Page 24 of Lessons in Chemistry

“Still sore. It’ll be fine by the morning.”

“Is it okay if Auggie comes over tomorrow? He wants to cook for me to say thank you for helping with his essay.”

Every muscle in my body tightens and aches. “Like a date?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

My stomach ties itself in knots.

“It would be while you’re swimming. I can make sure he’s gone before you get home.”

“Don’t be silly. Enjoy your date.”

“You’re sure?”

“No. I’m going to ban you from bringing boyfriends home.”

Em stills his fingers halfway through combing my hair. “Thanks.”

What is he thanking me for? “I should sort washing out. Thanks for the hug.”

He puts his other arm around me, holding me tight. “Are you sure you’re okay with me bringing Auggie here?”

“Positive.” Except my muscles are still aching, and my stomach feels like it’s lined with lead. “I’m going to work on my essay for a bit.”

“Do you want help?”

I pull away from him. “I’m good.”

“Do you want me to cook for you?”

“No. Cooking will be a good excuse to take a break later.” I stand and walk to my bedroom door.

“Casey.”

I look back.

Em’s eyes are large again. “If you need help, let me know. I’ve always got time for you.”

“I know. Thanks. But I’ve got this.” I gesture at the game console. “Relax and have fun. We’ll catch up later, okay?”

“Okay.”

I go into my room and shut the door, signalling to him that I don’t want to be disturbed. I feel like an arse for doing it, but I want to be alone. I look at my desk and the open textbook and then turn my back on it to flop face down on my bed. Why am I so out of sorts today? Why can’t I talk to Em about it? I tell him everything. But this—this indescribable thing coiling inside me is too elusive to trouble him with.

I’ll talk to him soon.

When I’ve found the right words.

7

AUGGIE

I’m pretty sure Professor Richards almost faints when I show up to his lecture for the second week in a row. Not that I can blame him. I also can’t say how long my streak will last. Probably as long as I’m hanging out with Emory. The weird thing about having him help me is that I want to do well on my essay. Not for my grade average. Not because of Dad’s threats. But because I want Emory to be proud of me. What’s wrong with me?

“Do you have an essay for me, August?” Professor Richards asks at the end of the lecture.

“Yes.” I take it out of my bag and hand it to him.