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“You relaxed.”

My laughter disappeared. “Oh, fuck you.”

“Not what I said.”

My brain blue-screened, every available channel landing on static, and Omar froze.

I stared at him. He stared at me. Then his eyes widened slightly. “I meant⁠—”

“I know what you meant.” I nodded.

“Right.”

“Obviously.”

“Obviously.”

My ears were hot from the sudden silence. Why were my ears hot?

This was ridiculous. I flirted constantly. With cashiers. Waiters. Old ladies. Darius. Especially Darius. Flirting was breathing to me. It was easy because it didn’t mean anything. Except apparently when somebody flirted back… Then I became an Amish teenager seeing an ankle for the first time.

Omar looked amused. “You okay?”

“Perfect.”

“Your face is red.”

“It’s ninety degrees out here.”

“It’s seventy-eight,” he corrected.

“I hate you.”

“You don’t know me.”

“I’m making excellent progress.”

He laughed again and I looked down at my hands. The nail polish on my thumb was chipped. Black like my soul. I’d painted them last night, and Darius had called them dramatic. I told him dramatic was the point.

Darius. Always fucking Darius. Every joke somehow curved back towards him…

Every outfit. Every insult. Every bit of glitter. I could stand naked in front of the whole fucking world and somehow still feel shy when Darius looked too closely at me.

Omar nudged the toe of his shoe against mine. “Can I tell you something?”

“That depends entirely on whether I’ll need therapy afterwards.”

“I think you’re cute.”

I stared straight ahead, my brain doing a reboot as I went full glitch mode. “No.”

Omar burst out laughing. “No?”

“No.”

“That’s your response?”

“Yes.”