“It’s not funny,” I say, even though I’m laughing a little too, my cheeks damp and my nose running, the sound rattling in my throat. I’m basically the definition of an emotional mess right now. “Of course it isn’t,” Caz agrees. He wipes my cheeks again, then brings his other hand gently to the back of my head, consoling me as if I’m still just a kid. “So what’s wrong? Was being in my house really that awful?” He says it like a joke, but I can see a trace of genuine worry in his features.
