“You didn’t drag us.” His gaze softens. “We walked in. On purpose. And you’re allowed to be scared. Your dad seems like a great guy, and he doesn’t deserve to be in Abi’s web.”
“What about you? You just found out that your dad didn’t die like you thought he did.” I take a breath before moving forward. “Thinking he took his own life because life was too much is a lot different from your mom murdering him or having him murdered.”
He nods slowly. “Honestly, I’m holding on to hope, but assuming she killed him and Todd is a stretch. I don’t know what else she’d be worried about leading from Todd to my dad but… I don’t know, I can’t wrap my head around most of my life being a lie.”
We finish our food, slower now, prolonging the normalcy. When the fries are gone and my sauce cup is just streaks, I lean back and sigh.
“Thank you,” I say. “For this. For food. For being… here.”
“Thank you for not kicking me out of your life when I was a dick,” he says. “And for not making me eat cafeteria spaghetti.”
I check my phone, making sure I haven’t missed any calls or texts.
“I don’t know about you but I don’t feel like spending the rest of the day in class. Wanna skip with me for the first time?”
His eyes widen. “You’ve never skipped class before? Ever? What about high school?”
“Nope. Never. So what do you say? Take my skipping v-card.”
“Hell yeah.” He smiles. “Want to go back to the dorm?”
My pulse jumps. “To… hang out?”
“We can sit on opposite sides of the room and talk about the weather if you want.” He pushes his glasses up his nose. “I just… I don't really want to go back and be alone yet. And I like being around you when it doesn’t feel like the world is falling apart.”
It’s such a simple ask.
“Okay,” I say. “Your dorm it is.”
We toss our trash and head back to campus. The quad near his building is half full, students moving around with books and laundry baskets. None of them paying any attention to the two of us together heading inside his dorm.
The hallway smells like detergent, cologne and something vaguely like ramen. His room is small and surprisingly neat. Bed on one side, desk on the other, a worn rug in the middle. Posters on the wall. I saw a peek of it this morning, but now I can take it all in.
“This is… very you,” I say.
He drops his keys in a little dish by the bed, which is such an old-man habit I can’t help smiling. “What, small and chaotic?”
“Small and controlled,” I correct. “Big feelings in a contained space.”
He huffs out a laugh and shuts the door, flicking the lock. The soft click makes the air shift. He kicks off his Birks, and I slide my Crocs off, wiggling my toes in my Ring Pop socks.
We’re alone. No students or uncles. Just us.
Suddenly I’m very aware of the fact that I’m on the opposite side of the room from his bed, holding my bag strap like it’s a lifeline.
“You can sit,” he says gently. “I promise the furniture doesn’t bite.”
“I’m deciding whether I do,” I mutter.
He steps closer, slowly, like he is approaching a spooked animal. “We don’t have to do anything,” he says. “We can talk. Watch something stupid. You can yell at me for not sorting my laundry by color. Whatever you want.”
I study him.
The softness in his eyes. The way his shoulders are set like he is ready to back off the second I flinch.
“I know we’re supposed to be going slow,” I say. “Dating. Being responsible. Not jumping into closets again.”
His lips twitch. “Technically, this isn’t a closet.”
