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“All crackers are emergency crackers.”

He takes the packet out and turns to me, already eating one, then narrows his eyes. “Why do you look guilty?”

“I don’t look guilty.”

“You absolutely do. It’s your government-name face.”

“My what?”

“The face you make when someone says Margaret.”

I stare at him.

He smiles. “See? That one.”

I take off my coat and hang it over the chair because if I sit down too fast, I might not get back up.

Nate watches me with the kind of casual attention that is never actually casual. He has always been better at noticing me than I’m comfortable with. It’s one of his most inconvenient qualities.

“So,” he says, leaning against the counter. “How’s school?”

“Terrible. Expensive. Full of people pretending they’re not competitive.”

“So, normal.”

“Yes.”

“And how are you?”

I reach for a glass of water. “Also terrible, expensive, and pretending I’m not competitive.”

He laughs, but his eyes stay on me.

I drink slowly, mostly to avoid answering the question he’s not asking yet.

“Are you staying tonight?” I ask.

“If that’s okay,” he says, raising a brow.

“Of course it’s okay.”

“I can crash on the couch.” He shrugs.

“You always crash on the couch,” I point out.

“Because your couch and I have history,” he deadpans.

“Your back is going to file a complaint.”

“My back is loyal.”

The easy rhythm of talking to him settles something in me I didn’t realize had been shaking. Nate doesn’t know about the pregnancy. He doesn’t know about Alester or Dalton or the contract that paid for things I told him had been handled by scholarships and payment plans and miracles of administrative timing. He doesn’t know that I have been lying to him in pieces.

But he’s here. For a few minutes, that’s enough.

Then the doorbell rings.

Nate looks toward the door. “Expecting someone?”