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“I haven’t.”

“You’ve said that three times.”

“Because it’s been true three times.”

“Huh. Usually, when people deny something so aggressively, it means they’re guilty.”

“Usually, when you talk this much, it means someone forgot to close the window.” It was a low blow. Alvin knew and decided to ignore it.

“Are you jealous?” he asked instead.

“No.”

“Not even a teensy-weensy bit?” Alvin held up two fingers and slowly pressed them closer and closer together as his voice got a little higher with each word.

“No.”

“Not when he touched my arm?”

“He didn’t touch your arm.”

“He absolutely touched my arm,” Alvin insisted.

“He put his hand near your arm,” I corrected.

Alvin stared at me, and then I realized what I’d said.

He smiled. “Oh.”

“Oh nothing.” I directed a warning finger at him.

“So you did notice,” he continued anyway.

“I notice everything when it comes to you.”

Alvin’s smile faded. And for a moment, neither of us said anything. The clearing seemed very far away. The woods pressed close around us, like the room had last night. It didn’t matter that we were outside. We were just as locked in, and my throat was just as tight.

Alvin folded his arms. “You notice Cindy too.”

My stomach flipped before settling on a mix of anxious and nauseated again. “That’s different,” I told him.

“How? I know what I saw, Darius.”

“Do you?”

He moved closer. “I do. But I don’t want to talk about her anymore.”

“It sure seems like you do…”

“Nope.” Alvin popped his P at the end, walking me back against the nearest tree. I hadn’t even realized I was moving or more like he was guiding me where he wanted me. Out of sight of anyone who might be within a few feet of the trail, and just past the boundaries Pastor Carter’s dipshit assistant had created for us. “I wanna talk about Omar and why you’re so jealous of him.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.” Alvin nodded. “You’ve been glaring at him like he stole your favorite shovel.”

“I don’t have a favorite shovel.”

“You used to.”