answer as soon as I ask it.
Yes. Of course, yes. I think part of me knew as soon as I met him that this boy could have all of me if he wanted to. That he was just - right.
And it's terrifying.