Page 25 of See You in Your Dreams

This time, I’m certain I see Ash fight down a small grin. “Deal. This Friday good for you again?”

I nod.

“Cool.” His eyes flick from side to side as he adjusts his backpack, but he makes no further move to leave.

Maybe I’m more out of it from my hectic morning than I realize because I blurt out, “I was just heading to meet my friends for lunch. The offer’s still open if you want to join.”

Not that I have any idea how they’d react. Alexis would likely be nice enough, and Robbie would be his usual odd self. But I’ve got a feeling Cat might scare him away for good.

My stomach sinks when he shakes his head. “Sorry. Not really my scene.”

Interpretation—I hate other people.It had been a long shot, but at least I’d tried. I turn toward the science corridor. “All right. Well, I guess I’ll see you—”

“There’s this great spot I found at a picnic table outside,” he says quickly, his voice almost frantic. “Good light this time of day. I was thinking about going out there to do some sketching. If you want…I mean…you could…”

He swallows, and my eyes lock on the way his Adam’s apple bobs. I clear my throat. “Yeah, sure. That sounds nice. If you don’t mind the company.”

The corner of his lip twists up. “So long as you don’t mention tarot cards, I’ll manage.”

I feel as if I’m dreaming as I follow Ash outside, trekking through the field to a rickety picnic table sitting near a massive oak. The table itself looks like a splinter breeding ground and seems one good gust of wind away from collapse, but Ash is right about the spot. With the sun dappling the leaves and a faint breeze rustling the grass, it’s strangely peaceful—a little oasis in the sea of chaos that is high school.

I’m not sure what to expect when we get there. Ash had mentioned sketching.Does he want me to sit quietly while he draws?

Instead of immediately taking out a sketchbook, however, Ash removes a packed lunch from his backpack, eyeing it mistrustfully as if he expects it to blow up the instant he takes a bite.

“You act like you’ve never seen a packed lunch before,” I say.

He hesitates a beat, then shrugs and opens the bag, rummaging inside. “I hadn’t until I moved here. But I complained about the cafeteria food, and now my aunt insists on doing it every day for me.”

I frown while I unwrap my own usual lunch—PB&J with an apple. Tasty yet affordable. “Your parents never did that for you?”

Instant regret fills me as Ash’s expression slams shut. He might not have told me much about his past, but from what littleI’ve gleaned, I probably should have known better. If things were good, he wouldn’t have moved here his senior year to live with his aunt.

“Sorry. Stupid question. Forget I asked.”

I take a big bite of my sandwich before I can say anything else idiotic.

Ash’s shoulders remain tensed. “It’s fine.” His brittle voice suggests this is about the last thing in the world he wants to talk about. “Both my parents died years ago. I’ve been living with my grandparents since I was thirteen.”

My eyes widen, and I almost choke on the peanut butter clogging my throat for the second time in less than a week. Maybe I need to put less on my sandwiches. At least, my distress lightens the mood, Ash relaxing slightly as he pounds on my back while I cough.

I chug a drink of water and say, “That sounds rough.”

His eyes seem far away as he nods. “Yeah.” After a few seconds staring off into space, he blinks and returns his attention to his turkey sandwich.

I consider letting it go, but he kind of looks like he wants to talk about it, so I ask, “How was living with your grandparents?”

Another shrug as he chews. “Fine. They were my dad’s parents, and they came from money.” He snorts a laugh. “Pretty sure they’ve never packed a bag lunch in their lives.”

I gesture at his spread of food. “Hence the new experience.”

He nods. “My parents probably used to pack my lunches, but I was with the Ellingtons—my grandparents—so long, it’s hard to remember.”

He grimaces, crushing a chip between his fingers. I can tell there’s a hell of a lot more he’s not saying. It doesn’t take a genius to guess thatsomethingmust’ve happened for his grandparents to ship him off to his aunt, especially after they’d had him for five years already.

But I don’t want to overstep, so instead, I say, “It must be hard, getting uprooted again. Having to start over for a second time.”

His head jerks up, and I tense, wondering if I’d crossed a line anyway. But his expression isn’t hostile as he studies me. Merely…intent. Like he’s fully here in this moment with me, completely focused on our conversation.