I don’t know where it comes from. It’s stupid. Not just for me, for Zach. I could tell, standing there on the street waiting for the car to come, that something was happening between us, but it doesn’t matter. I don’t care. That’s what I told myself, over and over, last night on the way home: I don’t care.

And now this thought, straight from my traitorous brain.

I grab my phone to see what ungodly hour it is, and a text from Zach pops up. I throw the phone back on my bed like it burned me. What is he, psychic? I cover my eyes with my hands, and a few minutes later, when I peek out, the text is still there. It hasn’t magically disappeared, which is really just rude of it.

Crap.

A second later, a (2) pops up next to Zach’s name. Another text. This is getting out of hand. To stop my phone from buzzing again, I read them.

The first message asks what I’m doing tonight, and the second apologizes for sending the first one so early.

I sigh, click to my Instagram, and see he’s sent a request to follow me. Jesus. He’s all up in my business this morning. There’s not much to see on my account—I deleted all the dumb pictures I had posted over the last couple years of me and Chim and Miles partying together, leaving behind a few relics of Lucy playing the drums and Jordan playing the guitar. I can’t help myself, though; I accept Zach and then click on his name and see that his page isn’t private (who doesn’t have a private account? Creeps, celebrities, and Zach, apparently). He hasn’t posted many photos recently, but when I scroll down to his posts from last year, it’s like the page of a very different person. There are pictures of him and Matt; him at Conor’s shows hanging with the band; him with that girl I keep seeing with the band, kissing her on the cheek and making goofy faces. (Excuse me? Who is this girl?) In all of them, he’s…happy. His smile doesn’t have that sadness around its edges that it does now. A sadness most people would miss but that I recognize because I’ve seen it in the mirror, on my own face.

Goddammit. Now I feel sorry for the guy. It really isn’t his fault that his mom is such an asshole. He doesn’t deserve everyone’s hatred. It’s not fair that he has to deal with all that while I get pity and sad smiles.

I throw myself back onto my pillow and heave a sigh, then click back to his message and start typing.

Pick me up at 8.

A text bubble pops up a split second later. The guy is definitely not suave.

Great!!