She bristles. “Maybe you should.”
But I don’t, and she knows it. There’s nothing she could do that would make me not notice.
For a second, her breath comes shallow, sharp — angry or anxious, I can’t tell. Maybe both. I study her face, careful. “You’re not avoiding me because you don’t want me around.”
Her lips purse a hard line. “Wrong.”
“No.” I say it low, like it’s just between us. I know what I'm doing, using the true thing as a lever. I say it anyway. “You’re avoiding me because if you let someone in, it means you needed them.”
She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. She wants to argue, but there aren’t words ready and loaded for this. It’s not her normal war zone. She’s got armor for a thousand types of attack, but not this one.
I let the silence hang, let her seethe. Then, softer, “I’m not asking you to need me.”
“Good,” she bites out, maybe too quickly, maybe not enough.
“I’m asking you to let me help.” I try to smile with my voice, not my face. It’s enough for most people.
Her laugh is sharp. “Why?”
I pick my words carefully. “Because you looked like hell yesterday.”
“I always look like hell,” she says.
“Not true.”
“Evan.”
I take a breath. “Because you asked me for something and you hated it. And you did it anyway.”
Her eyes flicker.
“And because,” I add, keeping it light, “I made you a decent steak. I feel morally obligated to make sure you don’t fail your test out of spite.”
At that, she almost smiles. It’s a twitch, more a muscle spasm than an expression, but I’ll take it.
Then she’s back, mask up, and the moment’s gone. “I don’t have time for distractions,” she says.
“I’m not offering a distraction.” I nod toward her backpack. “I’m offering an hour. Coffee. Flashcards. Not even a conversation, if that’s your preference.”
Her stare is suspicious. “Why would you do flashcards with me?”
I shrug. “Because I can read. Because you’re going to study until you pass out in a booth somewhere, and I’d rather you not do that alone. Because you do something kind of cute with your eyebrows when you’re working on a really hard math problem.”
She glares at me, and for the first time in this entire exchange, the anger seems less about me and more about the fact that I’m right.
“One hour,” I say, “and that’s it. You don’t even have to talk to me. I set a timer, we get through your stuff, and then I leave. No weirdness. I promise.”
She crosses her arms, shifting her weight, as if she’s trying to take up less space. “You’re already making this weird.”
“Fair,” I say. “But you know I can help.”
She shifts her weight again, gaze darting to her own door like it’s calling her. “I… I’m going to a cafe.”
“I can meet you there.”
She narrows her eyes, looking for the hook. There is a hook. There’s always a hook.
But I keep my face open. Normal. Like I’m just a guy with nothing better to do than help the woman next door study amortization schedules.
