For a long moment, he only looks at me, and it suddenly feels strange to be sitting so close to him without touching him.

Over his head, my focus lands on a shelf that runs the length of the room. It’s so full of baseball trophies that it’s started to bow in the middle from the weight. Jake has been MVP, and All-Region, and Division II All-State Player of the Year. He set a school record for bases stolen.

Penn is a good baseball player, but Jake is outstanding. Last year, college scouts started coming to watch him play.

“Beck, are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Why?”

He frowns. “The threats. I’ve been reporting them to Twitter, when I see them, but—”

“What? I saw one before, but it was vague and stupid.”

I pull my phone from my pocket and turn it on. I’ve been carrying it in case of an emergency, but I’ve kept it off, because of all the calls from reporters. When I open my Twitter app, several dozen new mentions scroll down the screen. I read through them quickly, and one catches my attention.

@BeckettBergen I hope you—

The tweet goes on, but my eyes refuse to read any more. Instead, individual words and phrases jump out at me from that tweet and several more, as chills crawl up my spine.

Kill yourself.

Rape.

Trash.

Die.

One of the posters is threatening to pull me out of this life limb by limb, like he claims I did to my baby.

“Oh my god,” I whisper. “There were more of these, before you reported them?” This is different than that one from before. This is infinitely worse.

Jake leans closer to read from my screen. “Yeah, those are new. But they’re basically the same as the ones that have already been taken down. I shouldn’t have said anything. I didn’t realize you hadn’t seen them. Turn it back off.”

He snatches my phone and holds down the power button until the screen goes black.

“You’ve been having them removed? For me?”

He hands my phone back, and his fingers brush mine. “Of course.”

“But you’re not even on Twitter.”

“I am now. Logged into my mother’s account.” He shrugs. “She needed help setting hers up, so I know her password.”

“Does she know you’ve been reporting tweets through her account?”

He actually laughs. “She doesn’t even know that’s a thing.”

His leg is so close to mine that I can feel its warmth. I could take his hand and just … hold it. Like a thank-you—and an apology—that I don’t have to verbalize. A gesture he’ll understand, even without the words.