"Then what am I supposed to do?"
Noah held my gaze. Didn't flinch. Didn't escalate. That was the thing about arguing with a debate kid—he never matched your heat. Just stayed steady until you burned yourself out.
"I'm just going to tell people to ask you," he said. "That's it. Someone asks me about you and Emily, I say 'I don't know, ask Liam.' Someone asks about your love life, I say 'not my story to tell, ask Liam.' I'm not lying for you, and I'm not outing you. I'm just redirecting."
I stared at him. The frustration in my chest was already cooling because it was a good answer. A fair answer. The kind of solution that let him keep his integrity without blowing up my life.
"Fine," I said.
"Fine?"
"Yeah. Fine. Tell people to ask me. I can handle that."
"Can you? Because 'handling it' means actually answering when they do. Not dodging."
"I'll figure it out."
"That's not inspiring confidence."
"It's the best I've got right now."
He studied me for another second. Then nodded. "Okay."
"Okay."
Silence. The radiator humming. Someone's music bleeding through the wall from next door.
"We good?" I asked.
"We're good." He turned back to his desk. Picked up his highlighter. Then, over his shoulder: "For what it's worth, you sound really happy when you talk about him. Even when you're trying not to.
Fuck off, Noah."
"Love you too."
An hour later, the lights were off and Noah was out cold—his whale sounds app humming through his headphones. The guy could fall asleep in under three minutes, which I'd always considered a superpower and also deeply unfair.
I lay in the dark with my phone on my chest.
The screen lit up.
Alex
You awake?
Liam
No. Dead. The row killed me. This is my ghost.
Alex
Your ghost texts fast.
Liam
Ghosts have nothing better to do.
Alex
