“Ignore them,” Layne murmured. Her hand softened, and she gave his forearm a gentle squeeze. “Just get out your notebook.”

Gabriel turned his head to look at her. His entire life was going to shit, but seeing her here was like finding a little glimmer of light amid all the darkness. “Your hair is down.”

She blushed a little and moved to pull her hand back.

He caught her fingers, trapping them beneath his own. “It’s pretty.”

“Thanks,” she whispered.

And she left her hand there until Ms. Anderson started talking.

Gabriel still couldn’t focus on class, but now his mind kept replaying the feel of Layne’s hand on his wrist, instead of all the turmoil of the weekend.

A note appeared in the middle of his desk.

I’m glad you’re okay.

He cast a glance right. Her cheeks were still pink, and he’d bet money that her heart was racing in her chest.

He wrote back.

I’m glad you’re okay. Thank you for
having your dad help me.

Her blush deepened. He watched her put her pencil to the paper.

He doesn’t want me to associate with you.

Like that was a surprise. But Ms. Anderson was looking at the class now instead of writing on the board, and he had to wait before he could write back.

What do you want?

Layne’s expression sobered when she unfolded his note. Then she wrote quickly.

I want to understand how you can do what
you did.

He stared at those words for a long time and wondered how much she knew. How much she’d figured out. She was staring at him now; he could feel it.

Finally, he nodded, then put his pen against the paper.

Free period? Library?

She didn’t write back to that one, just unrolled it and nodded, then looked back at her work.

He’d caught up with the homework, but Gabriel couldn’t understand a word Ms. Anderson was saying. He kept sneaking glances at Layne, fighting to keep his hands still, wanting to reach out and stroke her hair, to touch her arm, to hold her hand and feel her steady presence balance him out.

Then the bell was ringing and Layne was gathering her things.

“See you,” she whispered. Her hand barely brushed his as she pushed past his desk.

“See you,” he said, gathering his things to walk out of the classroom.

But Ms. Anderson stepped in front of him. “I’m pleased to see your work has improved.”

“I have a tutor,” he said. When her eyebrows went up, he shrugged and said, “I wanted to get back on the team.”

Funny how basketball seemed so pointless now.

“Well,” said Ms. Anderson, “I hope this means you’ll do well on the makeup exam this afternoon.”

“Wait, that’s—”

“We agreed on today. You are free fifth period, correct?”