“Weston,” I warn.
He lifts his hands. “Okay, okay. Not trying to be weird. I’m just saying—if you ever want to hang out with mostly normal people, we’re…mostly normal.”
Offers are the part I don’t know how to handle. Invitations. People acting like they want me around. My brain searches for the catch. There isn’t one. Weston is just…Weston.
I clear my throat. “I’ll…think about it.”
Weston’s grin brightens. “That’s basically a yes.”
“It’s literally not,” I mutter.
Weston points at me. “You’re funny. Bennett was right.”
My stomach does that stupid flip again.
“I have class,” I say and escape into the crowd before my face gives me away.
That night, my dorm is quiet in the way that makes my brain loud.
I shower. I do homework. I reread the same sentence fifteen times.
I keep thinking about the dining hall. About the bagel. About Grayson saying, “whatever works.” About the way he didn’t watch me. And the worst part is my brain keeps replaying his voice and comparing it to NumberEleven’s messages like I’m building a profile.
I stop myself.
That’s a dangerous game.
It’s also stupid. A thousand guys on campus could sound calm. A thousand guys could make jokes about menus being threats. It doesn’t mean anything.
At 11:02 p.m., I open the forum.
I don’t pretend I’m not going to.
And there he is.
NumberEleven — online.
Before I even get a chance to type, a message comes through.
NumberEleven: wednesday should be illegal.
I blink, then smile into my pillow.
LittleTooMuch: Agreed.
LittleTooMuch: Today was…hard.
A pause.
NumberEleven: talk or distraction?
My throat tightens.
I decide to be brave. Just a little.
LittleTooMuch: Food was hard again.
LittleTooMuch: But I did it anyway.
