“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” she says, dumping the tote bag on the table. It lands with a thud that suggests she’s carrying at least three encyclopedias. “Austen had a crisis.”
“Another one?” Michelle asks.
“He got his head stuck in a paper bag. Then he panicked and knocked over my bookshelf. Then he looked at me likeIwas the one who’d traumatizedhim.” She blows a strand of hair out of her face. “I love that cat, but he’s a menace.”
“He’s a perfect angel,” I say, before I can stop myself.
Everyone looks at me.
“He attacked you,” Grayson points out. “Drew blood. You needed a bandage.”
“That was just him expressing himself.”
“He was committing assault.”
“He’s a complex cat. It’s okay.”
Jessica is staring at me with an unreadable expression. “You’re defending my cat. The one who mauled you.”
“Mauled is a strong word.”
“You have a scar.”
“It’s small. It adds character.”
“To your shoulder?”
“Shoulders can have character.”
“That’s the strangest thing anyone’s ever said to me.” But she’s almost smiling, and something in my chest loosens.
We settle around the table, me on one side, Jessica directly across from me because the universe enjoys my suffering. The heat is oppressive. Michelle has already commandeered the one functioning desk fan, pointing it directly at her face.
Michelle puts her head in her hands. “Can you two flirt somewhere else? We have an agenda.”
“We’re not flirting,” Jessica and I say in unison.
“You’re absolutely flirting. It’s exhausting.” Michelle waves her hand toward the whiteboard at the front of the room. “Let’s reveal the authors based on correspondence length. Who has been writing letters the longest?”
Jessica checks her list, and her finger traces down the page. Her nails are painted pale pink. There’s a smudge of what might be ink on her thumb.
“Coastal Quill,” she says. “Eight months. Most letters of any pair in the program.”
My heart does something complicated.
“Coastal Quill should go last, then,” Michelle says. “Save the best for the finale.”
“The most anticipated, anyway.” Jessica makes a note, her pen scratching against the paper. “I’ll let him know he’s the closing act. He’ll probably freak out. He seems like a panicker.”
“What makes you say that?” I ask, keeping my voice very, very casual.
“In his letters, he’s always worried about saying the wrong thing, being misunderstood, disappointing people.” She shrugs, and the movement makes her sundress strap slip slightly off her shoulder. She pushes it back up absently. “It’s endearing, actually. He tries so hard.”
I fight to keep from smiling. “Maybe he has reason to worry,” I manage.
“Maybe. But I think he’s harder on himself than he needs to be. Most people are.” She looks up, meets my eyes. “Don’t you think?”
“I think—” My voice comes out strange. I clear my throat. “I think some people have more to worry about than others.”
