“I can’t stay at your house,” I say, calm. Reasonable. I’m an adult. I’m not panicking. “Why?” “Because.” I attempt a playful smile. “I’m a kleptomaniac. I’d steal your razors and shaving gel—and clearly, you’re in dire need of them.” “Serena.” “Not to mention, I snoop around. You’d have to hide all your porn magazines.” “I have Wi-Fi, killer.” “Well, turning on incognito browsing is a pain.” He folds his arms. “It’s good that you’re funny. Next time someone tries to saw you open to study your half-Human gut microbiome, you can shoo them away with a jab at their masturbation habits.” He
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