I hate the waiting game.

It is by far my least favorite game to play with Peter. QuizUp, Kahoots, Monopoly, How-Many-Arguments-Can-We-Start-Between-Ned-and-MJ-In-A-Day, Charades, and Scrabble are all entertaining games to play with him. The waiting game, however, is grey and bland. Moreover, it makes me feel paranoid and clingy. Both paranoid and clingy, yet simultaneously doubtful of how valid those two emotions can be, given the circumstances. It's a draining game of mental tennis. On one side of the court: I'm being - and coming across as - so clingy. On the other: My emotions are justified reactions that anyone would have in this situation, not knowing if their friend is okay. Peter probably knows that too. Trying to decipher which is true and which is false only leads me to bounce back and forth between those two sides for hours. Until Peter responds. Then it all goes away.

The stress of the waiting game always manifests as an itch on my right index finger.

Most days that itch only somewhat bothers me - but today, of course, isn't most days. It's been a wonderful, sunny day that everyone (but Flash) has been planning for over a month. Like the city, it might not be glamorous, but it's ours and it's meant to be special.

I mean, even Peter has been excited about this from the start, all the way up to today. Despite being somewhat of a recluse this week.

At this point, my finger is red and burning. Peter hasn't answered my texts, Michelle's ironically professional emails, or Ned's dozen calls. It's 7:15 p.m.

Michelle thought it best to arrive early, so the three - rather than four - of us await the rest of the team at a large table in a decently busy restaurant.

I open my messages. Nothing.

"We're already here, btw."

Whoosh. I close them. Ned glances at my phone.

"Tell him if he's later than 8, I'll rat him out to Aunt May. She told him this morning that he should skip his 'Starky stuff' and just hang out with everybody today. I don't think she was too happy when she got home and saw he wasn't there."

I hadn't heard May say anything to Peter this morning. Then again, I had fallen asleep at the table. (Michelle kept kneeing me on the couch all night - the reason I barely slept.) And when Peter woke me up because the cereal bowl I was cradling threatened to fall, May didn't even make a joke about it. Did they have an argument?

"Earth to Y/N?" Ned waved his hand in front of my face. "Daydreaming about Spider-Man again?"

On the bright side, Peter isn't here to hear that. Ned's been making a lot of weird comments like that today. It's not helping the fact I feel so paranoid. How would Ned know? And why so suddenly?

"Very funny. I'll text him."

I open my messages again.

"You and May okay? Ned says he'll tell her you bailed if you don't get here by 8. Don't shoot the messenger."

A few minutes later, the waiter brings a tray of waters. Two minutes more and he leads Abe, Cindy, Sally, and unexpectedly, Betty, the blonde newsgirl, non-decathlon member, to the table.

A round of "Hello!"'s are exchanged.

"It's cool if Betty joins us, right?" Sally asks. "We all kind of met up on our way here and she was about to pass by, so we thought it'd be alright?"

"Of course," Michelle says. Her nails drum the table. Our little code.

"Absolutely," I add. "Ned was just saying we should have invited you, Betty!"

Ned thinks he can keep a secret. But he can't. I've noticed him staring at her in seventh hour and Michelle is far too perceptive to miss it. With me, Michelle, Peter, and Flash all being in that class, you'd think he might make an effort to be less obvious.

Have I been obvious? Is that why Ned's been making those jokes today? But why today? I barely even saw Peter today, let alone while Ned was there.

"Really? Thank you! I didn't want to intrude on the team before you guys left or anything."

Her smile is genuine. I suppress a laugh as Ned's ears twinge red and he struggles for a cool way to play along.

"Yeah, totally. I mean, you should go with us to D.C. It'd be totally cool."

"And totally against the rules," Cindy points out, frowning. "Don't get me wrong, it would be cool, but Mr. Harrington doesn't let anyone outside of the team come. Trust me, I-"

BEEEEEEP! A horn blares outside. Once. Twice. Thrice. The third blast holds for ten seconds, minimum.

A waitress, her arms full of hot plates, glares out the window she's now blocking. I have a guess as to which car in all of New York it is, though. Nevertheless, the scent of freshly baked salmon, wild rice, chocolate, and something lemony from the plates is making my mouth water. Hurry up, Parker. Even Flash is on time.

"I predict," Abe says, "Flash will walk through those doors in approximately sixty seconds."

Everyone watches the clock, all knowing it's undoubtably him.

Sixty seconds later, Flash strides in.

"You know," he announces, pulling off his the price of this could buy Ned a new gaming console jacket, "in this world, there are the Have's and the Have-Not's. And the Have-Not's are real dicks to any Have's with a worthwhile car."

Michelle immediately starts to speak.

"No need to go off on a spiel, O Captain, Our Captain," he mocks. "I know, I know. Rich people, poor people, power structures, etcetera etcetera. Don't get your braids in a knot."

"Are-"

"Oh my god! It's not a race thing! Chill out. It's literally because you're wearing braids today. Not everything means something, you know!"

He's barely sat down and he's already trying his best to pick a fight. The consistency of it borders on comforting. In a strange, stupid way, Flash is dependable.

"Freud would beg to differ," says a voice to my left.

I'm surprised for the second time in the last ten minutes. Peter didn't bail.

I feel my pulse jump as he runs a hand through his hair and shrugs. I hate myself for it. He slides into the booth to take the table's last seat beside me. Oddly, he doesn't say hello or acknowledge me at all. Then again, he's been odd all week.

Does Ned know something? Did he tell Peter? Does Peter feel awkward about me now?

I try to shake myself of these thoughts. Ned can't know anything. I haven't said a thing to anyone. It has to be something else. It has to be.

"Yeah, well," Flash says, affronted. "Freud wasn't a real psychologist anyway. What's his work got to offer? It's not even valid."

Everyone races into the topic at once, drowning out the restaurant's gentle music.

Moments like this make me fall in love with friends all over again. My best friends are talking passionately with their hands, their individual mannerisms and voices blending together like warm colors and soft city sounds. My other friends (or teammates, however you would label it) are bouncing points and ideas from each person to the next like an inflatable beach ball, never stumbling over one another.

For once, I sit back and soak up the moment. Admittedly, Freud is a subject I would rarely pass up, but I'm too relieved at the turn-out to think. Everyone showed up. Everyone is getting along. (As much as ever.) Rather than participate in the aggressive bonding of our group, I smile, listen, and laugh, trying to convince myself things with Peter are fine. This is the perfect night for an almost perfect day, don't overthink it.

I take a moment to admire the restaurant. It's one Abe suggested. The room is deep red, the hanging lights emit a delicate glow, and for the sake of minimalistic elegance, gold flecks are painted to sprinkle down the walls from the ceiling. It's such a small detail I almost miss it. Other tables are talking and joking, silverware clanging and plates steaming. It smells like a fresh bakery impregnated with a vegetable garden and a smokehouse.

Mouth watering again, I notice Flash is the only one looking at a menu. He's gotten to the "I don't care about this topic anymore" stage of his argument. I don't want to interrupt anyone, so I pick up my menu as well. Maybe someone else will catch on and one by one we'll come back down to Earth.

"Yes it does!" Peter shouts beside me.

Maybe not.

"You can't bring that up without discussing the one thing that clearly directly correlates his childhood to that thesis!" Peter says. I suddenly realize he's seriously into this argument. The point he's making is one of my own though, so it gives me a short flutter of pride. I know he listens to me and to everyone else, but it's satisfying to have it confirmed, to know, with evidence, that we learn from each other. "Right, Ned?"

Peter turns from Flash to me to Ned. In the half-second they're directed at me, his eyes shine with anger. My gut drops. Peter never gets angry, not like this, not at me.

"Yeah," Ned says slowly, "but Y/N gets this better than I do. Didn't you say-?"

Peter whips back to Flash.

"My point is-"

Ned gives me a questioning look, head tilted.

Peter is less than a foot to my left, but I take out my phone anyway. He's too deep into the argument to notice and I can't ignore whatever is going on anymore. I message Ned and Michelle.

"Peter mad at me for something?"

Whoosh.

The waiter returns to the table.

"Anyone ready to order?" he says, pen and paper pad in hand.

"I am," Flash affirms immediately. "I'll have the-"

"We'll need a few minutes," I say. Nobody picked up the menu hint.

The waiter nods and leaves with a smile.

"Okay, children," Michelle says. "Let's be quiet for a couple minutes and focus at the task at hand. Everyone have their menus? Excellent. I'm so proud. Ready. Set. Go!"

The table as a whole seems fine. Everyone here takes debating as entertainment and few topics result in any real disagreements. (Well, we get over them quickly, at least.)

Across the table, Abe points at his favorite dish as a suggestion for Cindy. Everyone else is calmly reading the first page.

Except Peter. Peter's mouth is screwed up in mute irritation. In truth, it's hard to take him seriously with that expression. It looks like he's trying to hide something in there. Just a couple secrets, no big deal. I consider whispering a joke to him about it to lighten the mood. I deflect the thought immediately; I doubt it would work right now.

Ding! Ding!

My phone. Peter huffs. I switch it to silent.

MJ: "He's acting weird. Maybe it's about May? They got into an argument in her room while you were cuddling your Fruity Pebbles."

"About what?"

Whoosh.

Bzz.

MJ: "I couldn't hear. Kind of pissed me off. I have no idea. Ned?"

I glance up. Michelle has built a house out of her and Abe's menu since he's looking at Cindy's. Her phone must be hidden inside like an Easter egg.

Ned, like me, hasn't put that kind of effort into covering up our gossiping. He's scanning the menu, but texting under the table.

Bzz.

Ned: "I heard 1: time management 2: friendly-at-home-occasionally Peter Parker 3. Y/N might"

Me?

"I might what?"

Whoosh.

Ned: "I cnat believe i typed that without any mistakes not looking. and idk. those were just the words i cauhgt."

MJ: "Ironic, Ned."

I sneak a peek at Peter. He lifts an eyebrow. I'm not sure if it's a reaction to something on the menu or if he knows I'm trying to analyze him through my peripheral vision. Either way, I give up on both the analysis and the texts.