@AbbieGrl: “If I loved you less, maybe I could talk about it more?” That’s Emma.

@AbbieGrl: Why?

@DoURe1dMe: I don’t know. I might read it.

Abbie quietly panicked to death while Will sat in front of her with his ridiculous fucking shorts and his T-shirt that said PUSH IT REAL GOOD and his hopeful, hungry eyes.

He looked at her like he’d really meant what he said, not in a casual way but in a galaxies-lying-beneath-insufficient-words way. He looked at her like they were both characters from the novel they’d talked about last night. He looked at her like this was a fairy tale, like he’d rip away thorns with his bare hands and climb a lonely tower to get to her.

But none of that was actual fact; it was interpretation, and Abbie’s social interpretations were often skewed. She’d learned that in therapy. (Therapists were often rude as fuck; that was another thing she’d learned.)

She was supposed to put her thoughts on trial—it was one of the techniques she’d been taught—but right now, her mental judge and jury had Will’s confessions on trial instead. “I like you, Abbie,” he’d said. “You make me happy,” he’d said. Abbie’s head found those words guilty of reckless endangerment. They were cute but shallow when compared to what lived inside her. The butterflies were waking up again—he’d woken them up—and this time they were flapping hard enough to break free. Which couldn’t be allowed to happen, because then Will would find himself face-to-face with what should be secret, ancient monster butterflies, and he’d be understandably horrified, and she’d lose all claim to dignity.

“Will,” she said. “What the fuck?” Her body felt too tight, too brittle, swallowed up by a sudden storm of emotion. She usually kept these feelings wrapped up safe and hidden, but his words had them surging like a hurricane. The coil twisting in her belly, the heat racing across her skin, the way she craved his warmth like he was the antidote to life’s frost—

Stop. This was only a crush, that was all. It couldn’t be anything different. She’d told herself that for years, because the alternative was too depressing to contemplate and too huge to control.

Abbie needed control.

What she didn’t need was Will stirring up things he didn’t understand by flirting, by saying soft shit to her, by giving her chained-up urges enough hope to break loose. But before she could make that fact clear (or, alternatively, throw her hot chocolate in Will’s lap to distract him before climbing out of the window and running to Edinburgh), Grandma burst into the room.

Will and Abbie both jolted, their impossible bubble popped, their attention diverted—for now. “Gravy!” Grandma said from the doorway, still wearing her silk headscarf and frilled nightdress.