He lets out a breath that could resemble a laugh if it matched his expression. “I will. As soon as I say what I need to say.” He pauses again and I think I’m going to go mad with anticipation. At the same time, I’m a little flattered that Arden Moss has something important enough to say to me that his tongue is tangled in knots. “Thank you,” he blurts. “Thank you for trying to help my uncle. For protecting him. It meant a lot to me. It means a lot to me. I know it doesn’t seem like it, but I do care about him.”

I’m about to tell him he’s welcome—because what else should I say?—but he continues. “And at lunch today, I completely screwed that up. What I was trying to say was that … Actually, I think I’ve said enough for now.” The corners of his mouth lift up into a cheeky smile, not the kind of counterfeit, purposeful grin I’ve seen him use on girls. This one makes him look like a boy who’s just been given a slingshot and something to aim at. “Well, now that I’ve made this way awkward for both of us, can I give you a ride home?”

Ah. And here is my opening to end whatever thing Arden and I had between us for this past forty-eight hours. Arden doesn’t do serious conversation. I don’t do complicated. “Oh no, that’s okay. I don’t live far from here. Like, two minutes on my bike, max.” Hint hint.

His smile falters. “It’s not a big deal at all. It’s the least I could do.”

This is true. But it’s not happening. Julio would pass away directly if a boy brought me home. I can hear him now. You’re going to get distracted, get pregnant, and then we’ll never get Mama and Papi back here. “No thanks,” I say, to both scenarios.

This perplexes Arden, I can tell. “Are you still mad at me? Honest to God, I didn’t mean to insult you or scare you or—”

“Can I please have my bike back?” I know it’s rude and abrupt, but I can’t help it. I don’t want to drag this out any longer. Like he said, it’s already way awkward for us both. Why continue bumbling? It’s time to part ways.

He sighs in resignation. “Alright.” Walking to the truck bed, he reaches in and gingerly lifts out my bike as if it were made of porcelain—and as if it weighed as much as a pillow. I try not to notice his triceps flexing. “Here you go.”

It’s only been a day, but I’ve missed my bike. We’ve been through a lot together. Riding in the rain, two flat tires, pedaling away from a rabid fox. My bike and I? We are friends. “Thanks,” I tell him. “See you in social studies.” I loop both arms through my backpack and center the weight of it on my back.

I’m about to hop on the seat of the bike when Arden says, “Does that mean we’ll actually get to talk in social studies?”

Seriously? “Um, I don’t know about you, but I have to pay attention in class or I’ll be totally lost.” So I’m good at directness and evasion.

“You don’t like me.” Okay, so Arden’s good at being direct too. Crap.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You don’t have to. When you get on that bike and leave, you have no intention of ever speaking to me again.”

I nudge the kickstand in place and cross my arms at him. The weight of my backpack makes my shoulders feel more squared, which I appreciate. “We’re not friends, Arden. We’re only talking right now because I was at the wrong place at the wrong time last night. If that hadn’t happened, the rest of the school year would have gone by without you even looking in my direction.”

Guilt flashes across his face but is immediately replaced by determination. “That might be true. But last night did happen. We did, er … meet. And I like you, Carly.”

Oh, heck no. Not distracted and pregnant. Not this girl. I actually feel my nostrils flare. “Did you already make your way through the entire cheerleading squad then?”

“What? No, that’s not what I meant. I don’t like you like that.”

I go from one side of the spectrum of offense to the other. I feel like one of those revolving doors you see at fancy hotels. “Oh, I know. You’re way out of my league, right? I’m not good enough to like in that way.”

“Jesus,” Arden says, stacking his hands on the top of his head. “I can’t win.”

Oh, now that’s rich. “You can’t win? You? Arden Moss? You’ve already won, idiot. You have everything you’ve ever wanted in life, all handed to you on a silver platter.” It’s not fair what I’m saying. It’s not fair, and it has nothing to do with getting distracted or pregnant or cheerleaders. I’m lashing out and I know it. I want this to be difficult for him.

I want something to be difficult for him.

“Don’t do that,” he says quietly. “Don’t play the rich-kid card on me. I deserve a lot of things, but not that.”

Ugh. Why does he have to be so human right now? Why can’t he just let me vent?

But then I remember that Arden is not good at serious conversation. What he says next proves it. “And if I recall correctly, I don’t have everything handed to me on a silver platter. Today it was handed to me on a plastic lunch tray, remember?”

Oh, I remember. The image flashes through my mind before I can stop it. Arden, battered in cream corn and smothered in a delicate 2% milk sauce. And I giggle. “That was reflex,” I explain without remorse.