“I like being alone,” I blurt out when I realize I haven’t picked up the gauntlet he threw. It’s the wrong thing to say not only because it’s fucking dumb but also because something shutters even further in him, the steel growing thicker.

“Oh,” he says, a complete sentence. “I can leave if you want…”

As he trails off, I realize he’s disappointed and then I know what the wall’s about—he doesn’t trust me. He probably thinks I’ve asked him to lunch just to be mean or pull a prank or have something to use against him. But then why did he say yes in the first place?

“No, that’s not what I meant,” I rush to explain, remembering how he felt when he went all “frightened woodland animal” before and not wanting to give him a reason to run away. “I just meant…”

Now it’s my turn to trail off. I don’t know what I mean to say—I can’t tell him that I don’t eat with the team because being in crowds is hard because of my Problem. That carrying on a conversation with more than one or two people is nearly impossible, especially when everyone is feeling something completely different.

“I get it”—he nods, unscrewing the cap on his iced tea—“You can be alone with one person.”

He says it so matter-of-factly but it sends me reeling. That’s exactly it. With one person, my Problem can be nice—sometimes it’s easier to connect, to get ahead of the conversation, to understand someone. In a group, it becomes noise.

“Yeah,” I say, unable to keep the surprise out of my voice. “Yeah, um, how did you know that?”

“You get this look on your face sometimes when you’re in a big group,” he says, staring into his yogurt as he idly swirls it around with a spoon. “Like you’re powering down or something. People will be goofing off around you and you’re just off in your own little world.”

“What?” I ask blankly, unsure how to take … well, any of that, really. That’s the second time today he’s made it sound like he watches me and, based on the blush that’s creeping up his neck, he definitely has been.

“Um, no, I didn’t mean—” he starts, wide eyes snapping up from his Yoplait to look at me. The moment our eyes connect, I’m slammed with the hot, face-melting embarrassment that’s running wild through his body.

“I just—not that I—” he continues, and I don’t know if I should jump in or what. “I’m just observant.” He stops abruptly, like that’s enough of an explanation.