I stare at him, more than a little dumbfounded. “Is that … ?Are you serious? Does that happen?”

Wyatt cackles. “No, it’s not that severe. I just get hives. Over-the-counter allergy meds usually help.”

“You’re not funny,” I tell him grumpily.

“Told you, we need to have some conversations about details.”

I don’t want to admit that he’s right, but I can imagine this scenario in my head where Mom offers Wyatt a crab cake and he declines, and I have to pretend all along like I knew about the allergy and that his life wasn’t potentially at risk.

“Okay.” I straighten in my seat, the leather of the booth squeaking. “What do you think I should know?”

“Why do I have to go first?”

“Because you’re my guest.”

“That makes you the host,” he says. “I learned in cotillion that the host should set the example.”

“You attended cotillion?”

“They offered free classes at the YMCA near my house. My parents thought it’d be good for me to learn etiquette.” Wyatt leans over the table. “They were fun. I liked learning to dance.”

“You must’ve forgotten the first lesson,” I say, looking at where his arms rest on the table. “Elbows? Very rude.”

Wyatt moves them quickly, a blush creeping up on his cheeks.

“It’s good that you can dance—you’ll need it,” I add, putting my elbows on the table. “What else is there?”

“What do you want to know?”

“Whatever you think I need to know.”

He smirks at me, almost looking devilish in the orange glow of the lamp above our table.

“We’ve got plenty of time.” Mom still hasn’t noticed that I’m here. A quick glance toward the rest of the open dining space shows her sitting at a center table with Michael; his fiancée, Ashley; and two people who I’m assuming are Ashley’s parents, alongside my grandparents.

On Mom’s side, of course. I haven’t seen my paternal grandparents in years.

Not for a lack of trying. I think Dad told them to stop talking to me.

“Let’s start with what you know about me instead.”

“Didn’t we already play this game?”

Wyatt shakes his head slowly, still smiling. “I want to play it again.”

I sigh. “Your name is Wyatt Fowler. You’re sixteen. Blond hair, green eyes. Probably six foot one? Maybe a little taller.”

“You’re starting to sound like my driver’s license.”

“You’re a Halloween baby.”

“You definitely cheated.”

“You gave me your ID to buy your plane ticket.” I hold my hands up defensively. “I can’t be held accountable here.”

“You’re really something, you know that?”

“You’re afraid of flying,” I continue. “You have a little sister; you play the guitar and want to be a singer.”

“All of this is obvious.”

I try to think if there’s anything obscure that I know about Wyatt. I don’t think the shellfish allergy counts. Something not so obvious.

“Oh, I know. You chew on the end of your pens when you’re concentrating.”

“You noticed that?”