Page 6 of From Square One

Some people might call me lucky because I don’t have something worse. True, my treatment doesn’t require much more than a particular diet and iron supplements. But just because it’s easy to treat doesn’t mean it’s easy to live with. I have to be hyperaware of everywhere I go, everything I touch. I avoid places like bakeries because there could be flour remnants in the air. I need to have separate cooking supplies from my family—Tupperware, baking sheets, a toaster, wooden utensils, frying pans. I can’t eat at most restaurants because cross-contamination is my number one enemy. Family events are a nightmare with people shoving homemade dishes in my face, telling me “a little won’t hurt,” and then being passive-aggressive when I refuse.

I need water.

I start toward the door when I hear a soft sliding noise coming from my window, like the frame is moving. I seize up, my heart lurching.

Someone is coming into my bedroom.

I should scream, but I’m so startled that I can only stare at my blackout curtain, slack-jawed. We don’t have stairs leading to the second story. I don’t have a balcony someone could vault onto. Am I hallucinating on top of everything else? Do I have more brain damage than they thought?

The curtain folds to the side, guided by a giant hand.

It’s Aaron Beckham.

He’s perched on a sturdy wooden branch belonging to the tree that stretches over my rooftop, dressed in a black T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers. He’s got one foot through the window, and he’s bracing the other against the branch to push himself into my bedroom.

He catches my eye.

“What?” I say.

“Hello,” he says.

That’s when realization slams into me, and I hurtle toward the panes in sudden panic, seizing his ankle. “Don’t you dare!” I squawk, shoving him back toward the tree he’s balanced on. “You’re not allowed in my house!”

Aaron curses and wobbles, seizing the window frame to steady himself. “Surely this isn’t attempted murder, sunshine,” he says with a nervous laugh, like he’s genuinely not sure if I’m about to commit voluntary manslaughter.

“What are you doing here?” I demand, clinging to his foot as he tries to wriggle it out of my grasp. Aaron buckles, intentionally drawing backward so I stagger into the frame. He snatches my wrist, his other palm still gripping the window, and smiles playfully as he pries my fingers off his ankle.

“A valiant effort to end my life,” he commends. “But it won’t work. Every time you push me away, I’ll pull you in closer. It’s a favor, really. Since your fingers are always cold.”

He tugs my wrist until I’m nearly leaning out the window, the cool air of a mild summer’s night unfurling across my face.

I’ll smack him again, and this time, I’ll do it so hard that he’ll lose all his memories, too, and he can go back to seeing me as his best friend’s irritable little brother who’s always telling him to get lost. I mean it when I say I’m not violent, but he’s basically breaking and entering, right? Who knows what kind of nefarious things he has planned?

Right as my hand is lurching out, he releases the window and grabs it. “I just told you,” he says, his grin widening when my jaw clenches. “If you push, I’ll pull. Is it just that you want your boyfriend to hold your hands?”

“You’re not my boyfriend,” I say fiercely, my heart pinballing between my chest and throat.

Aaron winces, like I’ve just backhanded him with my words. “That’s news to me. Then, how are you going to get rid of me now that I have you in my evil clutches? I’d advise against headbutting, what with your…you know. All of that.” He looks pointedly at the side of my head, where the lump is.

“What do you want?” I demand.

“To marry you and escape to the countryside eventually. But if you’re referring to this exact moment, it’s to talk to my beloved on solid ground.” Aaron releases me and gestures to my bedroom. “May I?”

“I’m breaking up with you,” I say instantly.

His slender black brows poke into his forehead. I hold his gaze, my own menacing. No hesitation. No room for manipulation. He can’t sweet-talk me into making the same mistakes.

Amusement glitters in his eyes, though. “Okay,” he says, nodding thoughtfully. I swear I hear a faint tremor in his voice, but when he swallows and continues talking, it disappears. “But as your partner of fourteen months, I should get to know why.”

Fourteen months? That means we started dating shortly after he and Logan were arrested. That’s an incomprehensible amount of time for high schoolers, let alone two people who don’t like each other. “You’re a bad influence,” I say shortly.

I swear his ridiculous smile is getting bigger every time I open my mouth. “A bad influence you agreed to date,” he points out, folding his egregiously long limbs atop his knees and nestling his chin into them. “Have you considered that you like a bit of excitement in your perfectly sweet and innocent life?”

You’d think, with the anemia and all, that my face wouldn’t be so hot with excess blood flow. But it is because he’s right. I fell for it. I can see the truth in the way Logan spoke about us. “I don’t,” I say firmly. “I’m sorry, but whatever this is, it was a mistake.”

The grin melts from Aaron’s face, so slowly that it almost seems like he’s fighting to maintain it. His head tilts sideways. He’s studying me in that same careful, methodical manner that Logan was earlier, like he’s seeking a hidden glint of recognition in my eyes. “Hate that word,” he mumbles, voice muffled in his arms.

I crinkle my face with annoyance. “What?”