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“The what?” I ask, dazed from adrenaline and his proximity. He has so many eyelashes. They’re as dark as his hair. I blink out of my stupor, then wriggle out of his durable grip.

“You kept skipping meals at home,” Aaron explains, wandering toward his pickup truck. There’s equipment in the bed that makes me wonder if he was doing lawn work today. “You admitted you were having trouble maintaining your weight even with the iron supplements because you weren’t getting nutrition anywhere else. And your family wasn’t making sure you kept up with meals—”

“Why should my actions be on them?” I demand. “It’s not their job to monitor me.”

Aaron is quiet, maybe to let me cool off before continuing. It works. The silence forces me to sit with my thoughts and impulsive reaction.

“Sorry,” I mumble.

He gives me a pained look over his shoulder, like the word is a stinging insult and not an apology for snapping. “The point is that sometimes, you wouldn’t eat out of sheer paranoia that you might get sick,” he explains. “When you moved in, my dads and I helped you plan out weekly meals. You were more willing to eat knowing how careful they were about maintaining a gluten-free section of the kitchen.”

I purse my lips, wondering why I was worth the effort.

Aaron opens the passenger door and winks. “Shall we?”

Then we’re off.

10

“Is this some kind of sick joke?”

Aaron observes me with his signature “innocent” smile, always hindered by a hint of mischief. “What do you mean?” he asks, sliding into a parking spot behind the high school. The one we’ve both graduated from. The one we definitely shouldn’t be approaching at midnight.

“There’s no way our first date is trespassing,” I growl as Aaron unbuckles himself.

“There aren’t any cameras, and this lot faces the woods, so nobody will know,” Aaron says. “The boy’s locker room latch has been broken since before I graduated. Don’t worry your pretty blond head about it.” He slings a backpack over his shoulder and circles to the passenger side, opening my door.

I glare down at him, still buckled.

“So stubborn.” Aaron sighs, but there’s a fond glimmer in his eyes. “They’re your memories, sunshine. If you want to find another way to remember them, I’m happy to help you brainstorm, but this is all we’ve got to go on for now. Do you want to give it a try?”

Grumbling, I clamber out of the pickup truck, ignoring his offered palm because it’s already touched me too many times today.

So then we’re sneaking into the high school pool room with its towering, piped ceiling and silver bleachers and low golden lighting that barely illuminates the tile walkway. The pungent smell of chlorine stings my nose. The pool is the only luminescent thing in the echoing room, causing the glassy water to sparkle aquamarine.

“Ridiculous,” I mutter, and Aaron smirks as he slings the backpack onto a bleacher and spreads a picnic blanket over it.

“You said that last time, too. What a coincidence.”

I crinkle my nose with distaste, sitting atop the quilt. Then, to my surprise, he starts pulling out cling-wrapped food. “What’s this?” I ask suspiciously as he pushes one into my hand.

“A gluten-free everything bagel with chive cream cheese, cucumber, tomato, avocado, and kale pesto,” he says. “Prepared with a gluten-free counter and toaster.”

Normally, I don’t trust non-celiacs to make me food, but it sounds delicious, and I start salivating a grotesque amount. “Did you make these the first time?” I ask, tearing through the wrap.

“No,” he admits, watching as I sink my teeth into the bagel. “I didn’t have anything, and you got hangry. So I came prepared to soothe my fussy, grouchy boyfriend before he gets fussy and grouchy.”

I nearly choke on a thinly sliced cucumber. “I’m not fussy!” I snap, tearing another chunk out of the bagel. It’s annoyingly good—the taste, texture, and quantities are perfect. “Also, I’m not your boyfriend.”

“Oh. Right. Whoops.” Aaron shrugs before pulling out his own sandwich. Out of the corner of my eye, I see his expression wilt, and I have to choke back an apology so he doesn’t realize I saw it.

We eat in strange but not uncomfortable silence, gazing out at the crystal-smooth pool. Every inch of me should be shuddering with revulsion at this scenario, but my body and mind are disjointed, operating on two different levels. My mind knows it should hate being here, but my body doesn’t reflect the anxiety.

“The first time I made food for you, I glutened you,” Aaron says. “I cleaned my kitchen and thought I was in the clear. But I used a silicone whisk and a cast-iron pan that I hadn’t reseasoned. So we had a romantic picnic, and then I spent the night holding your suffering little body.”

I lick the cream cheese from my fingers, watching him warily. He’s leaned back on his palms, gazing up at the tangled mess of pipes, vents, and lights threaded along the high ceiling. His eyes are glazed, almost wistful. And sad. “Well…thanks for going through the trouble,” I murmur.

“It’s not trouble. Not for you.”