I pull my knees to my chest, a move that's meant to make me feel a little more protected, but it doesn't. The basement is too tight, the air too thick, and Bryson too close for me to feel even the slightest bit safe when it comes to my feelings. It's places like this that are dangerous for girls like me. Girls who are used to pursuing guys and getting what they want. Girls who don't fear their response. Girls who are so accustomed to being denied that the sting barely registers anymore. Places like this are dangerous for girls like me because there's no opportunity for interruption but every opportunity to talk... and talk... and talk.

I'm not going to be able to keep it all in.

In dark, quiet places, people tend to do the only thing that feels natural: fill the void. And it's always in these situations where words are uttered that no others have heard. Risks are taken and simple chatter manages to dive beneath the surface beyond the comfort zone. Topics are unpacked that would normally never even be touched. And yet, here I am... on the verge of making every single mistake I know I shouldn't.

"Did you hear what I said?" I whisper into my bent knees, my vision blurring as I focus too hard on an indecipherable object on the other side of the room. When Bryson doesn't respond, I tilt my head to peer up at him and clarify with, "when the tornado hit?"

Now it's his turn to look uncomfortable as he turns his attention away from me. His eyes narrow in on a nail-ridden plank a few inches from his feet. I can see his thoughts stirring, forming perfect sentences. He doesn't want to break me, but he also wouldn't lie. That's both the worst and best part about him. Bryson would never lie.

I'm readying myself for the stake to the heart and the devastation of hearing his disinterest. I can already hear the excuses: He's only ever seen me as a friend. Or, I'm not his type. Or maybe there's already someone else. Maybe he made it official with Claudia.

Instead he seems to shrug off all his perfectly formatted responses with a simple, "yeah."

I nod to myself, wrapping my arms more tightly around my legs.

"It's funny," I start to say, "I'm not even sure how I became the way that I am. I don't have a tragic backstory to explain away all my weird quirks, or even a precise experience that molded me into this person. But, I remember my first rejection. It was Timothy Hersh." I take a deep breath before diving into the story. "It was at a birthday party. Anna Sweeley was turning nine and decided she wanted the entire class to join her at the water park that Saturday.

"I had liked Timothy for a couple of weeks and figured it was time to make a move, so when we both ended up at the top of the waterslide together, I simply took his hand. You would have thought that I'd just slapped a dead fish into his palm with the way he looked at me." I laugh at the memory that once caused me such pain. "There was so much disgust on his face. All he said was, 'ew', and flung my hand away before bolting for the slide and disappearing into the water. I didn't even bother going down the slide after that. I missed the birthday cake and gifts because I'd locked myself in a bathroom stall so I could cry. Honestly, I'm not even sure what convinced me to leave—probably my mom screaming for me to get my butt in the car. I don't remember. All I remember is how terrible that one boy made me feel. Just a simple 'ew' and a part of me had shattered."

I comb my fingers through my ponytail and chance a look at Bryson. He's not looking at me, but I can tell he's been listening by the contemplative look on his face.

"Pretty pathetic, huh?" I shake my head at myself, hating how weak I'd been back then.

Bryson starts to answer but his words get caught in his throat. I watch him pull his collar up around his face to shield himself from inhaling any more dust as he coughs into the fabric. With an embarrassed grin, he wipes the back of his hand across his mouth.

"No," he finally says, clearing his throat. "Not pathetic. You were a kid and you probably hadn't experienced emotional pain like that before. Firsts are always hard."

I snort into the sleeve of my shirt. "Like you'd know," I tell him good-naturedly. "Have you ever even been rejected?"

"Yes," he defends, somewhat offended and then takes several long seconds to think about it. "So, my parent's got me a dog when I was twelve and the thing hated my guts. I couldn't even walk into the same room as the darn thing without it threatening me with one of those nasty, silent snarls. Man, I hated that dog."

"Hate?" I inquire, lifting my brows as I fight the smile on my lips. "That's strong."

"Well," he argues, "It wouldn't have been as big a deal if all he ever did was chew on my socks and pee in my shoes, but the dumb dog would nip at my heels every time I walked past it. Ended up having to get stitches in my left calf when he tried to take a bite out of it."

"Oh."

"Yeah, oh." Bryson shakes his head at the reminder and then nudges me lightly with his shoulder. "Anyway, back to you. Your fear." He pauses as he waits for the mood to sober enough to return to our previous conversation. "It's rejection?"

"Yeah," I respond, scratching the side of my head. "Kinda. I mean, yes, it is. But, it's rejection by someone who actually matters to me that I fear most."

"But other than Timothy, I wouldn't imagine you've had all that many rejections, right?"

His question catches me off guard. The entire school knows my history. How is it possible that he isn't aware of the guys I've been tossed to the side by?

"Seriously?" I say blankly.

"What?"

"Literally nobody will date me," I explain, not even ashamed to verbalize the truth. It's already known. Everyone knows.... Well, everyone but Bryson, apparently. "Sure, I've tried and I've managed to get a couple guys to agree to one or two casual dates in my life but nobody is interested in me... in that way."

Bryson looks genuinely flabbergasted as he glances from me and then across the room and then back again. I've never been one to seek out praise or put myself down in hopes that someone will offer me the compliments my ego needs. I know who I am and I don't need other people confirming what I already know about myself. So, before Bryson can offer any words of encouragement, I change the subject.

"You want to hear something weird?" I start to say, pushing a loose strand of hair behind my ear.

"Sure," Bryson chuckles, crossing his arms over his chest and resting his head against the wall behind him.

"I'm kind of enjoying this."

His expression doesn't need words. He thinks I'm completely nuts. It's the way he scrunches his brows at me and puckers his lips to the side. He takes a slow glance at the mess surrounding us as if pointing out just how delusional I must be, and then he quirks a smile in my direction, waiting for me to continue.

"Not this," I assure him, waving my hands to indicate our current predicament. "But the quiet. If I close my eyes I can pretend I'm literally anywhere but here. Maybe I'm lounging beside a pool, or gliding through the air with a parachute. I could be floating through space, counting the stars and sinking into a peaceful black blanket of serenity. It's kind of nice, you know?"

Bryson doesn't respond right away, but drops his eyes to his lap where he plays with the strings of his sweat pants.

"I hope you don't take this the wrong way," he begins, his tone careful. "But are you...?"

"Am I what?" I press. "Psycho?"

He shakes his head, ignoring the humor laced in my words. "I guess I'm asking if—Are you happy with life?"

My eyes widen marginally, understanding clicking into place as I let what I'd said a moment earlier really sink in. His question is reasonable... and maybe even a little bit sweet (if it's coming from a place of concern), but for some reason I feel myself position my emotional shield. Like I'm readying myself for some kind of battle.

"I'm not suicidal," I state, words sharper than I'd intended. "I'm happy. I really am. But I just happened to be birthed into a family of noise and chaos even though my personality thrives off of peace and quiet."

Bryson doesn't offer a response and we both sit staring into the darkness for several seconds as I process my own feelings.

"There is no escape from it at home," I continue, feeling the need to explain myself further. "I've got four younger siblings that literally do not know how to shut up. On the rare occasion that they're all asleep at the same time, there's something else creating noise. Maybe it's the TV or a stereo, or maybe it's my dad practicing for church choir." I let out a heavy breath, feeling my body relax.

"On top of that," I keep going, "my family does not know how to turn off lights. I could get up at three in the morning, walk downstairs, and you'd expect to find my mom in the kitchen making breakfast. It sounds dumb, but for some reason, I've always craved dark, quiet spaces and aside from putting in earplugs and closing out the world with my blackout curtains, that luxury doesn't exist for me. I think that's one reason why I'm so ready to graduate high school. It'll finally be my chance to escape. To find peace."

"You and I are complete opposites then," Bryson jokes, his playfulness giving me a tiny kick of confidence.

"Opposites attract, you know?"

Bryson glances at me quickly, his serious expression cracking into lighthearted laughter. The sound is contagious but when it turns into a mix of coughing and laughing I can't help but match his amusement. Watching him struggle only adds to the hilarity and we both find ourselves choking on dust while we try to compose ourselves. With one last cough, my poor lungs take in another filthy heave of air, the ridiculousness of our situation causing me to giggle into my fist.

"I'm sorry," I grin, words still coated in mirth. "That was inappropriate."

"It's fine." He waves away my concern, his eyes still gleaming as he diverts his attention to the rubble in front of us.

"What did you mean anyway?" I question. "About us being opposite?"

"Oh, you know," he starts, sighing as he folds his arms over his chest again. "Just that your world is constantly chaotic and mine is too quiet. I'm an only child, so I've always envied families like yours. I crave the loudness. I'd love to have the constant chatter and laughter as a distraction from the loneliness."

"Well," I breathe out. "It's too bad you and I don't look a little more similar. We could've attempted a 'Parent Trap' or 'She's the Man' swap and get a nice taste of each others' lives."

He chuckles, the sound echoing around us. "If only it was that easy, huh?"

I drop my eyes to my knees where I find I'm drawing hearts with my finger. I try to hide the pleasure radiating from my face, but I get a feeling Bryson can sense it. This moment is so much more than I ever could have hoped for. My mom had challenged me to pursue Bryson as a friend first and it feels like, for the first time, we've managed to actually live up to that label: friends. We aren't just friends of each others' friends. We could wipe Cooper and Randell from our lives and I think this experience still would have had a major impact on us.

It's in the midst of calamity that many people find themselves clinging to those closest to them... and Bryson is the only person I have to cling to right now. We might be sitting in a pile of dirt and filth, but friendship has still managed to grow from the brokenness. A real friendship.

"You are..." his words fail him and he continues to shake his head in disbelief until a small chuckle escapes his lips. "Sorry. It's just that you're not at all who I thought you were."

"What?" I nearly gasp, his statement breaks me from my bemused thoughts.

"I mean, I was told to always keep my distance," he explains casually, but I cut in before he can continue.

"From me?"

Bryson freezes, eyes locked with mine as regret surges within them.

"Shoot," he murmurs, running his hands down his face. "I'm sorry, Everly. I shouldn't have said that. I'm such a jerk."

"Well," I shrug with a single shoulder, my tone mellow even though my heart is fluttering with anxiety, "you can't stop now. Tell me... what have you heard about me?"

He groans as he drops his head back and blinks several times at the ceiling. "That—" he clears his throat, his discomfort palpable. "That you found pleasure in reeling guys in and then spitting them out when you got bored."

"Hang on," I demand, holding up a hand to stop him. "Who told you this?"

The moment the question leaves my lips I can see that Bryson regrets it all. He'd gone too far. Divulged too much. And now he was going to be forced to give away the man behind all the rumors.

"Look," he says, twisting slightly to face me better. "I'm sure it was out of love. Out of a need to protect you from the creeps at school who might be looking to take advantage of you. You can't honestly hate him for wanting to keep you safe."

"Who, Bryson!" I growl, my head pulsing. "Who?"

The name that leaves his lips doesn't make sense. Why would he care about who I date? Why would he create such an ugly picture of me so as to keep guys from having even the slightest interest in me?

"Cooper." His voice is strained as he utters the name. I can hear the sorrow, the remorse and the guilt twisted into that one word. He knows this could be the end of something great. This revelation could devastate the bond Cooper and I had taken years to build. Bryson understands that by telling me this, he very well might have ruined something beautiful.

Why, Cooper? Why would you hurt me like this?