“Sorry! But did you hear what he said?”

“He’s joking!”

She stares intensely at Adam, who is smiling innocently while his fingers drum on the table. “He didn’t look like he was joking . . .”

“Well he was,” I argue, even though she’s right—he really didn’t seem like it.

“Were you?” Dee asks him point-blank.

He smiles sweetly and shrugs, not saying a word. His eyes are locked on me, and I can feel the heat creeping up my neck.

I glance up at the clock on the wall, and it’s like the heavens have parted to allow me this one tiny miracle. “Dee,” I say, a grin spreading across my face, “don’t you have class right about now?”

She follows my line of vision and curses, swiping her bag from the stool next to her and pointing a long pink fingernail at me. “I hate you! Call me later!” And with that, she’s flying across the shop and spinning out the door like the erratic brown-haired cyclone that she is.

“She’s nuts,” I mutter to myself. I can’t believe she tried to get Adam to kiss me less than five freaking minutes after I told her what a bad idea that would be.

“She’s perceptive,” Adam replies.

I stare over at him, expecting to see that cocky “I’m just messing with you” smirk. But he’s straight-faced and staring right back at me.

“You should let me try again,” he says, all serious.

After swallowing the hard lump in my throat, I manage to murmur, “I thought we decided to be friends . . .”

“Yeah, we did. But can’t I still kiss you?”

I shake my head.

“Not even once?” he says, his tongue tracing the seam of his lips. “Just to prove myself?”

“Trust me,” I say, sliding off of my stool to throw my cup away because I desperately need the space, “you don’t need to prove yourself.” When I look back at him, he’s watching me intently, waiting for me to explain. “I remember,” I admit. “Vividly.”

“And?”

“And I’ll tell you your score if you promise not to bring it up again.”

Adam shakes his head. “I don’t do promises.”

I shrug. “Then I don’t do scores.” I start walking toward the door, and he rushes to keep up.

Chapter Twenty-Three

THAT EVENING, AS Adam, Shawn, and Joel yank a mountain of trash bags filled with my personal belongings out of the trunk of Adam’s Camaro, I ask them the same question I’ve asked a million times since Adam told me I could stay with him. “Are you absolutely sure this is okay?”

“Are you kidding?” Joel asks, tossing one of the hefty black bags over his shoulder with another two hanging from his fist. By the time he slams the trunk shut, there’s nothing left for me to carry. “This is like”—he laughs to himself as we walk across the parking lot—“the best thing ever. You realize how huge this is, right?”

Adam kicks the sole of Joel’s sneaker as he takes a step. “Shut up, Joel.”

Joel skips to land on his feet, snickering quietly. The evening sun is glinting off of the stiff blond spikes on top of his head, making them look downright deadly. “Sorry, man, but come on! This is—”

Adam kicks Joel’s foot again, harder this time, and Joel trips forward, barely catching his balance.

“Asshole!” he shouts, still half laughing as he jogs ahead to get out of kicking distance. Adam smirks as he trails behind.

I really want to know what Joel meant, but it looks like he’s finally taken the hint and decided to shut up. I cast a questioning glance over at Shawn, who is carrying four of my bags, and he catches my look.

“It’s cool with us,” he assures me. But that’s not what I really wanted to know.

“Why is it ‘the best thing ever’?”

Adam rolls his eyes. “Joel’s just talking out of his ass. Isn’t that right, Joel?”

Joel chuckles and swings open the door to the apartment building, holding it open for everyone. “Whatever you say, Adam.”

Inside the apartment, I follow the boys down the hall into Adam’s bedroom and they drop my stuff off on his black comforter, which is still hanging half on the floor after our mad rush to get out the door this morning. His walls are stark white with blue painter’s tape crisscrossed in a random pattern, and filling the white shapes between the tape are lyrics—hundreds of lines written in bright blue marker. His curtains are black but sheer, and the only pieces of furniture in the room other than his bed are a small dresser and a corner desk. The dresser, the desk, and even the floor are covered with stacks and stacks of notebooks that I don’t doubt are filled from front to back. The room is a mess, and it’s beautiful, and every piece of it is Adam.

When Shawn and Joel leave for the living room, Adam stays behind, immediately pulling open half of his dresser drawers. He removes his clothes from the open drawers, stuffs them down into other drawers, and then carefully pushes the stuffed ones shut. When I realize what he’s doing, I hurry to stop him.

“Oh, no. You don’t have to do that,” I insist, moving to stand next to him. I feel so intrusive, I want to physically grab his hands and make him stop going out of his way for me.

“I know,” he says, but he’s already walking to his closet and squishing the hangers together to make extra room. When he’s not satisfied with how much space he’s freed up, he unhooks a stack of shirt-filled hangers and tosses them on the floor inside the closet. He turns around, smiling at me.