When I met him, I had no idea what to do with Jamie, because he was so cold and terse and difficult to read. He gave me so little to work with. But now I know how funny he can be over texting, and when the moment’s right, in person. I know that he’s a good cook and kind toward animals. That periods don’t weird him out, and that he’s willing to bend the rules and sneak a cupcake before dinner. That knowing my sexuality, that I’m on the spectrum, he doesn’t see me differently, he simply sees me better. That he has anxiety and compulsions, that he struggles in ways many people are ashamed to admit, but he feels brave and safe enough to trust me.

I don’t like that what I’m seeing makes me like him even more than I’ve begrudgingly begun to. I don’t like that it’s comforting when his hand holds mine and gives it a gentle squeeze. But I can’t deny it, either.

That mental closet groans ominously as I shove my weight against it. I can’t go there. Not even a quick peek. It’ll all come tumbling out. Then what?

“Here we are,” he says.

I look up, stunned as I realize it’s my apartment building. “We’re home?”

“You’re home.” He throws a thumb over his shoulder. “I’m five minutes that way.”

“I live this close to the city’s best pho?”

He arches an eyebrow and leans in. “You do. If by ‘close’ you mean a twenty-minute walk.”

“We walked twenty minutes?” I’m starting to sound like a disoriented parrot. My cheeks heat. “Oh, Jamie. I’m sorry I zoned out. It’s nothing personal, I swear. I just get lost in my head sometimes and—”

“Bea.” One of those soft, crooked smiles warms his face. “It’s all right. It was quiet, but it was mutual. I enjoyed it immensely.”

He pulls away, taking his warmth and that woodsy scent with him. Reaching past me, Jamie opens the outer door to my building, gently guiding me in. Then he offers one of those nods. A Jamie Nod. Deep and a little chivalrous.

“Good night, Bea.”

“Wait.”

He pauses, catching the door before it falls shut between us. “Yes?”

“Want to come up for a bit?” I swallow nervously. “To . . . meet Cornelius?”

Silence stretches between us. “Well,” he finally says, stepping into the foyer, “I can’t say no to meeting a hedgehog, can I?”

· EIGHTEEN ·

Jamie

Bea stops abruptly when we step inside her apartment. Juliet and Jean-Claude sit side by side on the sofa, Jean-Claude on his laptop, a pile of papers beside him, Juliet curled up reading inside one of his arms.

“Oops,” Bea mutters, as I shut the door behind us. “Forgot about them.”