Right.

“What’s the last item?”

He hesitates. “I wasn’t sure if this was it or not, but I think it is.”

He’s rambling and still not looking at me as he digs through the bag, which, the way he’s rummaging with his whole arm inside the flaps, must be Mary Poppins’s bag. He’s stalling. When he finally does pull it out, his hand is shaking.

It’s The Art of Crumbs by Linda McPherson.

“I saw it as soon as we walked in, and I don’t know, I was drawn to it and wanted to check it out. The art is … stunning. I had to get it.”

I don’t realize that I’m holding my breath until he tells me I look pale. Or paler than usual. Everything seems to have led to this one moment, right here, and I don’t know what the hell is going on in Jack’s head, but he’s clearly thinking about me. Whether it’s the same way my thoughts dwell on him, I don’t know. He’s hesitant but forward. He’s holding back, yet he’s putting something out there for me: the journal, the potion, the Crumbs book. It has to mean something, right? I think I’ve been holding back because I didn’t want to push him or seem needy, but this feels like a sign that maybe he could like me?

Though my entire being tells me that someone like him could never love a soft, genderless cub like me, I take a leap: “Friday’s my birthday. Wanna come to a party?”

For a few seconds, he doesn’t say anything. And then, “No.”

My face falls.

The sun is almost completely gone, a sliver of hot orange still glows beyond the mountains in the distance, and it’s considerably cooler now as September grows closer.

“Kidding.” He punches my arm softly. “Yeah, sounds good.”

10

Mom says I suffer from restless leg syndrome. She claims it’s because she always shook her leg when she was pregnant with me, and after I was born, bouncing me was the only action that soothed me.

It’s sort of become a major problem for everyone around me.

If I’m sitting upright, my leg shakes. Doesn’t matter where I am—on a bench, at a table, in the car, at my desk, as I’m lying awake in bed. And it’s worse when I’m nervous, sort of like a rocket about to launch into space. Violent. This is what’s happening right now as I wait for Jack to text me.

Because it’s my nineteenth birthday and he’s coming up to my suite to hang out. And though this is definitely not a date—even Benny agrees because, according to him, “No self-respecting gay would say, ‘Yeah, sounds good’ when asked out”—my leg doesn’t know that. I’m pretty sure our entire dorm room is rumbling, and it’s gotten to the point where Benny is hypnotized.

He’s been silently staring at my legs, face blank, for the past five minutes.

It’s unnerving. Which makes me shake harder.