Size XL, according to the tag. I’m fairly sure Wyatt is a large, but don’t quote me on that. He might be fond of oversized flannel shirts, but his school uniform fits like it’s been tailored.

So last night was real, but … how much of last night?

“What even happened?” I ask him.

“Samuel dropped you off, you showered because you were covered in dirt, then you threw up on my shoes and had to shower again, and then you passed out cold.”

“I threw up on your Crocs?”

“Next time, if you think my shoes are ugly, you can just tell me,” he says with a grin before he goes back to whatever it was he was doing before I woke up—still packing, by the looks of it. “I thought you might be dead there for a second. I had to make sure you were breathing.”

“You watched me while I slept?” I ask him. “And you made me shower? Creep.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Wyatt tells me. “And can you please do something about your phone?”

“Huh?”

“It keeps ringing, someone named ‘Do Not Answer.’ ”

Fuck.

I dig around for my phone for a bit, finding it underneath my sheets. And sure enough, there are five missed calls, which won’t be good for me.

“Do you need anything?” Wyatt asks. “Tylenol? Water?”

“What? No, just leave me alone.”

“Good to see you’re back to normal.” He sighs. “I gotta pee.”

“Thanks for the update.”

My phone blinds me when I turn it on, and after a second or two of struggling with the brightness settings, I can finally see everything.

Wyatt grabs his wallet and slips on his shoes, and just as he opens the door, he straightens.

“Oh, hey, Josh!” he says.

Fuck!

“Hi, Wyatt. Is Neil here?”

The way the door swings into my room, it totally hides my bed, so Josh won’t have seen me yet. Wyatt looks in my direction, as if that’s not suspicious at all. But still, I mouth, “No!” hoping that he’ll get the message.

Wyatt nods, understanding.

Thank God.

“Yeah, he’s in bed. Why don’t you come in?” Wyatt stands back, holding the door open like the gentleman he is, and Josh just strolls right on in. “This feels like a private conversation, so I’ll leave you two alone.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Josh says.

Wyatt shoots me a finger gun, and I give him the middle finger. If looks could kill, Wyatt would be six feet under right now.

As for Josh—I’m not going to leave space for the awkward preamble. Josh is here for a reason, a glaringly obvious reason, and the sooner we get this over with, the sooner he’ll be out the door.

“What is it, Josh?” I ask.

“I just … I wanted to talk to you.”