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“I like your face,” he says, his tone both irritated and matter-of-fact.
I snort in response. “Right,” I say, shaking my head. “Like you like my freckles.”
“I do like your freckles.”
I remember what he said to me last night when he shoved the piece of paper into my hand.
Don’t tell me what I like, Henley and don’t ever tell me what I want. Because you have no idea.
“You haven’t even asked me if I like you.” I say it loud, angry and confused. None of this is going how I thought it would. “You just automatically assume that I like you back because you’re Conner—frickin’—Gilroy and I’d be stupid not to.”
“Do you?”
“Do I what?” I snap at him.
His lips twitch like he’s trying to keep from smiling. “Like me?”
“That’s not the point,” I hiss at him, my fingers tightening around the piece of paper in my hand.
The smile he’s trying to suppress fades. “Then what is the point, Henley?” he says, frustration finally creeping into his voice.
“The point is,” I say, letting out a long, slow breath. “I don’t want people to know.”
His eyes narrow slightly. “That I like you.” It’s not a question. “And that you like me.”
I can’t say it out loud, so I flatten my mouth, clamping it shut, and nod my head. “That’s why I can’t carry your backpack.”
“Because you don’t want people to know we’re together.”
Together. The word makes me feel panicky. Weird, like my skin is too tight and I can’t take a full breath. “Yes.” The word sticks in my mouth and I have to push it out.
“Okay, no backpack,” he says, but his tone says something different. It says it’s not okay. Not at all. “Can I walk you to class?”
“No.”
His brow lowers slightly. “Can I walk you home from school?”
“No.” On my own, I’m invisible. Even Jessica ignores me unless she’s feeling particularly horrible. With Conner, I would be anything but. People would see me. See us.
His jawline tightens. “Can I hang out with you in the library during lunch?”
I shake my head again. “We don’t even have the same lunch period, Conner. You can’t just keep cutting—”
“I graduated high school when I was eleven, Henley. Last count, I have three Bachelors, two Masters, I’m in my second year at Harvard Law, and I was just accepted to the MIT doctoral program in theoretical physics and cognitive neuroscience,” he says over me, killing my argument in an instant. “I pretend to go to high school because I need to develop age-appropriate social skills—so, I can pretty much take whatever goddamn lunch hour I want.”
I stare at him, trying to wrap my brain around everything I’ve learned in the past five minutes.
Conner Gilroy is some sort of genius.
He likes me.
He wants to be with me.
“If someone asks why I’m hanging out with you so much, I’ll tell them you’re tutoring me—okay?” Again, his tone tells me it’s not okay. That’s he’s angry with me for asking him to lie.
“Okay.” I nod, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. “I gave the money back to your dad,” I say, shaking my head when he opens his mouth to argue with me about it. “I’m not taking your parent’s money for something you obviously don’t need.”
“You did the work, whether I needed it or not,” he argues. “You earned that money.” He nods like it’s been decided. “I’ll talk to my dad. He’ll agree with—”