An irrational wave of irritation rises up inside me at him pulling one over on me, and I promptly decide I am not dealing with this today. I’ve hit my threshold of bullshit.

I turn on my heel, taking the long way around the aisle to go up to the counter. I set down the Oreos and bell peppers without a word, and the man behind the counter raises his brows but rings them both up.

Naturally, the boy shows up at my side again. “Bag an umbrella for her, too. I’ll pay for it.”

“Piss off,” I say, the words hissed. “I can buy my own umbrella.”

The boy smiles, an edge to the curve of his lips. “I said I’ll pay for it,” he says, before pointedly looking down at his hands, where he’s holding the disposable camera in one hand and his water-damaged phone in the other. “I take responsibility for my mistakes.”

I bristle at the implication and open my mouth to snap at him, but one of the AAAS girls comes inside the store before I can.

“Do any of you know where Astoria Bookshop is? Hannah’s phone just died and I’m not getting any service,” she says. There’s something strange about her tone, but I don’t care enough to mull over it.

Instead, I nod, gesturing up the block. “Yeah, absolutely. Go up until you hit Thirty-First Street and then walk down the avenues. You should see it on the way there. It’s a block off from the NW train at Broadway.”

“Thank you,” she says brightly, then casts a look toward the boy. “Hey, you probably get this question a lot, but are you—?”

“No,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. He’s turned away, his face mostly hidden by his hood. “Goodbye.”

The girl blinks. “Okay then. Jeez.” She offers me a more toned-down smile. “Thanks again.”

I offer her a grimace, all too familiar with how rude the boy beside me can be. “No worries.”

Once the door closes behind her, I turn back to the counter. “Just the bell peppers and Oreos. I don’t need an umbrella,” I say, half out of spite. I might regret it the moment I exit the store, but I’m not giving this dickhead the satisfaction.

“You’re being ridiculous, love,” the boy mutters.

I don’t bother with a response, grabbing my bag and leaving without a single glance backward. Knowing my luck, the subway is probably delayed, too.

Before I can get halfway down the block, fingers wrap around my wrist, slippery against my wet skin. I stare at the boy’s hand incredulously, half a dozen rings splayed across his fingers. “What,” I ask quietly to keep from screaming, “are you doing?”