Six Months Later

Six Months Later - Chapter 11

It is 10:38 on a school night, and a juvenile delinquent is preparing to sneak into my house. This is not my life.

“I am bushed,” I tell my parents as I hang up my coat.

Bushed? Seriously? I’m a much better liar than this. Haven’t I proved as much with Blake?

But Mom and Dad are engrossed in some World War II documentary they got from the library, so they don’t seem to notice my decades-old slang or my long sigh.

“We can turn it down if you want, honey,” Mom says, stealing popcorn from the bowl on my dad’s stomach.

“No, that’s okay.”

We exchange good-nights, and then I slink up my stairs feeling like a criminal. I close my door and lock it. Not convinced it’s safe enough, I move my desk chair over to the door, wedging it as quietly as I can under the door handle.

“Might want to look up paranoia while we’re at it,” Adam says, and I nearly jump out of my skin.

I clamp a hand over my mouth and spin to see him straddling my window frame, one denim-clad leg already inside my room.

I flip on the radio and cross the floor in two strides. “Are you insane? I was supposed to get the fire ladder. How did you even get up here?”

“I did use a ladder. Borrowed it from your shed out back.”

“Oh. Well.”

Adam slides the rest of the way in, and I stand there, crossing my arms over my chest as he moves quietly around my room.

Adam is tall. I mean, I’ve always known he’s tall. But seeing him here somehow makes my whole room look so small.

“Cute bear,” he says, picking up my rag teddy, Phillipe, from the dresser. I snatch him back and do everything short of wringing my hands while I watch Adam walk around my room, silently inspecting my posters and the miscellaneous earrings and perfume bottles on my dresser.

God, it’s like that awful moment at the end of a first date. You’re making painful small talk on the porch or in the car. Of course, you both know why you’re stalling, but it’s weird until someone moves—oh my God, this is not like that! We are not here to make out.

Are we?

I ignore the flutter in my belly and pull my laptop out of my nightstand. Research tools. Because we are here to research.

I tug two or three notebooks out of my backpack and dump at least ten pens and highlighters on top of them.

Adam laughs at me, cocking a brow. “How many people did you invite to help out tonight?”