“I … yeah.” I sigh. “I sort of feel like I’m in a fishbowl since all this got started. It kind of happened before I even knew it was going to.”

Devontae still looks confused. “Amazing, though. Everyone pulling together to help.”

“That’s just it,” I say. “Everyone is so sure they’re helping, but I was doing fine on my own before they got all up in it.” I think about my wall chart, the red marker line, stalled out right over halfway since everything got put into motion.

I realize how much I miss filling in those lines each time I earned a bit more toward my goal. More than anything, I wish someone had thought to ask me if I needed help before going ahead and planning it all out.

Devontae’s never seen my wall chart, and I’m bad at explaining, because I can tell he doesn’t understand—and I really want him, of all people, to get it. I push back from the table and wheel back and forth a few times, trying to clear my head.

“Hey.” Now Devontae looks a little worried. “Don’t go stressing over it.” He puts out a hand like he wants me to slow down, only his fingers don’t land on my armrest. They land on my left rear wheel. Or, rather, on the hand that’s gripping my left rear wheel.

My chair stops cold. My heart thuds like an air chisel against my ribs. Is his hand the one that feels like it’s on fire? Or mine?

We stare at each other for a few supercharged seconds. If it was a mistake, he sure isn’t rushing to move his hand. Part of me—the part that isn’t irritated as all get-out—wants so, so badly to flip my wrist and let my fingers lace through his.

Instead, I yank my hand away like his is radioactive.

“I don’t need your pity.” The words come out sharper than I meant them, and he blinks a few times, looking stung. Part of me wants to cram the words back into my mouth—another part is so relieved to have actually said that out loud.

Part of me wants to say it to everyone.

The confused look on Devontae’s face morphs into an offended one.

He lifts both hands palm out, like he’s putting some distance between us.

“Is that what it was?” His voice is low, tight. “Glad you cleared that up for me, Emmie. Won’t make that mistake again—let me get out of your way. Maybe I should go ahead and plan on doing the whole project myself while I’m at it.”

The way he says my name isn’t like when we were in his barn brushing Shuri. Now it’s like he’s talking to someone he just met. Or someone he thought he knew, but didn’t.

Whatever. I don’t care.

He starts to gather his things, but no way I’m letting him turn away first.

“Don’t rush out.” I throw my books into my bag so fast one almost bounces back at me. “I was just leaving.”