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“I have claustrophobia.”

“You donot.”

“As romantic as I find chatting around dustpans and rags, Will, I think I’m going to have to decline. Let me know if you ever want to talk somewhere with oxygen, but until then, good luck with college.”

“Don’t be mad at me.”

“I’m not mad.” The lie was so blatant that Will scoffed at me. I didn’t care. “We’re late. Come on.”

“No.”

“Fine. Suit yourself.” I squeezed past him and opened the door. Sweet air and light.

Will hesitated. Like he expected me to go back in and join him for a bit longer. To do what? Have another somewhat heartbreaking conversation? Kiss him? In a goddamnit-I-can’t-believe-I’m-even-saying-thiscloset? No way.

When he didn’t follow, I gave him a sweet smile, and shut the door on him. Right in his face. I stared at the door, surprised at my own gall. I didn’t know I had that much sass dwelling under the surface. I felt a little guilty, but mostly I was impressed with myself.

With a tiny laugh that sounded suspiciously like a sob—except it couldn’t be, because I’d promised not to cry anymore—I turned on my heel and hurried to class without turning back to see if Will had let himself out.

I’d won that round. The spiteful side of me was polishing a trophy with a smug grin.

So why was the rest of me so hollow?

9

“Who are these guys again?”

Will’s cheek was barely an inch from mine. We lay side by side on my bed, sharing headphones. It was one of those rare afternoons where I’d managed to score the house to myself. Our fingertips were spidering around each other’s, our hands resting on my thigh.

I bumped my phone to light it up for him. “Letlive. Good, right?”

“Surprisingly, yes.”

“Surprising because you’re a music snob?”

Will smiled, and touched his temple to mine. “Shut up.” His tone was all warm and tender. The way a guy talks to someone he really likes. I knew that tone. It was the first time I’d heard him use it. A part of me died with happiness. Straight-up curled into a ball and died. “I guess whenever I hear the word ‘punk,’ I think, like, Blink-182 or Fall Out Boy.”

“Both solid bands. You’d better not be knocking them.”

“I am a bit.”

“We can agree to disagree.”

“They’re a bit more… simple than this.”

“I guess. They’re pop punk junk food.”

Will laughed. “I love that. That’s perfect. Pop punk junk food.”

Rejuvenated, I started flicking through my albums. “If you like them, you should check out these guys. They have this thing they do with harmonies that’s just argh, and the drummer, God, I could listen to a whole album of just his solos. Hold on, I’ll find them—what?”

Will was staring at me with a funny little smile. “Nothing. It’s cute how passionate you get about music. I feel like you could convince Bach all he was missing was some heavy bass guitar.”

“I really like music, I guess. So sue me.”

“Yeah, well, I really like you. So sue me.”

Tuesday, 4:02 PM