“Probably not. Not because I don’t want to talk to him, but I feel like it would hurt his feelings if I shut him out. Like, he should be punished, right?”

“He should be,” I told him. I wanted to grab his hand for emphasis, but I was weird around boys. I was weird around people in general. I didn’t like touching people or being touched. But Zeke needed to know. You had to choose sides. And you always chose the person who didn’t fuck everything up. You chose the person who was stuck with you.

“So,” he said, looking up at me. “We’re both kind of alone in the same way, right?”

“I guess so,” I said. He looked like he might kiss me. Or maybe not. I’d never been this close to a boy. I knew there had to be a moment, some signal, that regular people could sense in order to go from being people who didn’t kiss to being people who kissed. What the hell was it? How could I make sure not to do it until the exact right moment? His eyes were so dark, but they kind of twinkled. I felt light-headed.

“Are you hungry?” I asked him, jumping up from the sofa. “Do you want something to eat?”

“Um, sure,” he said. “I’m hungry.” And before he could even finish talking, I was running into the kitchen, opening the fridge, feeling the cool air on my face. Was this how love worked? You shared something personal, stood close to each other? I wasn’t attracted to him. I didn’t know him. All I knew was that we both had dads who sucked. All I knew was that we were both alone.

Zeke was standing at the kitchen counter. I turned to face him, shutting the door to the fridge. There wasn’t much in there. I didn’t know what to do. The house felt really empty. So I just said something to break up the silence.

“I’m a writer,” I told him.

“Really?” he replied. He seemed impressed.

“Well, I mean, I want to be. That’s what I want to do. I want to write books.”

“That’s cool,” he said. “I like books. Stephen King? You like him?”

“He’s okay,” I said, but I actually didn’t like him all that much. I liked southern writers, because that’s what my mom taught me to love. I liked badass women southern writers like Flannery O’Connor and Carson McCullers. I liked Dorothy Allison and Bobbie Ann Mason and Alice Walker.