But it isn’t really that long of a story, not the way I tell it. My words tumble out of me, crashing into one another. I tell him about overhearing Taylor upstairs in that room at the party, that there were at least two other people who heard the same thing I heard. I tell him what they said, everything I could make out. Then I tell him about Taylor luring me to that little Italian place and how she tried to intimidate me. I try to make it funny. Nate doesn’t interrupt me, not once. He doesn’t seem shocked or even surprised by anything I’m saying. It’s not until that last part, when I mention the money, that I get any kind of reaction from him. But still, he doesn’t say anything, just a quick lift of his eyebrows, and that’s all I get. When I’m done, he’s quiet. Too quiet.

I want to ask what he’s thinking as we huddle up on the subway, but I also don’t want to know the answer. So I don’t say anything, either. A few times I feel the weight of Nate’s eyes on me, but as soon as I look up, he glances away and pretends he wasn’t watching me.

By the time we make it to the restaurant, I’m already picking at my cuticles, the blood not far away. Nate’s never been this quiet for this long. We eat in an almost dead silence. After our waiter refills our glasses and leaves to serve another table, I can’t take it anymore.

“Are you okay?”

He doesn’t look up. “I’m fine.”

I reach over onto his plate with my fork and stab at the last of his pasta.

“I was gonna eat that,” he mumbles, before I can even stick the tortellini into my mouth, and I hate the clip in his voice.

“Sorry,” I say, though I’m not sure if it’s me who should be the one apologizing. “I thought you were done. You still—”

“No. Go ahead.” Nate reaches for the bread basket, though there’s nothing but broken pieces and crumbs left, and I know it’s just to avoid my eyes.

Something flickers inside me, something small, barely noticeable, like the spark of a flame. Tonight was supposed to be low-key, no drama, no worries, just light conversation, good food and that easy, slow sex that makes you tear up a little.

I push it away and sigh. “So how long are you gonna stay mad at me?”

“I’m not mad,” he says, too quickly.

It’s a lie, and we both know it. Nate always lets me eat the last bite of his food. And it’s not just that. It’s his eyes, the way they keep averting mine, the abrasion in his voice.

“Then what are you?”