I stay frozen in my spot. The dream version of Ansel sweeps back a flyaway strand of hair from Zara’s face. My stomach knots itself into a pretzel when she leans in to kiss him. His arms are around her. Her hand is in his hair.
My Ansel is as awkward as I’ve ever seen him. He’s looking down, and seems to be holding his breath.
Dream Ansel puts on the brakes, pulling back.
“What’s wrong,” Zara asks. “Did I… do something?”
“No.” He looks frustrated and runs his hands through his hair. “Not at all.” He clears his throat. “I think we need to stay focused,” he says, standing, “On the task at hand.”
“That was the extent of it, mostly,” Ansel says next to me, wearing a guilty expression. “This was as close as it got to a rebound.”
“I don’t have room to talk,” I say, thinking ashamedly
