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“I didn’t ask you what it was,” I say, my fingers tightening around the paper in my hand. “I asked you what it means.”
He understands what I’m asking, considers me for a moment before answering. “I don’t think you’re going to like my answer.”
“I don’t need to like it, Conner,” I say, standing my ground. “I just need to hear it.”
“Okay… I’m smart.” He says it like he’s telling me he has a terminal illness. “Really smart.”
"How smart?"
"North of Einstein. South of Hirata." When I don't say anything, his brow scrunched slightly. “198. That’s my IQ score.” He says it like he just told me he has some sort of STD. Like he’s ashamed.
198.
I can’t even wrap my mind around what that kind of intelligence might look like.
He sets his gaze on a point just past my shoulder, brow still furrowed, like he’s trying to find the right, best words to give me to help me understand. “My brain—the way it works—makes personal connections difficult.” He looks uncomfortable. Unsure. “Most people, I can see right through them—like they’re ghosts. There’s nothing there. No weight. They’re not…” His frown turns into a wince, his discomfort almost palpable. “real.” Suddenly, his gaze jerks across my face, nailing itself to mine. “I know how that sounds—I’m not a sociopath. I don’t meet enough of the criteria to warrant a diagnosis. I just...” He looks away again and shrugs. “have a hard time connecting.”
“And I’m different?” When he nods I sigh, looking down at the paper in my hand. “Why?”
“Fuck if I know.” He sounds as frustrated as I feel. “Maybe that’s why. I don’t know. I don’t know what to do with you, Henley. I don’t know how you work. You feel solid. You’re real to me—I feel real when I’m with you—and I like feeling that way. That’s the best way I can explain it.”
“I still don’t understand what this means,” I say, holding the paper up.
He shrugs. “I like you. I wanted to talk to you. Spend time with you.”
He said it again.
I like you.
Comprehension dawns. “So, you lied about needing a math tutor?”
“Yes.”
“You manipulated me?”
“Yes.”
I don’t know how I feel about his off-handed admission. I know I should be angry, but I can’t seem to get there. “You recognize that you shouldn’t do that to people. Manipulate them. It’s wrong. You know that, right?”
“Yes.”
“But you don’t care.”
“I wanted to spend time with you.” He circumvents the question.
“Because you like me?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t get it,” I say, looking for the loophole. The punchline.
“There’s nothing to get, Henley,” he says. “And I don’t know how many times I can keep saying it—I like you.”
“Why?” I sputter the word, pushing it out on a frustrated huff of breath.
“Why not?” He looks like he doesn’t understand the question.
“I’m not—” I shake my head, swallowing hard against the lump in my throat. “I’m not pretty. Not by any standard.”