“By the end of it, you’ll have such a good grasp on your ability, you won’t need to worry about it getting in the way of your life,” my dad added, rather foolishly optimistic in my opinion. This didn’t feel like learning how to rollerblade, like I could just dedicate two solid weeks to it and have it figured out.

“It’s true,” my mom said, clearly sensing my skepticism. “You know I’m not the AM’s biggest cheerleader, but there really is no better way to learn about your ability.”

That was that. Aaron was uncharacteristically silent throughout the entire conversation about the AM, despite being the person who had been there most recently. So when we both happened to be in the kitchen again a few hours later, I bit the bullet and decided to just ask him directly.

I had been stress baking soufflé—which had not been going well, folding egg whites one-handed was difficult—when he came in and stuck his head in the fridge, scrounging for a midafternoon snack.

“Wait an hour and you can have some chocolate soufflé,” I said. He closed the fridge and frowned at me.

“That’s…” he started, searching for the right word, “nice of you.”

I shrugged like it was no big deal, even if I knew he was right to be surprised by my offer to feed him.

“You feeling okay?” he joked.

“Obviously not,” I grumbled, incapable of joining him in what felt like well-intended ribbing.

“Right,” he said sheepishly. “Sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry.” I sighed. “I’m not trying to be a jerk. It’s just … this is a lot.”

“Yeah,” he said, hoisting himself up onto the counter to watch me struggle with my spatula. “It’s not always going to be too much to handle though. You’ll get used to it.”

“I don’t know that I want to get used to it,” I muttered, the bus stranger’s nightmare ringing in my head. The realization that that was someone’s real nightmare, a nightmare that felt inspired by reality—based in it—has stuck in my brain like gum on a shoe.

Aaron just sat there silently for a few moments. I don’t know if he was reading my thoughts or just getting a vibe from me, but he was obviously staying because he knew I had something else to say.

“So, what’s it—” I stopped myself, trying to find the right words and also wondering if I wanted to ask the question in the first place, or if it would be showing my hand too much.

“What’s what…?” Aaron squinted his eyes at me.

“Stop reading my thoughts,” I snapped. He reeled back, blinking, like the idea hadn’t even occurred to him.

“Rosie, I’m not—”

“Yes, you are, I know you, I know that face—”

“What face?”

“Your faraway-look face,” I said.