stranger. “It’s ridiculous,” he says. “It’s unbelievably fucked.” He smooths my hair back with his free hand as I cry into his T-shirt, which smells only very faintly of weed, and much more of something spicy and woodsy. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I should’ve thrown the invitation away. I don’t know why I didn’t.” “No.” I draw back, wiping my eyes. “I get it. You didn’t want to be alone with it.” His gaze drops guiltily. “I should’ve kept it to myself.” “I would’ve done the same thing,” I say. “I promise.” “Still,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry.”
