He looks up. Meets my eyes. “Do you?”
“Yeah. I do.”
“I don’t think you do, actually. In fact, I hope you don’t. I wouldn’t want you to know how I feel right now. I wouldn’t wish that for you.”
That hits me harder than I expect. For a moment I don’t know what to say.
I decide to stare at the floor.
“Have you seen her yet?” I ask.
And then, so quietly I almost miss it—
“No.”
Shit. This kid is breaking my heart.
“Don’t feel sorry for me,” he says, his eyes flashing as they meet mine.
“What? I don’t— I’m not—”
“Get dressed,” Warner says sharply. “I’ll see you downstairs.”
I blink, startled. “Right,” I say. “Cool. Okay.”
And then he’s gone.
Two
I stand in the doorway for a minute, running my hands through my hair and trying to convince myself to move. I’ve developed a sudden headache. Somehow, I’ve become a magnet for pain. Other people’s pain. My own pain. The thing is, I have no one to blame but myself. I ask the follow-up questions that land me here. I care too much. I make it my business when I shouldn’t, and I only ever seem to get shit for it.
I shake my head and then—wince.
The only thing Warner and I seem to have in common is that we both like to blow off steam in the gym. I pushed too much weight the other day and didn’t stretch afterward—and now I’m paying for it. I can hardly lift my arms.
I take a deep breath, arch my back. Stretch my neck. Try to work out the knots in my shoulder.
I hear someone whistle down the hall and I look up. Lily winks at me in an obvious, exaggerated way, and I roll my eyes. I’d really like to be flattered, because I’m not modest enough to deny that I have a nice body, but Lily could not give fewer shits about me. Instead, she does this—mocks me for walking around without a shirt on—nearly every morning. HerandIan. Together. The two have been low-keydating for a couple of months now.
“Looking good, bro.” Ian smiles. “Is that sweat or baby oil? You’re so shiny.”
I flip him off.
“Those purple boxers are really working for you, though,” says Lily. “Nice choice. They suit your skin tone.”
I shoot her an incredulous look. I might not be wearing a shirt, but I’m definitely—I glance down—wearing sweatpants. My underwear is nowhere in sight. “How could youpossiblyknow the color of my boxers?”
“Photographic memory,” she says, tapping her temple.
“Lil, that doesn’t mean you have X-ray vision.”
“You’re wearing purple underwear?” Winston’s voice—and a distinct whiff of coffee—carries down the hall. “That’s inspired.”
“All right, fuck off, all of you.”
“Hey— Whoa— I thought you weren’t allowed to use foul language.” Winston comes into view, his boots heavy on the concrete floor. He’s fighting back a laugh when he says, “I thought you and Castle had an agreement.”
“That’s not true,” I say, pointing at him. “Castle and I agreed I could sayshitas much as I wanted.”
