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Ian laughs breathily. His eyes are soft, that midway between green and brown. “I think we’re capable of more than one-syllable words.”

“Are we?” I tease.

“Yes, we are.” His head tips back for another laugh. Obviously, we haven’t made much progress.

We stand in the foyer of my house. Clover’s sniffing around our feet. Ian’s wearing two different socks—one blue, one yellow. His shoes are lined up neatly by the door. I can’t stand still; my Vans keep squeaking on the hardwood floor. The noise is probably pissing Mom off. She’s an earshot away, in the living room, with Willow tucked into her side. They’re watching the last ofThe Nightmare Before Christmas. Up next isHocus Pocus. It’s a Mom-Willow tradition.

Ian’s phone buzzes for the sixth time. He doesn’t check it, but he tells me, “It’s Brook. Seems like Andrew’s Halloween thingy is the place to be.”

Oh, yeah. Andrew’s annual Halloween bash. I forgot.

“Should you be there?” I ask, biting my lip.

He shrugs, leaning against the door. “Not really.”

“Not really?”

Ian shrugs again. This whole nonchalant thing isn’t very convincing—not on him, at least.

“I had fun.”

“You did?”

Ian motions toward the living room. “With Willow. Not you. You’re kind of boring.”

“I pride myself on my boringness. It’s a trademark.”

“Is it?”

This time, I shrug. It’s amazing how many competent conversations I have using only shrugs and blushes and gross smiles. “Do you want to go? To Andrew’s?” I ask.

“Doyou?”

My shoulders start to lift, but I squeeze my muscles so tight my spine aches. I can feel Clover at my ankles; her wagging tail hits my calves. “I don’t think so,” I finally say. “Wasn’t on my to-do list for tonight.”

That draws up the corners of his mouth. “What was?” he whispers.

And there it is: the Infamous Remy Cameron Blush, conquering my cheeks and nose and neck like a boss.

I don’t answer his question. He doesn’t seem to mind. We opt to go with a staring contest, one that I’m certain he’s going to win because looking at this boy is like staring into the heart of a star.

Then Mom yells, “Go to the party! It’s a Friday night and I’m having aNo Boys Allowednight with my daughter.”

I’ve officially entered the Hellmouth.

Serious credit to Ian: He manages to slap a hand over his mouth before any noises escape.

“But Mommy,” Willow says, “Remy’s not a boy. He’s my brother.”

“Thanks, Willow.”

Mom whispers something, giggling. Then Willow shouts, “Yuck! No boys allowed! Leave, Remy!”

Perfect. Mom probably mentioned something to Willow about Ian. And kissing. Fifty cool points deducted from the House of Abby Cameron.

“Come join us, Clover!” Mom calls, still half-laughing.

Clover scampers to the living room. I can imagine Mom and Willow sitting on the floor with candy spread around them like a teeth-rotting castle.