I nod. “Two coffees.”
The server grins like he knows exactly what kind of night this is. “On it.”
When he walks away, Molly picks up the textbook carefully, as if it might bite. “How did you know what class I’m taking?”
I keep my face blank, aware that every answer is a minefield with her. “Saw your syllabus at your place,” I say. “On the kitchen counter, next to the mug tree.”
“You looked at my stuff?”
“It was on the counter,” I say. “Right next to your sink. Hard to miss.”
She squints at me, weighing whether this is normal curiosity or something more. For a second, I think she’s going to call me a creep. Instead, she lets out a long, slow breath and leans back. “So you stalked my homework. That’s a new one.”
“Only because you don’t talk about yourself. Pardon me for being interested in you.”
“Fine,” she mutters. “But if you judge me for being a nerd, I’ll poison you.”
“I would never,” I say. “I respect nerds. They keep the world running while the rest of us break stuff.”
“You break stuff?”
“Sometimes,” I say, and the word tastes like lies and motorcycles and blood.
The coffees arrive. Molly grabs both hands around the mug, like she needs the heat. “I can’t believe you did all this. You got index cards.”
I push the cards toward her. “Color-coded. I didn’t know which was your favorite, so I bought all three.” After a moment, I add, “So what part of this subject are you struggling with?”
She squints at the cards, then at me. “Who says I’m struggling?”
“You,” I say. “Your face. Your whole… vibe.”
“My vibe,” she repeats, deadpan. “I give off a ‘struggle’ vibe?”
“It’s very ‘I will pass this test or die trying.’”
Her mouth twitches again. “Okay, yeah. You’re right. I am struggling, even though I enjoy the subject.”
Something in my chest tightens.
Not because she admitted she’s struggling, but because she trusted me enough to.
I pick up the pen and some notecards.
“All right,” I say, forcing my voice steady. “Come on. Let’s get started.”
Molly stares at the spread — wine, chocolate, the stupid, careful effort — and her lashes lower as if she’s trying to hide the fact it means something.
When she speaks, her voice is softer than I’ve ever heard it.
“Thank you, Evan,” she says. “This is absolutely ridiculous…” A beat passes, and a struggle greater than an accounting exam plays out across her face. “…but I love it.”
The words land in me like a punch to the throat, and I almost say it back — those three words that would ruin everything. Three words that I wanted to say all those years ago, before tragedy took me away from town, made me grow up, made medo things that had me wonder if I’d ever have a right to say those words again. Instead, I swallow hard, keep my hands busy, keep my eyes on the index cards like they’re my lifeline.
“Yeah,” I manage. “Good. You’re welcome.” Then I point at the first card, because I need a damn distraction from the hurricane of emotions rolling through my chest. “Explain supply and demand like you’re insulting me.”
Molly huffs a laugh, and just like that, she leans in.
And I hate how badly I want to stay right here in this warm corner of her life, pretending I’m not the knife aimed at her throat.
