I’m stepping out behind him when he turns back around. I bump into him. Both of us say, “shit.” Ezra’s eyes widen. “Sorry.” His hand comes down on my shoulder. Then he lifts it off and steps back, bumping into my mom’s fern stand. “Fuck,” he mutters, steadying the thing. “I was wondering—do you need a soda or water?” Is this awkward Ezra? Why’s he looking at me like that? “Do you?” I laugh.
