He doesn’t hear me making my way around the clutter on the floor, I guess, because he doesn’t look up, and then he jumps and yells a little bit when I say his name, clutches his chest, his eyes huge and his hair, still too short, a complete mess. And then his face is like the first time you plug in your Christmas tree when he says, “Addie!”

He drags a stool up for me to sit on, and I do, even though I feel like I should stand to maintain my dignity. To stay on task. Because he’s smiling at me, a little hesitantly, and I want to smile back, because it would be so easy to let it go, but it’s not something I can let go.

“I’m working on my light trail project,” he says, then adds, “It’s Friday.”

“I know,” I say.

“I’m sorry it’s such a mess,” he says. “The studio, I mean.” He stands up, sweeps together the photos and papers scattered across his table. His hands are covered in Sharpie notes to himself.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to barge in—”

“No, it’s okay,” he rushes to say. “I’m so glad you’re here, Addie. I have to tell you something.” He frowns. “No, you came here to talk about something.”

“You go first,” I say. Hopeful despite myself.

“Right. Okay.” He sweeps his hand through his hair. Shakes his head. “Right. I went to the dean’s office,” he says. I sit very still and wait, afraid to think anything at all. “After we talked.” He shakes his head. “Because of course you’re right.”

A deep breath in. I’m not sure what to say, not yet. He goes on.

“I wanted to text you. And tell you about it. Before I went in. While I was waiting. After. But I wasn’t doing it for brownie points. I didn’t want you to think that I was.”

He hurt me, when he acted like my anger was unfounded. I want to forgive him. I want to believe he understands.

“What happened?” I ask.

“Among other things, I believe I accidentally accused the dean of being an ignorant misogynist. And now it seems I get my own hearing.”

“What.” I stare at him. I did not expect that.

“Yeah. I got detention too.” He looks thoughtful. “I am not sure I’ve ever gotten detention before.”

“Well,” I say. “Make sure you have lots to read.”

He smiles at that.

He’s not finished, and I’m still afraid of forgiving him too fast, of saying sure, I believe you, everything is okay, but I want to, so much. I clasp my hands tight.

“So,” he says, “this whole situation. This is the kind of situation in which you’re very aware you screwed up. And you know you need to make amends.”