“Honestly, I should really get going.” He fidgets, picking at his sleeves. “I just wanted to make sure you had your book, and…” He trails off, sighs, rubs his face. Then his smile comes back, self-effacing and almost goofy. “Ugh, how am I so bad at this?”

“What do you mean?” I ask, wadding up my sweater, my hands acting of their own accord.

He rakes his fingers through his hair. “The reason I didn’t just leave the book at Sugar Mama’s is because I wanted an excuse to see you. It’s like … every time you come in, I could swear you’re trying to flirt with me—but I’m afraid to flirt back, because if I’m wrong, things could get weird, and you’d never come into the café again. Or you would, and it would be awkward.” He glances up at me with a sheepish grin. “And, of course, I’ve just made sure things will be awkward anyway. How am I so bad at this? I’m sorry, I’ll—”

“Wait!” I stop him before he can reach the door. “Are you saying that you came over here to flirt with me? Seriously? Like … seriously?”

Gunnar laughs. “Is that so hard to believe?”

“Well, kinda, yeah.” Scrunching my nose, I point out, “You’re all … you. And I’m all, like, me.”

“Okay, I have no idea what that means. But I like you, Auggie. You’re cute, and you make me laugh, and I never know what you’re going to say next … I like that you’re always a surprise.” He shrugs, seeming embarrassed by all this apparent honesty.

My sweater drops to the floor, and I barely notice. Living in Fulton Heights, I’ve always been different—the gay kid, the art nerd, the weirdo. Plus, I’m a mess, with hair that sticks up all the time, glasses that are always askew, and, you know, a monster growing inside of me. By contrast, Gunnar is all shiny skin and cool dude-necklaces. I’d dreamed but never for a moment truly believed that he would even notice me, let alone—

“You’re gay?” I squint at him, still trying to make all this add up.

“Yeah, pretty much.” He bobs his head awkwardly. “If I’ve made things weird, I’m really sorry. I just … Well, we only get so much time, right?”

Pulling out one of the barstools at the counter, I collapse into it. “You … like me?”

“Yes!” Gunnar actually laughs. “Why do you keep saying it like that?”

“Nobody’s ever liked me before,” I answer honestly. Except Jude, sort of—but he might have only flirted with me because he wants to stuff me in a cage until I hatch.