Page 16 of Stranger Danger

“Mm…” he pauses, looking up at the sky. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Why, why?”

I push open the front door to the frat house. He doesn’t elaborate, or offer any explanation at all of what “why, why” means as we make our way upstairs.

Tossing my backpack on the floor, I pull the other computer out from beneath my bed.

He’s still looking at me. Still smiling.

I force a laugh. “What? Cat got your tongue?”

“You never answered my question.”

“Can we just…” I sit on the edge of my bed and open the laptop. “Forget Saturday? It was an honest mista—”

“No.”

That’s what I’ve been afraid of for almost two days. Great to know I’m psychic.

I close out the tabs on the neighborhood around Raymond’s house and put in a new search for “quiet suburban houses for rent.” I’m sure our internet provider thinks I’m a millionaire who won’t settle down.

“Why no—”

He cuts me off again.

“What were you doing in the bathroom Saturday?”

I can’t choke back the heat in my face. It climbs up my neck and ears until I’m overheating. My eyes slip over the top of the screen, and he’s still… staring. He hasn’t moved from his spot by the door, arms crossed behind his back like he has a secret.

“The uh…” I swallow hard. “The food got to me. I’m not great with fried stuff, you know? It messes with my fragile tum-tum.”

I grin, but he doesn’t laugh. His face doesn’t crack at all.

He raises an eyebrow—his eyes staring through my goddamn soul—then shrugs. His backpack hits the ground with a solid thunk as he buries himself under his comforter. After a minute, I hear a video playing from inside his fabric fortress.

I exhale all the breath from my body in one go and crack my knuckles.

I’ve been in some stressful situations, but that’s the only one that gave me immediate heart palpitations.

I barely have time to look back at my laptop before my phone chirps a text.

Ira Colson

Would it be easier to type it instead of saying it out loud?

“I’m two steps from you!” I laugh. “I'm not texting this close.”

“What were you going to say Saturday?”

It’s easier to talk when the only thing responding is a blue comforter with cartoon characters printed on it.

“I didn’t know it was you. I thought…” I shut my laptop with a groan. “I thought you were Maya. Which is why—if I knew it was you—I never would’ve done that. I’m sorry, okay?”

He peels the comforter down an inch and looks at me.

“Do I sound like a girl?” he asks, an octave lower than normal.