Was that the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth? Hard to tell with someone who treated facial expressions like state secrets.
I pulled out my camera, mostly because I couldn't sit still when I was nervous, and started adjusting settings I didn't need to adjust. The library had decent natural light, afternoon sun slanting through tall windows and casting everything in warm, golden tones that made even the ugliest furniture look almost beautiful.
Including the boy sitting across from me, who was definitely not ugly by any stretch of the imagination.
I lifted the camera and snapped a shot of the light hitting his notebook, not him—I wasn't completely suicidal—but close enough that he'd know what I was doing.
His hand slammed down on the notebook so fast I jumped, hazel eyes flashing with something that looked suspiciously like panic.
“Whoa.” I lowered the camera immediately, hands up in the universal gesture of surrender. “Sorry. Should have asked first.”
His jaw worked like he was chewing glass, and for a moment I thought he might actually say something. Instead, he grabbed a pen and scrawled something across a piece of paper, sliding it toward me with enough force that it nearly sailed off the edge of the table.
Stop.
I studied the word, written in neat, careful handwriting that somehow managed to look angry despite being perfectly legible. Then I looked back at him, noting the tension in his shoulders, the way his free hand had curled into a fist.
“Stop,” I repeated slowly. “Not 'no.' Not 'go away.' Just 'stop.'”
He frowned, like I was speaking a foreign language.
“There's a difference,” I explained, grinning despite the fact that he still looked like he wanted to murder me with his bare hands. “Stop implies a pause, a break in action. No is a complete rejection. Big difference.”
For a split second, something flickered across his face—surprise, maybe, or confusion. Like no one had ever bothered to dissect his carefully chosen words before.
Then the mask slammed back down, and he was glaring at me again.
“So,” I said, settling back in my chair and making it clear I wasn't going anywhere. “What are we not talking about today?”
Before he could write another monosyllabic response, footsteps approached our table. I looked up to find a lanky kid with sandy hair and an easy grin.
“What do we have here? Evan making friends?” He said, sliding into the chair next to Evan like he belonged there.
Evan. I finally got a name and it suited him.
Evan's glare shifted to the newcomer, but it lacked the sharp edge he'd been directing at me. This was familiar irritation, not genuine anger.
“I'm Jonah,” the kid said, extending a hand that I shook automatically. “Jonah Ryder. And you're the infamous city boy who's got everyone's panties in a twist.”
“Nate,” I said, because someone in this conversation should probably use actual words. “Nate Harrington. And I prefer to think of myself as charmingly disruptive rather than twist-inducing.”
Jonah's grin widened. “I like him already. Careful though, city boy—you're trying to make friends with a statue. Might want to bring offerings. Maybe some flowers. Dead rabbits. Whatever it is that statues eat.”
“Then I'll be the first one to get him to blink,” I shot back without thinking.
Jonah threw back his head and laughed, the sound loud enough to earn us several annoyed shushes from the librarian. Evan's scowl deepened, but there was something in his eyes now that hadn't been there before. Amusement, maybe. Or at least interest.
Progress.
“Oh, I really like him,” Jonah said, wiping his eyes. “Evan, you should keep this one. He's got excellent comedic timing.”
Evan wrote something in his notebook and shoved it toward Jonah, who read it and laughed again.
“He says you talk too much,” Jonah translated helpfully.
“Finally!” I threw my hands up in mock celebration. “Actual feedback. See? We're bonding already.”
Evan's lips twitched. Just barely, just for a split second, but I saw it. The ghost of a smile that he'd tried to swallow before it could fully form.
