“Dude, are you okay?” His eyes are doing that puppy-dog thing they do that makes my stomach flip over and dissolve. I get a flash of Caleb and my mom teaming up to do a Good Cop/Bad Cop routine and quickly determine that the world (least of all my sanity) would never survive.

“I’ve got a little less than a year to get my apps ready,” I deflect. “I’m really not that worried about getting them done.”

“You know that’s not what I mean,” he says, staring me down. And no, I don’t know that, because I never know what Caleb means. What does he mean by these lunches? What does he mean when he looks over his shoulder at me in class? What does he mean when he reads me—me, who tries so hard to move through school completely unnoticed—like an open book?

“No, I don’t, Caleb,” I say honestly. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.” He’s adamant, getting worked up. “You’ve been sad and jittery for days and it feels like the kind of sad you get when your parents are putting pressure on you, but I’m not sure so I wish you’d just talk to me about it!”

He’s practically glaring at me, like he’s mad that I’m having feelings. I sit there in a stunned silence and watch the frustration on his face melt into panic. His eyes widen and I can see his brain catching up with his mouth.

“I’m—” he starts. “I didn’t mean—I don’t know what I’m saying.” He shakes his head and stares down at the table.

“How—” My lips release sound I didn’t plan on making and I can feel my heartbeat in my fingertips. “Why do you say I’ve been sad and jittery for days?” I ask, even though there’s so many more things I want to ask.

“Because you have been,” he mumbles.

“No, I haven’t,” I lie. I’ve barely seen Caleb this week, where is he getting this from?

“Yes, you have, I can feel it.” Caleb spits it out and looks up at me.

“What?”

“I just mean—I—” His eyes dart around and his face is turning red, out of frustration or embarrassment I have no idea. “I can just tell, okay? You’re not that good at hiding it.”

“Ouch,” I say, trying to sound casual as my heart starts racing in panic.

“No, c’mon, I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings—I mean—fuck.” Caleb brings his hands up to his head, running his fingers frantically through his hair. My brain takes a quick detour from keeping up with this incredibly odd conversation to thinking about how much I wish I could replace his hands with mine.