Chapter Nineteen

I try to swallow any thoughts involving crushes or Isaiah Ortiz or whatever reasoning he may have had for volunteering to work with me on the Fall Fest in the first place.

How dare he be so easy to talk to?

And how dare he be so committed to the Fall Fest?

And how dare he subvert basically all the negative opinions I’ve harbored for literal years?

I mean, what did he even mean by making amends for “whatever happened between us back in middle school”?

Doesn’t he care that his even hinting at an apology might make me feel like I’m floating on a cloud?

What gives him the right?

Especially since there’s Destiny and whatever unresolved feelings exist there, which I am reluctant to deal with. Based on how Isaiah reacted when her name came up, it seems pretty clear to me that he’s still hung up on her. A month is both a long time and no time at all when it comes to breakups.

Still . . . how is my heart supposed to handle knowing Isaiah threw a whole Halloween party to impress me?

Again: How. Dare. He.

I’m stomping around my house the next morning thinking of all of these things and more. I go into the bathroom and splash my face with some cool water, staring at the mirror and pointing at my reflection.

“There will be no crushes in this house, Whitney Rivera.

Especially not on your middle school boyfriend who’s hung up on his ex,” I whisper.

The doorbell chimes.

Abuela is already at the shop, so I imagine it must be Lily. Things with her were still icy before she rushed out of the house to hang out with Nora and Ruby. She no doubt forgot her keys in the hurry; I definitely would have.

I open the door, preparing to lecture her about how she wouldn’t have forgotten her keys if she’d given me the time of day, but my words catch in my throat when I see it’s not my baby sister at all.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“Good morning to you, too,” Isaiah says with a laugh. He glances down at my pajama bottoms, which I realize with sheer mortification are stitched with the word INTONATION up one of the legs. “Nice pants.”

I scowl at him. “I’d like to see what you wear to bed.” Then, realizing what I said, I add, “I heard how that sounded and I will not acknowledge it.”

“Fair enough.” Isaiah holds up a cup of coffee. “This is for you.”

“For me?” I reach for the cup, the warmth from the drink transferring to my fingertips, still cold from the water I just splashed on my face.

“You said you had an early start this morning.” He gives me a shrug, as if hand- del ivering a coffee to my front steps is nothing to him. “I’ve got an early tutoring session and got myself a coffee anyway. Thought you could use one, too.”

“Thank you,” I say, feeling near speechless.

“It’s pumpkin spice. Our favorite.” He grins at me. “Oh! And I also wanted to drop this off.”

Isaiah hands me a three-ring binder, similar to the one I’ve used for my notes, though this one is smaller than the one I’ve been using. “Those are some ideas for the carnival and the bake sale.”

I blink at him. “But we just decided on the bake sale last night!”

“And I’m a natural at this planning stuff. I believe you have used the word genius several times?”

That earns him a wel l- deserved eye roll.

“With said genius, I present you with my version of the sacred Fall Fest binder.” Isaiah grins. “Now I’ve gotta go to that tutoring session I mentioned . . .” He starts to walk backward toward the porch stairs. “But I trust you’ll have those notes studied, memorized, and ready for further discussion by our next meeting?”

“Okay” is all I manage to say, my eyes darting back and forth between Isaiah and the items in my hands.

“That’s the spirit!” Isaiah calls, unlocking the car.

“Thank you for the coffee!” I call back, watching as he opens the door and slips inside. “And the notes!”

He leans out of his window and taps the roof of his car. “Just channeling my inner Whit Rivera. I kinda like it!”

Without waiting for a response, he’s gone, leaving me with warm pumpkin spice coffee in one hand, a beautiful, idea- filled binder in the other, and a heart brimming with feelings.