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Me: Sure.

Me: Next you’ll tell me you don’t remember the time he made Kevin cry over the dorsal scapular nerve.

Evan: I don’t know Kevin either.

I laugh under my breath. This is ridiculous. I’m tired, hormonal, bruised, and one nerve branch away from losing my entire relationship with reality, and Evan Cole has decided now is the time to become a comedian.

Me: This is a very elaborate bit for someone whose entire personality in class is “calm cardigan energy.”

A pause.

Evan: Calm cardigan energy.

Me: Don’t act like you don’t know.

Me: You dress like you alphabetize your breakfast.

Evan: I do not.

Me: Aha. So you admit you know who I’m talking about.

Evan: No.

I narrow my eyes at the phone.

Me: Very funny, Evan.

The answer comes almost immediately.

Evan: I’m not Evan.

My smile freezes. The pen slips slightly between my fingers.

For a second, my brain simply refuses the sentence. It looks at the words, files them under nonsense, and tries to move on with its evening.

I read it again.

I’m not Evan.

No. No, absolutely not.

I tap the contact name at the top. Evan Cole.

I tap it again, because apparently I believe phones respond to emotional escalation. The number appears underneath, and a cold little bead of horror rolls down the back of my neck.

Very slowly, I open Marco’s text. His message with Evan’s number sits there, innocent and damning.

Oh. Oh no.

Oh no, no, no.

I have been texting the wrong number.

Not just texting. Bantering. Making nerve goblin jokes. Calling him calm cardigan energy.

I go back to the thread. Not-Evan is still there. Waiting.

Because of course he waits.