A slow grin expands across his face. “We could have fun tomorrow if you want.”

My cheeks are so hot I swear they’re on fire. “Yeah, we could. It’d have to be after five, though. I have a class.”

His brows furrow. “Which one?”

“Creative Writing.”

“With Professer Morelliey?”

I nod. “How’d you know?”

“Because I’m in the same class.”

“So we get to be college newbies together? How exciting.”

He wavers. “I guess you could look at it like that.” He stands up and offers me his hand to help me up. Once I’m on my feet, he lets go to sign, “I can drive you if you want. From what I can tell, you don’t have a car.”

Clearly he’s been watching me a lot, and while I’m flattered, I’m also a bit worried he might be noticing me too much. Then again, I blabbed so much to him tonight, including secrets about my brother, so does it even matter anymore?

“Sounds like a plan,” I say as we start for the door. “Oh, wait, can I have my papers back?”

He nods then points to the floor behind me at my papers on the carpet.

Relief washes over me. “Thank you,” I tell him as I collect the fragments and stuff them into my pocket. “I know it probably seems crazy—that I seem crazy—by how much I want them back, but it’s just really important to me.”

“I get it. I’d never want anyone to see the stuff I wrote.”

It makes me wonder what he writes.

If he writes dark thoughts like I do.

I start to grow uneasy as I realize I don’t really know him at all. He could be the nicest person ever, or he could be like my father who seems like the nicest person ever during the day, but then night rolls around and his inner demons awaken. Although Ryler looks like he has demons, I don’t get that vibe from him. He doesn’t seem dangerous at all, just looks the part, opposite of my father and mother.

“Come on. I’ll walk you to your door,” Ryler signs then opens his bedroom door.

I follow him out of the room and out of the apartment. We ascend the stairs in silence, but about halfway up, Ryler suddenly slams to a halt and ducks to the ground.

“What’s wrong?” I track his gaze to a woman walking up the sidewalk toward our building. “Who’s that?”

His head bobs forward as he lifts his hands. “Haven.”

“Haven…” I trail off, staring at the woman. “That person Violet mentioned?”

When I glance back at Ryler, he nods.

I squint down at the woman, trying to get a better look at her, but it’s too dark to make out anything other than blonde hair.

“Who is she?”

He frowns. “You really want to know?”

It’s clear he doesn’t want to tell me, but the fact that he’s giving me a choice says a little bit about him.

I nod. “I do.”

He sighs exhaustedly then climbs to the top of the stairway. “If you’ll hide me inside your place for about five minutes, I’ll tell you.”

Let him inside my home? I’ve never let anyone into my home, even in Ralingford. There are reasons for this. Letting someone in my home means giving them a glimpse into the part of my life I keep hidden.

“Um, you want to come into my place?” When he gives me a funny look, I add, “It’s a mess.”

“You saw my room, didn’t you?” He nervously smiles, his gaze dancing back and forth between me and the woman.

“All right.” I stumble up the stairs and fumble to get the doorknob turned. My palms are so damp it takes me a few tries, but I finally get the door open.

As he steps over the threshold, I feel like I’m going to pass out, fall to the floor right in the foyer. I manage to stay on my feet, though, and get the door shut without flipping out.

He glances around at my unpacked boxes, the food on the counter, and the Cheetos crumbs on the coffee table. “Are you one of those procrastinator unpackers?” He looks at me curiously.

“I guess.” I drop down on the armrest of the sofa.

His gaze lingers on my hallway, at the wooden circle on the wall. “What is that?”

My insides tighten. “Just something my mom put up to make me feel more at home. I don’t know why, though. I think it’s creepy.”

“Yeah, it kind of is.” He tears his gaze away from it and focuses on me. “I swear I’ve seen it before.”

“I don’t know anything about it,” I say then change the subject to hide my lie. “So, who’s Haven?”

His shoulders hunch as he gazes out the window. “She’s this girl I met at a club and brought home. I think I was a little drunk because, when I woke up the next morning, she seemed way off her rocker.” He sits down on the edge of the coffee table and rakes his fingers through his hair, avoiding eye contact with me. “She kept whispering in my ear how beautiful our babies were going to be, which seemed pretty bold since we’d never actually communicated other than with fucking.” He exhales loudly as his hand falls to his lap. When he looks at me, remorse masks his expression. “She wouldn’t leave me alone and still randomly shows up at the apartment sometimes, like now.”

I’m not sure what’s worse; listening to him talk about hooking up with another girl or the fact that his story seems rehearsed, like my stories are, which can only mean one thing.