I don't call her this time. I text her saying I've gotten a ride, but I'll let her know if anything changes. She still hasn't seen my previous message, and I doubt she's heard my voicemail from earlier. I must be bothering her. She's only this bad when she's buried in something work-related. She works hard for us. I shouldn't be bothering her like this.

I drift into the kitchen. Aiden's stacking a too-big Tupperware with every single piece of Hawaiian pizza there is left, which is about one and a quarter boxes of the stuff. “I don't need that much,” I say, touching his arm. “I'm not going to eat all that.”

“I'm only going to throw it away,” he says. “Like, I don't want to yuck your yum – ”

“You already have,” I laugh.

He almost vibrates like a hummingbird. Something in his expression softens (yet you'd never know it from how his face doesn't move), and that easy smile turns brighter. “It's not like I meant to,” he says. “I like my pizza more savory. The fruity cut from the pineapple – ”

“I know, I know,” I say, leaning forward on the kitchen island. “That's a big reason why people don't like Hawaiian. But I like it. That sweetness, the saltiness. It works for me.”

Aiden hums. “Maybe someday I'll like it, too. Maybe not cold.”

“Maybe someday pigs will fly.”

“With genetic engineering,” he says casually.

I nudge his arm. “Stop it. I'll take the sin of human creation out of your house. I get it.”

“I didn't say that,” Aiden laughs. His eyes sparkle. His hands flatten across the countertop briefly before they gently curl inward, easy and enticing. “I'm saying there are pizzas out there everyone likes. Maybe ones not as divisive as Hawaiian.”

“I will die on that hill before I'm forced to only eat cheese pizza.”

“Everyone likes cheese pizza.”

“Cheese pizza is basic.”

“That's why you add toppings, like – ”

“ – pineapple and ham,” I say, sneering.

Aiden leans forward. “I call for a ceasefire. We can continue this another time.”

“You're only calling it because I'm right.”

He sighs, smile growing a fraction. 'I don't care if you are. I just want to keep talking to you,' he seems to say. Aiden Martin is good at a plethora of things, but he excels at giving you his undivided attention when he wants to. His hands rest lazily against the cold countertop, and his shoulders are nice and gently rounded, and when you're with him, there doesn't seem to be a care in the world written on his face.

I can only imagine the person he'll spend the rest of his life making happy.

“And if I said you're wrong?” he finally asks. “What, then?”

I clench my jaw. “Then your ceasefire is going to turn into all-out war.” I only realize it's the wrong thing to say because the look Aiden gives me softens. His eyes widen slightly, and the corners of his mouth turn up by mere millimeters. I pull my fingers off the counter and wipe them down my pants. The air suddenly feels too hot to bear, and I step back. “I'm...going to get some air. I’ll let you know when I'm leaving?”

“Okay.” Aiden straightens up. He turns back to the Tupperware and goes back to organizing.

I drift back into the living room. Amanda Thompson has her jacket on, and Olivia Jordan has bounced off to talk to Andrew Larsen. The hulking Marcus Vaughan is nowhere to be seen. “Hey, where's Marcus?”

Amanda Thompson shrugs her jacket on before she pulls out her phone. “He had to leave. Got a text or something. There was someone here...who needed a ride. Guess they got one already.” She looks me over briefly before blinking, as if her vision is fogged up. “Sorry, what's your name again? Tony?”

I glance away and nod slowly.

“Were you in the sound booth? I...vaguely remember you in the sound booth.”

“...no.”

“Oh.” Amanda Thompson glances down, humming. “Can you tell Aiden I'm heading off? I've got work in the morning, and my shift starts at six, so I...” She huffs, blinking rapidly. “...got to go and get those z's.” She laughs.

Liar. I roll my eyes. “Sure.”

“Thanks, Tony. You're a lifesaver.” She touches my shoulder before springing out the door too eagerly. She skips down the front walk to her Audi, and pulls away without so much as making a sound. Glancing through the front door windows reveals that Michael Corrigan is also gone. At this point, there's about twenty-five people out of the original forty-plus that were around. Emily Tomlinson has passed out on the couch, frosting still gently painted across her lips, and everyone else has gathered in the kitchen, leaning over the kitchen counter and talking. Aiden absorbs everything as easily as breathing.

I kind of hate him for it, or maybe it's just jealousy. The ease that he's able to float like that.

I contemplate hiding in the bathroom again, but drift into Aiden's study. It's gray and white and the collection of leather-bound gilded books calls to me like a siren. They're all titles I don't know, and I pull one that sounds particularly interesting. It's only disheartening when the five others around it come with and I realize it's all foam. I tip the fake books back into place and stare at them. The room suddenly swirls with lies and anger bubbles in my stomach, so much so that I go to the bathroom and hide.

It's the only place no one can see me. Where no one can really see me.

Mom still hasn't seen my messages, and my window for taking the train or bus is dwindling. I flap the phone in my hand before texting her to let me know what's going on. Someone tries to come in. They knock. I call out “Occupied,” and that's how I spend the next twenty minutes.

When I come out, the house feels so different. What was once well-lit and painted white is now cast in gray shadows, corners stretching a bit too far, and the outside world like a black tarp's been thrown over the windows. Aiden busies himself darting in and out of the living room, gathering garbage, and Emily Tomlinson is still asleep.

When Aiden sees me, his easy smile comes full force. I don't even know what expression he's making because the change happens so quickly that I don't have time to process it. “Hey, you forgot your...pizza.” He glances around the room. “Where's Marcus? Is he already out at his car already?”

I shake my head, running my hand along my arm. “No. He had to go suddenly.” Forgot he was taking me, more like.

“Oh. The word is low, drawn out, tinted in hints of crimson and cerulean. The corners of his mouth drop mere millimeters. It hurts to look at. “That sucks.” And then the silence that comes after is too much to bear. His fingers twitch around the plastic cups. His shoulders are a little more rigid.

“...Amanda said to tell you she's heading out, too.”

“Oh.” This one is slower, like he's still dwelling on Marcus leaving me behind. Aiden casts some plastic cups on the kitchen counter, the cups clattering and echoing around the empty house. His eyes dart back and forth as he slowly turns back to me. The second he properly looks at me again, he's back to his old self, giving his undivided attention again, and his easy smile returning like the sun after a summer storm. “Have you heard from your mom?”

I shake my head again. “No. She isn't replying to my texts.”

“I can call an Uber for you if you want.”

“No, I d – I don't need you to pay for me to get home.” I pull out my phone. If I leave now, I can just barely catch the last bus heading toward Moorfield. I paid off my bus pass. I could do it.

What happens if Mom shows up and I'm not here, though? She'd be so pissed off that it'd make my head spin when she came home and told me about it. “How could you leave without letting me know?” she'd say, wagging her finger like she isn't to blame for any of this. “You know you scared me to death when I went to pick you up. What happened to that phone I pay for?”

“On second thought,” I stammer, pocketing my phone, “I should...probably, just...wait. In case my mom comes, and I don't have reception for some reason.”

“Are you sure? I'm fine to call an Uber for you if you have to get home. You don't have to pay me back.”

“No, I'm going to stay. I don't – I told her that I'd be here. She doesn't check her phone sometimes, so I shouldn't change things because I'm impatient.” I look at him. “Is that...okay?”

Aiden's easy smile grows slightly. “Yeah. That's fine.” He goes back to clearing up the living room, eyes drifting to me every so often.

“Do you need some help?” I ask.

“Nah. I like cleaning. It's cathartic to me.”

“Ah.” I look at my phone again, fidgeting and stopping myself from messaging my mom again. “Sorry.”

Aiden pauses, a collection of napkins and discarded cake plates in his hands. “Why? You're not bothering me.”

“Still.”