She was staring at him, wide-eyed. “You don’t, like, have a gun on you now, do you?”

God, he wished he could carry weapons to and from school. Flashing a handgun would certainly save time with those idiots. “No. Are you crazy? That’s a good way to get expelled.” Not to mention his dad would go ballistic if Hunter took one out of the house without permission.

“But still.” Clare started walking again. “Wow.”

He had no idea how to take that, either. And she didn’t say anything else. Their feet crunched through the leaves.

Hunter wondered if there was any possible way he could have made this interaction more awkward.

Here. Let me give you a concussion and then scare you.

“Sorry,” he said. “It’s never been a big deal in my house.”

“My parents are total pacifists,” she said, and there was something bitter in her voice. “They’re completely against guns, and war, and . . . well, you know.”

He didn’t know. But he said, “Yeah. I get it.”

“My older brother graduated last week, and he’d secretly enlisted in the army. He left on Saturday.” She hesitated. “Mom and Dad are having a really hard time with it.”

Clare was, too. He could tell from her voice, could feel the uncertainty in the air around her.

“My mom would have a really hard time with it, too,” he said. He had no idea whether that was true, but it felt like the right thing to offer.

“Your dad would probably be proud, huh?”

“He’d probably throw a party.” Then again, maybe not. His dad wasn’t exactly the celebratory type. But he never lost a moment to impart a lesson that would fit right in with the military. Even when he was younger, Hunter had known that each gun lesson, every moment spent in self-defense was twofold: part knowledge, part training.

Sometimes he liked that. Even now, barely sixteen years old, there was some self-assurance in knowing he could take care of himself, that his father’s rigid adherence to discipline served some purpose. With his connection to the elements, control could be a fleeting thing, and he’d take what he could get.

But sometimes he wanted to say screw it, to grow his hair out and get piercings all over, to let his abilities run rampant, just to break free of the mold for a minute.

“Does it scare you?” said Clare. “Living in a house with guns?”

Hunter smiled. “It’s not like I wake up in the middle of the night to find them staring down at me.”

“Shut up.” She gave him a light shove. “No, I mean, are you ever worried you’ll accidentally get shot?”

“You mean, when I catch the assault rifle raiding the refrigerator? Like maybe it’ll turn on me?”

Her breath caught again. “You have an assault rifle in your house?”

“Sure. It’s partial to lime Jell-O.”

“Hunter. Seriously.”

He liked the way she said his name, the way her tongue lingered on the T, just the tiniest bit.

He lost the smile. “Seriously.”

They’d stopped again, and she was staring up at him. Her eyes were a little wide, her breathing a little quick. There was a slight flush of pink across her cheeks.

“Scared?” he said, amused.

“Yes,” she said. That flush deepened. “A little.”

“I’ve never caught a gun wandering the woods yet.”

She shoved him again. “Don’t tease.”

He started walking before he had to analyze all this touching too closely. “Sorry. I’ll be nice.”

She fell silent again, and he bit at the inside of his lip, sure this silence meant she was done with the conversation, that she was ready to find some other way to spend her afternoon.

“So,” she said quietly.

Yep. This would be it. Hunter didn’t even know how to prolong the interaction. He didn’t look at her. “So.”

“Your dad has a lot of weapons.”

He shrugged. “I don’t know about a lot . . .”

Clare looked up at him. “Would you let me see them?”

His dad would definitely have a problem with this.

Thank god his dad wasn’t home yet.

Hunter had worried his mom might be home, though she was the polar opposite of her husband: She never interfered in Hunter’s activities. It didn’t matter, anyway. A note hung from a magnet on the refrigerator, something about a trip to her store in town and a snack on the top shelf.

He looked at Clare. He felt jittery now that she was in his house. Somehow the kitchen felt both larger and smaller with her presence. “Are you hungry?”

“Not yet. Your mom has a store? What does she sell?”

Hunter shrugged. “Odds and ends. You know.” His mother really worked for a New Age store in the antique district, but that usually launched a whole line of questions he didn’t feel like answering.

Clare stepped forward and leaned close. His pulse jumped, but she was only reaching out a finger to touch a photo stuck to the refrigerator. “Is this you and your dad?”

“And my uncle. Yeah.” The picture was from a camping trip last fall. They’d gone into the Appalachian Mountains, and it had rained almost the entire time. In the picture they were drenched and smiling.

“You look just like your dad.”

“Everyone says that.”

She touched another picture. “You have a dog?”