The butterflies are rising through my body again as Adam takes another bite of his pizza. They’re lifting everything up, pushing everything out to make room for the fluttering. My heart isn’t even beating anymore—it’s been replaced with light, flapping wings that send pure light into my blood vessels.

“Are you okay now?” he asks, mouth pulled down in concern. I know he’s worried from the expression on his face, not his feelings. I can’t find that worry anywhere in my body. Everything is drowned out by the tingling in my gut. And suddenly I’m seized with the anxiety of who it belongs to. Is it Adam’s? Does he get nervous and light-headed when we’re together too? I hope he does, but at the same time, if this is his feeling, then maybe it’s not mine. Maybe Adam likes me and that’s what I’ve been feeling this whole time and I haven’t had a genuine emotion of my own in months except for the fucking anxiety I’m feeling right now and I realize I haven’t answered Adam’s question but right now I want to throw my pizza down and never stop running.

“Yeah,” I lie. “Yeah, I’m good now.”

“Wow,” he deadpans, “you really are one of the worst liars I’ve ever met.”

“Shut up,” I mumble and, just like that, things are normal again.

Adam complains about the epic round of college tours his parents have planned for spring break (“A week in the car with my parents, Caleb, what the hell am I gonna do?”) and I tell him about how Caitlin stood up to her dad for me when he was pissed that we got kicked out of the dance. I make it sound ridiculous—like Mr. Park was one step away from pulling out a shotgun—so that I can see Adam laugh again. We spend five minutes straight speculating on what Mr. Collins does with his weekend (“I bet he plays Scrabble against himself,” Adam says) and complain about our Latin exam.