But I cut his words off with a sharp wave of my hand. I reach into my purse and pull out a tube of ChapStick. Then, just to make sure, I lift my hand and uncurl my fingers to reveal the one Benson just gave me.

Two. Three, if you count the one that disappeared.

I feel myself losing control and have to force a few breaths into my lungs as an awful thought occurs to me. With my hands almost numb in fear, I reach into my pocket again.

At first I feel nothing. But I dig deeper, into the bottom corner where the pocket lint tends to accumulate.

And pull out another tube.

Benson was right; it’s always in my pocket when I can’t find it.

I hold the three tubes out to Benson and he instinctively lifts his hands to take them.

I drop them into his palm. Benson has to see.

If Benson sees them, I’m not crazy.

Or at least I’m not hallucinating.

I reach into my pocket again and meet Benson’s eyes as I pull out another tube of ChapStick and place it with the other three already cradled in his hands.

Four. I reach again.

Five.

Six.

I don’t want them to cut open my brain again.

“You’re weirding me out,” Benson says, his eyes boring into mine.

“Ssh!” I hold my finger up to my lips. “Watch.”

“Tave—”

“Just. Watch,” I insist.

The seriousness in my voice finally gets through to him and he keeps his eyes on my half-dozen lip balms with a skeptical look like he’s waiting for me to pounce on him and yell “Gotcha!”

I wish.

I wish it were that simple.

A few minutes have passed, and my eyes are already weary from glaring at the tubes. Benson takes a breath and I can practically feel him getting ready to say something when the middle tube pops out of sight.

Benson gasps as he drops the rest of the ChapSticks. He scrambles out of the way—almost knocking me over—and they scatter across the carpet. “Holy mother of Max!”

“Ssssshhh!” I whisper-command, putting my hand over his mouth and stepping right up close to him.

Right against him.

I look up, our faces only a few inches apart, and my chest freezes. My hand lowers slowly, his lips soft against my fingertips, until only one finger rests on his bottom lip. A distant part of me hears Benson’s breath, unsteady as it speeds up, his eyes burning into mine.

I’m not sure who reaches out first or how it happens amid everything going on, but in an instant my fingers are grasping at his hair, pulling his face down to me, his hand behind my neck, pulling me up, tilting my mouth to his. His lips are desperate on mine, seeking, demanding, taking.

But how can they take what I’m savagely giving?

His whole body trembles as he steps forward, pressing against me, trapping me between the bookshelf and the warmth of him. The corners of books dig into my back as our bodies meet, push, wrap. I grasp at the soft fabric of Benson’s sweater-vest, and my fingers dig into his ribs just beneath. His hands are still behind my neck, my head—fingers weaving through my hair as he brings my mouth harder against his—but the length of his body rocked snugly against mine feels like its own kind of embrace.

I rip my mouth away to gulp for air but return immediately to his lips, needing more of him. Tiny groans vibrate in his throat and they make me want to hold him tighter, kiss him deeper. I don’t know how long it lasts—forever and yet not nearly long enough—before Benson throws his head back and lets out a long sigh. His hands frame my face and he lets his forehead rest against mine as we both struggle for air. His breath is hot on my lips and when I breathe, it smells like him.

And something in me knows that everything is different now.

Better? I hope so.

“Is this the part where I’m supposed to apologize?” Benson asks, and his voice is so low, so weak, it makes me want to cry all over again.

“Are you sorry?” I whisper. And I don’t know what I want to hear.

“Never,” he says, his whisper barely audible.

A strange joy fills me and this time it’s not overwhelming. It’s calm. Peaceful almost. “Then don’t apologize.”

But he stands up, his hands sliding away from me to take a new stance on his hips, and he looks at the bookshelf just to my left. “The timing, it was bad, you were crying, and I … I should have, no, I shouldn’t have—”

“Benson,” I interrupt. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay, I didn’t mean—”

“Benson,” I say, more firmly. I step forward and slide my hands down his arms, forcing his fists off his hips and sliding my fingers between his. “It’s okay.” I don’t want to ask, but I know I have to. “Is this why you dislike Quinn so much?”

Benson swallows hard before he speaks. “He has a name now?”

“Yes.”

“It’s one of the reasons,” he finally admits. “But the others are just as valid.”

My mind is having a seriously hard time thinking rationally. “What about Dana McCraven?”

Benson’s face flushes so red it’s almost maroon. “I made her up,” he admits. “I didn’t want you to see how puppy sick I was.”

“Really?” I ask, genuinely shocked.

And pleased.

“You asked one day and I just … came up with a name. It wasn’t supposed to become such a big lie. It was supposed to help me keep my distance,” he mumbles. Then his eyes dart up to mine for just an instant and the emotion I see makes my heart pound. “Didn’t work, I guess.”