I walk through his door and focus on putting one foot in front of the next, angry at myself for putting myself in this situation. The lounge door is closed, but not locked, so I slip inside, shutting it behind me again. The wall is completely windowed, but there is one sofa that is more in the corner, away from direct view. I breathe in deeply and head for it, first setting the pillow and dress on the study table, and then spreading the blanket out on the couch so I can climb inside and fold myself up—like a taco.

The couch is hard, and even Barbie can’t soften it. There’s a TV hung on the wall, but I don’t see a remote sitting out anywhere, so eventually I give up and tuck myself in with the purple heart-pillow against my chest for protection. My eyes are wide, and my heart is miserable. Normally, when I feel like this, it’s because I’m remembering Josh and how he looked when he picked me up for homecoming, or when he ran out to the baseball field, or when he waited for me by my locker. But right now, I’m thinking about Nate, and the feather-light touch of his hand on my back—and how it lit my body on fire.

“Come on,” Nate says, hanging on to the open lounge door.

“Oh no, it’s okay. I’m fine,” I lie.

“No, you’re not fine. You’re stubborn. Now pick up Barbie and follow me, Thirty-three.”

It feels different when I walk into Nate’s room the second time. It’s dark in here, just a small light from the barely-opened closet. I notice that Ty’s blanket is now on his Nate’s bed, which makes me wonder if he planned to just go to sleep—or if his motive was to wait me out until he had to come and get me like he did.

“You can sleep on Ty’s bed if you want. I took his blanket. You know, save you from his cooties?” Dimples.

“Thanks,” I smile, spreading Barbie out on Ty’s mattress, and setting Paige’s dress down on Nate’s desk-chair. “Can I keep Hearty?”

“Oh. My. God. You named the pillow. Yes, you can keep Hearty,” he says, rolling his eyes, but laughing enough that I know he’s teasing.

“Says the man who calls his blanket Barbie,” I tease back.

“If you’re going to make fun of Barbie, you can sleep without a blanket, missy,” he says, feigning to get up and pull the blanket from Ty’s bed. I leap on the bed and gather the blanket in my arms quickly.

“No! No. I was kidding. I love Barbie. She and I are friends,” I say, giggling. Since when do I giggle?

“Hmmmmm,” he grumbles, laying back down, and pulling Ty’s blanket up to his neck, his long legs hanging out of the bottom because it’s too short. “I don’t know how I feel about you and Barbie being friends.”

It gets quiet after that, and I’m glad the room is as dark as it is. But I can still see his eyes. They’re open, and they’re watching me. I’m watching him. He’s wearing the short-sleeved version of the shirt I’m wearing, and a pair of black basketball shorts, and everything about him has me wanting to be touched by him, a feeling that I fight and ignore, albeit poorly. We lie here in silence for almost fifteen minutes, each taking turns closing our eyes, trying to trick the other one into thinking we’re asleep, and a few times we laugh quietly when we catch each other.

“You ever make wishes?” he says, out of nowhere. His voice breaks the thick silence, and it makes my heart jump. I think it would have jumped at hearing him anyhow.

“All the time,” I say, thinking of the number of times I wished those bullets hit me instead of Josh and Betsy. “You?”

“Nah,” he says, and I start to laugh, but I realize he isn’t. “I just made my first one in years.”

Breathe.

“Oh yeah? You want Barbie back?”

“No,” he smiles. “I wished you were over here instead of there.”

Oh.

More seconds pass, and I let them slip into minutes, my eyes unable to leave his. He didn’t ask. He didn’t come up with some transparent scheme. He was just honest—perfectly, beautifully, terrifyingly honest. We lie there for fifteen more minutes just looking at one another, this new feeling swallowing us both up whole, until Nate finally rolls to his back and then his other side, facing away from me.

More seconds. More minutes. I watch his body rise and fall with every breath, and it’s constant and regular, but I know he’s still awake. Being Cass’s friend, being Paige’s friend, even being Ty’s friend—that’s all part of healing. But what I’m about to do right now has nothing to do with my own personal growth and overcoming my trauma. Being Nate’s friend was a level I left in the dust the second I made his acquaintance. And right now is about me, and the pounding in my chest, and the voice in my head telling me to take what I want.