“And I’ll have my usual,” Ace says over my head.

“If you’re going to get me a drink, do you mind getting me coffee?” I ask him before I can lose the nerve. “Milk with three spoons of sugar? I can pay you back if you want.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Ace nods toward the booths. “I’ll bring it when it’s ready.”

We sit at the same booth again and I take some time to admire it in more detail. It’s bubblegum pink with soft cushioned seats. The table is polished rosewood with an arrangement of condiments in animal-themed bottles. I push the frilly sky-blue throw pillows to the side to make room for my backpack.

I’m admiring a painting hung beside me, of sunflowers on a rainy day, when Ace returns.

“Do you paint?” he asks, sliding me my doughnut and coffee.

“I don’t have a single artistic bone in my body,” I say, looking away from the painting. “That doesn’t matter. Let’s study.”

“Ahmed, you are the most difficult person I’ve ever met,” Ace says under his breath.

I gape at him. No one has ever described me as difficult before. Shy, maybe. Quiet, often. A know-it-all, sometimes. Difficult? No. “Excuse me?”

“All you care about is studying,” he says, shaking his head. “I don’t understand.”

I want to flail my arms in disbelief, but I think that might be counterproductive. I settle for saying, “I’m your tutor, Ace. Of course I’m going to focus on studying.”

Ace makes a face, but the expression disappears before I can scrutinize it. “Okay. Back to Hawthorne. I’m listening.”

I frown. I don’t want this experience to be miserable for him, but I also don’t think us talking about other things is going to be conducive to his studying. “Right. So Hawthorne...”

Before I know it, it’s half past five again. It’s definitely way past the half hour we were supposed to spend in Pietra’s Sweet Tooth, but it’s easy to lose myself in literature. I have no idea what Ace’s excuse is for not noticing, especially since he seems to pay only half attention to the books in front of us.

I don’t have a heart attack upon noticing the time today, but my anxiety still sets in, more from habit than anything else. I start jiggling my leg up and down and clicking my pen incessantly. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one.

I stop when Ace’s hand closes over mine. It doesn’t really help, because it causes me to spasm and he jerks back, an apology written across his face. “Sorry. I called your name like five times, but you weren’t responding. Are you okay?”