I’m tired, yeah. But I’m going home, hoping to see her. Wondering if she saw the essay and cared at all.

That makes me feel pathetic, not victorious.

CHAPTER FIVE

CASSIA

The digital numbers on the stove change, displaying the start of a new hour. I glance down at the glass of water that’s been my sorry excuse for standing here for the last twenty minutes, annoyed with myself.

I’m not sure why I was so certain he’d be home by now.

Why the fact he isn’t feels like a personal affront.

I stick my glass in the dishwasher and head for the stairs. My hand brushes the banister just as I catch a flash of movement out of the corner of my eye. I hesitate, my foot hovering in mid-air as I look out the living room window and watch as a tall shadow moves across the asphalt driveway. Warring with myself. Torn between what I want to do and what I should do.

There’s a blue hoodie hanging from the row of pegs by the front door. I shrug it on before heading outside. It does little to temper the chill in the air, despite hanging halfway down my thighs. Based on the size, I’m certain it’s Holden’s.

I wrap the cotton tighter around me as I walk down the front steps and veer to the left, toward the driveway.

I hear the rhythmic smack of rubber against asphalt before I round the corner of the house. The basketball hoop is attached to the front face of the garage, which is tucked between the side of the house and the row of bushes that separates the Adamses’ yard from the neighbors.

There’s an exterior light affixed above the hoop that casts a dim light over the asphalt. Over the figure who’s sitting on the asphalt now, instead of standing and shooting.

I walk over and sink down beside him. The driveway is cold and hard. But I’m more focused on the guy next to me than the fact it feels like I’m sitting on an ice cube.

“B minus, huh?”

The graded rewrite of his essay was waiting on the kitchen counter when I came downstairs after my shower, along with curious looks from my mom and Maggie.

Holden Adams doesn’t casually stop by my house—not anymore. I have no idea what him dropping off the rewrite of the essay I helped him ace means. His version of a thank you?

“Yeah.” One word, yet it conveys a lot. It tells me Holden is testy and annoyed. That our conversation tonight won’t resemble the predictable pattern of past Friday nights.