I blink up at him like he’s started speaking a foreign language. It’s possible he did because it sounded like he just said he wants me but won’t touch me because he likes me. It may be the stupidest thing he’s ever told me.

Despite his idiocy or maybe because of it, I’m at a complete loss for words. I want to yell at him, but I don’t know where to start. He stands there in the middle of the room, looking every bit as uncomfortable as I feel, and we simply stare at each other in silence until I say, “I think there’s quinoa-stuffed peppers.”

“Keen what?”

“Not keen what. It’s keen-wah.” I repeat the word, sounding out the two syllables. “Quinoa is like a grain, kind of like rice, but LeeAnn says it’s healthier than gluten foods like pasta.” I realize I’m babbling. He’s staring at me with somewhat wide eyes now, but I keep talking. “There are peppers stuffed with what looks like something between seeds and sprouts. That’s quinoa.”

“Right. Peppers full of seeds,” he says slowly. “Sounds good. I’ll heat them.”

He walks away, and I am left alone on my sofa feeling silly for discussing grains when there are so many more important topics to discuss, but he’s the one who just banned those subjects. I hear the fridge open and close, then cupboards as he presumably looks for plates, and then I hear the microwave open and close. After a few minutes of listening to him bang around in my kitchen, I decide to follow him.

As quietly as I’m able, I get up on my crutches and hobble toward the kitchen. When I reach the doorway, I see him staring into the microwave the way my father stares at the news ticker on the bottom of the television when he doesn’t have his contacts in his eyes—like he can’t quite see it, but if he concentrates hard enough, the picture will be less vague.

I know Nate hears my approach. Crutches aren’t designed for stealth. He doesn’t turn away from the microwave though, so I’m left looking at his back. It’s not a bad view, but it is awkward to stand here with only the whir of the microwave in the space where words should be.

“I shouldn’t have kissed you.” He turns to face me immediately after he says it.

I’m tempted to slap him. When we were kids, I would’ve hit him for being daft, but we’re in a different place now so I simply say, “I disagree, but”—I shrug one shoulder because it’s the best I can do while standing on crutches—“you’ve decided to make this weirder than it has to be, so I’m at a loss.”

He tenses. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“We’re friends, Nate, and I’ve crushed on you since middle school.” My cheeks burn a little as I say it, but I’m over being subtle. Maybe it’s the threat of a killer who seems focused on me; maybe it’s a fearlessness because of the accident; maybe it’s seeing Nate die one too many times. I don’t know. All I do know is that I’m not going to ignore the things I think or want anymore. I shake my head. “I may not be your closest friend anymore—”

“You still are,” he interjects.

“That’s pitiful, you know,” I mutter before returning to my point. My voice starts to get louder as I speak, but he’s the only one here so it’s not like I’m going to attract an audience. “Whether I’m your closest friend or not, we were close for years. I almost died, and right now, it looks like someone is out to get you because of me. If that doesn’t entitle me to say how I feel, then nothing does.”

The microwaves dings, but he doesn’t turn away from me.

“I spent the better part of the past year with Robert. During that time, he wanted Amy, and I wanted you . . . just like the year before when I wasn’t dating him. I’ve never stopped wanting you. Ever. Now, you walk into my life and act like we’ve never stopped talking. Then you kiss me and tell me you think about me that way too. I’m not going to ignore that. You can’t ask me to either. I’m sick of ignoring things, and”—I stomp closer to him and poke him in the chest with my index finger—“I’m sick of being ignored because you have some sort of childhood trauma that makes you shove me away.”

I’m all but yelling at him by the time I’m done, but he still doesn’t react.

He doesn’t speak at all. He simply turns and opens the microwave. Silently, he removes the plate of quinoa-stuffed peppers and, plate in hand, steps around me. He stays mute as he pulls out my chair and pours me a glass of lemonade.

Then, he walks out of the kitchen as if I haven’t just laid my heart out in front of him.

DAY 14: “THE PLAN”

Grace

WHEN I ARRIVE AT Eva’s house, my mother walks me to the door and waits while Nate opens it and ushers us into the quiet of the Tilling home. They exchange words as if he’s an adult, which seems a bit ludicrous considering his reputation around school. The boy might not drink liquor like it’s water these days, but he’s still slept with more girls than even the best gossips probably know. Back in Philadelphia when I was trying out my rule-breaking persona, he’d have been a temptation. Either my mother trusts me a lot more than I thought or she’s clueless about Nate’s history. I’m not going to ask her which. Instead, I lean in and kiss her cheek. “It’s fine, Mom. We’ll be here with the doors locked, police driving by, and a security system. We’re safe here.” I shoot an innocent look at Nate. “Eva did order a case of wine and the strippers, right?”