After a few more wheezing laughs, Blake manages to hiss out, “So, because Michael is allergic to peanut butter, we can’t go out? What if I promise to take you somewhere where there is no peanut butter and submit a medical report showing that I have no allergies?”

Is he serious? My laughter dries up, but the smile lifting my lips stays right where it is.

“I’m not done, barely getting started. After that, everything was fine . . . for a while. Then, we played dodgeball in PE. I threw the ball, like you’re supposed to.”

The scene replays in my mind like a movie I’ve called up more times than I can count. “Overhand, aim at the body, not the head. But I’ve got shitty aim. I hit Andy Mackowitz right in the nose. It broke both his glasses and his nose. He had to wear an eye patch for two weeks and a weird splint on his nose for even longer than that. And when the ball hit him, he stumbled backward, stepping right onto Toby Rodriguez’s ankle. Toby had to sit out the whole football season because of a ligament tear. But the worst part was that Toby’s friend, Drake, tried to catch him. Drake was a little guy, way smaller than Toby, and he went down like timber and his head hit the floor. Concussion. One ball plus me led to a broken nose, broken glasses, a pirate-looking eye patch, a nose splint, whistle-breathing for Andy, ankle surgery, a missed football season, and a concussion.”

“And a partridge in a pear tree,” Blake sings.

Does he not understand how dangerous I am?

I move onto the real scary shit. “Went on two dates with Jordan, a skydiver. His parachute didn’t open and he was in freefall, sure he was going to splat on the ground, for over two minutes. Luckily, one of the other jumpers saved him.”

“Was it you? Did you save him?”

“No! I . . . I couldn’t do it. I went up in the plane, played along like I was going to jump, and I wanted to, but when they opened the plane door and all that wind whipped in . . . no way was I jumping. But he did. And he almost didn’t make it.”

“I’m sensing a theme here,” Blake guesses finally.

“The first time I met you, I almost killed you with my car!” I remind him.

“Almost being the operative word. Odds of your killing me, intentionally or accidentally, are exceedingly low. A risk I’m willing to take to eat dinner with you. Go out with me, Zoey.”

Not a question but still a request. I don’t get it. How can a smart guy like him not see the cause and effect when I lay it out so plainly?

“I can’t. I killed my parents and my grandparents too.”