“Yeah…” he says, a not-quite question.

“Well, do you want to eat together?” I ask again, feeling more stupid with each second that passes. I want to sink into the floor.

“Why?” He narrows his eyes at me and something gets jerked back from my torso—like there’s a fishing line between us and he’s just reeled it in. “Are you looking for an English tutor or something?”

“No,” I respond, a little insulted. I’m not doing that badly. This is not going very well. “I was just thinking it might be cool to eat together. It’s Pizza Wednesday,” I finish weakly, like that will explain this extremely weird, out-of-the-blue conversation.

“Oh,” he says, and there’s so much in that one little syllable, even if I can’t read every piece of it. The tenuous connection between us grows a little stronger, like maybe he’s thinking about casting his line back into the water, and a small bubble of hope starts to grow in my chest. Does it belong to him? Or am I really that desperate to hang out with someone who doesn’t make me hate my own empathy?

“So…?” I prompt, after a few seconds have passed with him just looking at me like he’s trying to solve a particularly difficult math problem.

“Yeah. Okay. Sure,” he says, sounding a little more confident with each word.

“Cool. Cool.” I nod, faux-casual. “Want to grab food and meet me outside? The bench behind the gym?” That’s my favorite spot to eat lunch because it’s pretty isolated and I can eat in peace.

“Sure.” He draws out the word, narrowing his eyes at me again, and I feel a storm starting to swirl in my stomach, like the pressure you feel right before it downpours. Again, I find myself a little insulted by whatever’s running through his head. Does he think I don’t want to be seen with him or something?

“No, no, I’m not—” I start, automatically responding to his feelings. He narrows his eyes at me and I course correct fast. “I just find the cafeteria really overwhelming. Where you choose to sit is always such a thing and it’s so stuffy and crowded so, yeah, I just like to eat outside.”

The clouds of his feelings clear a bit and something dawns on his face.

“Oh,” he says, a revelation, “that’s why you’re never in the caf.” He’s saying it mostly to himself, nodding, and I take a page from Mr. Collins’s book, quirking an eyebrow at him.

“What?” I ask. Has he noticed my lunch habits? That’s … I don’t know what that is.

Adam’s face instantly gets red and I feel the heat of his embarrassment inside and out. Seems like he has been noticing my lunch habits. Huh.