I heard the door to my house open behind me. “Taylor?” Jason called.

I felt like I was zipping myself up, pushing all the raw and exposed feelings back inside. I could feel it pulling me together, closing over my head. When it was done, I was okay. I was ready to go.

“Hey. Yeah,” I called. “It’s me.” I started for the door.

Jason gestured inside the house, moving back so I could get through the doorway. His eyes were worried. His face looked strained, and his hands had pulled inside his sleeves. When he did that, he was anxious.

“I used the extra key,” he told me. “Your dad isn’t here.”

I wasn’t sure if that was a question or a statement. I ignored it, going to the kitchen. I expected a note, but there was none.

“There’s no note,” I said.

His eyebrow lifted. “Is there usually?”

No. Not very often. “He’s been trying.”

Jason folded his arms over his chest and sat down at the table. He snorted in disbelief.

“He has been.”

“Not to be an insensitive dickhead, but I’ve only seen one note from your dad.” His elbows rested on the table. He propped his chin on his hands, still inside his sleeves. He watched me.

“Well.” I fell back against the counter, hitting it hard enough that I’d find a bruise there later. I grimaced. “You are being an insensitive dickhead.”

His other eyebrow arched, and he pursed his lips together briefly. “You stood me up tonight.”

I flushed.

“But I don’t think we should be throwing words around,” he added. His eyes went to the window, and an angry glower came over him. It didn’t last long—appearing, then vanishing—but I readied myself. When Jason looked back at me, his face filled with something akin to disappointment. He leaned back in his chair, his eyes locked on me. His hands fell to rest on his lap. “You know...”

Here it came.

“Claire told me you and Logan Kade are buds now. Is that who dropped you off?”

And there it was.

“I was applying for a job at Pete’s Pub. He came in with a friend.”

“Because that makes sense.”

I sighed. “You don’t have to be sarcastic.”

He shot forward in his seat. “Why are you applying for a job? Your mom was loaded. I know you’re getting that inheritance.”

He didn’t get it. I shrugged. “Because.”

“Because why?”

“Just because.” My jaw hardened. “I can’t study all the time.”

“Who’s asking you to study all the time?” He shook his head. “Taylor, I get it. You need to keep busy. And I’m assuming you don’t want to burden me and Claire with your presence.”

A lump formed in the back of my throat. Maybe he did get it?

His voice softened. “But you’re not a burden, honey. You’re my best friend.”

“You have lives.” My voice came out as a whisper. “You and Claire. You have other friends.”

“You’re our friend. You’re family.”

The more he spoke, the more emotion rose in me. “I can’t handle people.”

He gave me a look. “And getting a job at a bar is going to help that?”

“It’s not the same.” There I’d be expected to do a job. Get a drink. Bring them their bill. Be nice. “Being around people and working around people are different.” They wouldn’t know or care about my name. “I saw Claire with her friends today, and the thought of sitting with them…” My voice faded. A pressure was pushing down on my chest. “I can’t do that, Jason. I just can’t.”

“Okay.” He stood, his chair scraping against the floor as he approached me. “I get it. I do. I’m a loser, remember?”

I frowned. “You’re not.”

He shook his head and came to stand right in front of me. His hands came out of his sleeves to cup my arms. His touch was soft. “I am. I always have been. I’m gay, Taylor. People still hate people like me.”

I wanted to shake my head. I wanted to protest, but he was right. So many didn’t care, but so many still did. A tear fell down my cheek. “Those people are assholes.”

He laughed softly. “Yeah. Those people are assholes, but this isn’t about that. I’m trying to remind you that I understand what it’s like.”

I was on the outside at the moment, but he’d grown up on the outside. My hands turned to grasp his arms in return. I squeezed. “You’re not a loser, and you’re not on the outside anymore.” He shook his head. The old pain I always saw in high school bloomed over his face. I squeezed his arms harder. My voice rose. “You’re not. I hate the gambling stuff, but I know you have some good friends.”

He began to protest.

I cut him off again. “I know you do. People are always calling you.” I frowned. “Unless those are clients.”

“No.” He laughed. “They aren’t. You’re right. I do have a circle of friends at school.”

“I’d like to meet your friends sometime,” I told him.

His head moved back an inch. “You would?”

Then I thought about it, and my cheeks grew red again. “Maybe later, or maybe one of your friends. Just one at a time,” I added.

“My friends are better than Claire’s anyway. Her friends have their heads up their asses, smelling their own gas fumes and getting high.”