I’ll pay for the lamp. Even if it’s ten years from now, I’ll pay for it. But right now, I just want to forget it. I want to forget the suffocating feeling of living in a glass house across enemy lines. I want to forget that I sleep just one wall away from someone who can’t stand the way I dress or talk or act or look or breathe.

I click the icon to Deadzone Four and lay my cheek on my desk as it loads, my line of sight falling on a glass vase filled with the sunflowers, daisies, and wildflowers that remind me of home, just like Mike hoped they would.

Why didn’t I throw this at Danica? my mind chastises. I thought there was a robber here to murder me, and I passed up a heavy glass vase for a freaking half-empty water bottle?

I turn my forehead into the wood laminate desk, feeling like an idiot. I’m an idiot for throwing a water bottle. I’m an idiot for not calling the cops before busting into the hallway. I’m an idiot for the way my stomach flipped when Mike gave me the sunflowers. And I’m an even bigger idiot for the way it does it again when I lift my eyes to see that his username is active on my friend list.

You don’t even know him. Just because he buys you some shitty little flowers because he feels sorry for you doesn’t mean you know anything, Hailey.

I don’t know why those words hurt so much, but they do. And I don’t know why the one person I want to talk to right now is the one person I shouldn’t, but here I am, staring at his name on my screen.

Danica was wrong about me not knowing him. In the week since I met Mike Madden, I’ve learned some things. I know he loves his job. I know he sucks at sniping. I know his mom is some kind of stain-removing guru. I know he’s great with twelve-year-old kids. I know he’s thoughtful and funny and kind.

I know he loves Danica. I know he never got over her, because he told me so. I know that he bought her a dozen roses redder than any roses I’ve ever seen.

Hey.

His message appears on my screen while I’m lost in my thoughts, and my stomach does that flipping thing again that’s really starting to annoy me.

I stare at the message for a long time before typing something back.

Hey.

What are you doing up?

Breaking 300 dollar lamps.

I press my fingers into my eyes, wondering how I’m going to pay that damn lamp off and wondering why the hell I brought it up. To Mike.

When a new message pops up, I pull my fingers away and read it.

Sounds like an expensive hobby.

A small, unbidden smile sneaks onto my face, and I type back, It’s a long story.

I’ve got time.

I start to type back, I thought you had to wake up early? But then I delete it and sit there staring at my screen. Just an accident, I finally type. What about you? Why are you up?

Because I’m talking to you.

I sit there for a long time having no idea how to respond to that, until a second message pops up.

If I ask you something, will you be honest with me?

That doesn’t sound ominous at all, I nervously type back.

Will you?

It takes me a minute, but I finally type back, Yes.

And five seconds later, my phone rings.

“Hey,” I answer, and Mike’s voice makes my heart trip in my chest.

“Hey.”

“Sooo . . .” I nervously roll the ball of my mouse down and down and down.

“This feels like a really awkward question.”

“Probably would’ve been easier to ask it through a text,” I suggest, and Mike chuckles.

“You’re probably right.” A long pause, and then a heavy sigh. “Just remember what you said about telling me the truth, okay?”

“I don’t lie, Mike.”

“I know. That’s why I’m asking you, even though I know I shouldn’t.” Nervousness twists my insides as my finger goes double-time on the mouse, and finally Mike says, “Why is Danica with me?” When I don’t respond right away, he says, “I know I’m an asshole for asking you, since you’re cousins, but there’s no one else I can ask.”

“What about her?” I counter. “Why don’t you ask her?”

“Because I don’t trust her like I trust you.”

“Then why are you with her?” The words sound more confrontational than I mean them to, but there they are, a challenge that floats between us—how could someone like him be with someone like her?

It’s the million-dollar question—one I’ve had no right to ask. But it’s late, and I’m tired, and he’s asking me to gossip about my own family. He’s asking me to take his side.

“Because I don’t want to spend another seven years thinking about her,” Mike answers, and my face pulls with disgust.

“So you’re just trying to get her out of your system?”

“No!” Mike rushes to say. “No. Jesus, Hailey, do you really think I’m that much of an asshole?”

I immediately regret my gut reaction, because no, I don’t think he’s an asshole at all. “No. I’m sorry.”

Mike’s heavy sigh sinks under my skin. “I’m giving us a shot because I don’t want to spend the rest of my life wondering, you know? But I can’t read her anymore. She’s not being real with me, and I’m not sure if it’s just because she’s nervous and wants to impress me, or . . .”

“Or what?”

Mike hesitates, and I know he’s drumming his fingers on something. “Or if she’s no better than every other groupie.”