Joy lifts her head so she can read his expression. “Not that I’m complaining, but is there a reason why we’re hugging in the middle of a novelty shop for tourists?”

“Yep.”

“Are you going to tell me why?”

“Because”—he pauses, voice going low and extra rumbly—“I haven’t hugged you in two hours.” He exhales, gaze flicking to something behind Joy. “And I’m sure you can guess the other reason.”

“Is he looking?” Joy sighs. “He’s looking, isn’t he?”

“You’re right about what you said this morning. I was projecting. But I was also right.” Fox’s deep frown returns. “He doesn’t want me anywhere near you.”

“Joy. Can I talk to you for a second?” Suddenly, Malcolm is there, next to them.

“Ah, right now? I’m kind of—” She glances at Fox, who quirks an unhelpful eyebrow and winks. “Sure.” It’s almost painful when Fox lets her go. She wants to change her mind, and cling to him for a few more minutes while he rubs her back, but Malcolm’s already walking away. So she follows him.

“What are you doing?” Malcolm asks as they stand in a corner filled with gag birthday gifts.

“Standing in a corner of questionable moral character with you.”

“I’m talking about Fox.” His gaze slides past and behind her. Over her shoulder, she sees Fox, still waiting by the turnstile for her to come back. “I know I asked you to keep him company, but don’t you think you’re taking it too far? Summer is . . . worried.”

“Yes, I’ve heard the jumbled version of her worry.” Joy stares him down. “You asked me to keep him company. Turns out, I like his company.”

A lightbulb clicks on behind Malcolm’s eyes—a giant 1,000-watt monster that leaves him blinking and stammering. “You like his company.” His disbelieving monotone almost makes her change her answer.

“That’s what I said.”

“You and him?” Malcolm tries to say something else, but no sound comes out. He’s struggling, truly struggling to find the words he wants to say next.

Joy isn’t sure what’s happening. The moment feels surreal and blurry, like she’s not getting enough air, but her lungs are fine. Everything in working order and falling apart.

“But you don’t like anyone.” His voice is a ragged whisper, both certain and confused. “You just met him.”

“You do realize I’m allowed to like people, right?”

Is that what’s happening? Is she really telling Malcolm that she likes Fox? Now?

“Of course, you are.” He says it like he believes it. “That’s not . . . It just seems like the kind of thing you would’ve told me.”

She shrugs. Her fingers are cold when she squeezes them into a fist. “Doesn’t matter,” she says quietly. “It’s your weekend.”