I didn’t wait to hear whatever bullshit he responded with.
I left the bakery without looking back.
August 15th
I knocked loudly on the front door of Apartment 203 of the Briars complex.Place your bets: How long will I have to do this before Armand wakes up?
I’d tried calling him several times while I was waiting around to speak to campus police, but with the understanding that he was Armand, and it wasmorning, and there was no way he was going to answer. I was secretly glad he hadn’t picked up; we hadn’t spoken since the night before, when I’d been crying about Skyler and he’d basically called me a creep. If things were going to be awkward between us—and they definitely were—they might as well be awkward face-to-face rather than over the phone.
I went to knock again, but the door creaked open. Armand was pale and—I’d never eventhoughtthis word before—wan. He lookedwan.
I couldn’t help it; I immediately stopped being mad at him. This beautiful, giant man was the most pathetic thing I’d ever seen in my entire life. “Armand? Are you okay?”
He nodded stiffly and moved aside so I could head past him into the apartment. I studied his face as I went by—he didn’t look mad at me anymore, or mad at anything really. He looked like a man waiting to be pressed into a meat grinder. But the apartment was strangely clean with no lingering smell of booze; if anything, it smelled of coffee and ...
“Did you make croissants?” I whirled around to stare at him. “Fromscratch?”
Armand had closed the door behind us and was now leaning against it, arms crossed tightly over his chest and brows furrowed, cheeks pink. “I bake when I’m upset,” he said, like that made any kind of sense.
“It’s going to be fine. You and Lucas are gonna hit it off,” I told him, grabbing a warm, golden crescent from the big plate on the kitchen island. It felt like acloud. I took a bite and then leaned against the counter with my eyes closed. “Oh my god, your pain tastesamazing.”
The silence that followed had a stinging brightness to it, like an overexposed photo. I turned to him again, raising my eyebrows questioningly. “Okay, what.”
“Urgh”—his voice was thick and timorous—“it happened. We met.”
“What happened? Who did—Oh my god, you met Lucas! When did this happen? Oh my god, oh my god, tell me, tell me, tell me!” I stuffed the last of my croissant in my mouth and ran up to him, grabbing his hands. “Wha’haffened?”
He gave a full-body cringe but didn’t pull his hands away. “It’s a long story.”
“Then getstarted!” I glanced at my watch. “We don’t have to check in at the convention center for a few hours.”
Armand was shaking his head and pulling his hands away. “I ... I’m not sure he’ll be there. Er. Or even wants to see me again. At all. Ever.”
“Oh?” I held on tighter.
He stopped fighting andwilted. “I was, well, ehrm, I stepped on an inkwell ... w-while n-no-not wearing much, and there was blood a-and ink and, well, hurmmpphh never mind.”
I let that mess of an explanation hang in the air between us for a few moments, then I said carefully, “You stepped on an inkwell?”
He shut his eyes and didn’t respond, so I knelt down and wrenched up the leg of his pajama pants, nearly tipping him over.
“Gnrrchkt?” he said in protest and grabbed the wall for balance.
“This isn’t so bad! We can work with it.” The bandage on Armand’s foot looked like a pretty professional job. “Did you go to urgent care? Wait—” I gasped “—didLucasdo this?”
I’d never seen Armand Demetrio so red or so wretched, and in both cases that was saying something.
“He did, didn’t he? Oh man, I would have paidmoneyto see—”
“Titch, stop it,” he groaned, rubbing at his hairline. “I need to get ready.”
I stood up and gave him my most pitying pout. “No, what you need is an emergency makeover. Don’t get me wrong, first impressions are important, but that doesn’t mean you can’t drown them out with a really,reallyspectacular second impression!”
His eyes widened in horror “An emer—? Ohno, no nonono!”
“Yes yes yesyesyes. Now go to the kitchen and get me tea bags, lemon juice, olive oil, and—why not?—cucumbers.”
He blinked at me. “A-are we making a salad?”
