“And who’s this?”

“Harper Reed,” Dylan answers evenly. “We’re classmates.”

“Reed? Of Reed Enterprises?”

I recognize the name. It’s a relatively new tech company in the city that’s been raising a ton of money. Apparently, the founder is a computer prodigy of some kind.

Dylan looks at me and tilts his head toward his father, silently urging me to respond.

“No, Mr. Archer,” I say quickly. “No relation to me. My parents are both accountants.”

“Which firm do they own?”

“Oh, um, they don’t own a firm. They both work at Peters & Richley.”

I’m embarrassed by how nervous I am, but this is how these types of men are. I don’t have a lot of experience with the rich and elite of Pennsylvania, but I know enough about them to understand that they love this power they hold, this silent intimidation.

His father raises his chin to stare me down with narrowed eyes before he flicks his gaze back to his son. “What happened to the other one?”

Dylan’s jaw ticks.

“The Montgomery girl,” he snaps, as if he needs to clarify.

“Serena and I are still friends. But Harper and I are eager to get back to our homework, if you’ll excuse us.”

Again, his hand hits my lower back, and this time, I will it to stay fixed to me like it’s my only lifeline.

“I do not believe I dismissed you.”

I can’t help but swallow, and it’s a loud sound.

Thankfully, Mrs. Archer steps out of the library, as if she’s surprised to stumble on people in her own home.

“Hello, dear,” she says, greeting her husband cordially.

She holds out her hand for him, and he kisses it, like how I would imagine someone would greet someone from the royal family in London.

Mrs. Archer and Dylan apparently have some silent conversation exchanged in a seconds-long glance because she puts her arm on her husband’s bicep.

“Why are we all standing in the hallway having a conversation like uncivilized humans?” she asks. “Andrew, join me in the library, and I’ll have dinner brought in for you.”

I smile at Mrs. Archer one final time before Dylan and I bolt to his room.

We don’t resume on the comfortable couch or even pretend to care about schoolwork at this moment because I’m processing the absolute potential monster that is his father, and he’s watching me do it.

In Dylan’s tight expression, I can see it all.

The harshness he experienced growing up.

The brief moments of softness offered by his mother.

His desire to flee from the family business and find life elsewhere.

The pressure he’s under to succeed.

My mind, in a moment of creativity, colors between the lines, inserting every possible scenario. I’m grateful that, although he is many things, he’s relatively unscathed.

Dylan’s life is clean and strict. It’s wrought with formality and handshakes, like he skipped over the entire part of life where you play in the mud and eat candy until you puke, which, in my experience, is almost never worth it, but he doesn’t know that. Yet.

In addition to getting him an A in English and the hell away from this place, I want to mess up Dylan’s life. In a good way.

But I’m going to need to miss my weekday curfew to do it, so I fire off a text to my parents in our group chat. It’s convenient because they both constantly seem to be misplacing their phones, but usually at least one of them has theirs on them.

Hey. I’ll be home in a bit. Going out to dinner with a friend after homework.

My mom responds with her typical overuse of punctuation. What friend?????

Dylan Archer. We have English together.

Where is James????

I don’t know. I’m tempted to add an eye-roll emoji, but I don’t.

I need details when you get home!!!! Not too late!!! You have school tomorrow!!!

I know. Love you, Mom.

Love you!!!!!! So much!!!!

I laugh because although she’s irritating at times, she’s undeniably cute.

“What?” Dylan asks, his eyebrow lifting at my smile.

It’s almost cruel to have to tell him how funny and sweet my mom is juxtaposed to the frigidness of his parents, so I lie to prevent more hurt, just like he advocated against earlier. But this is my decision, my argument, my renewed sense of purpose.

“Um, just something James sent.”

I don’t miss the way his lips tilt down a fraction.

“Hey,” I say, recapturing his attention. “Any chance you’re still hungry?”

11

Dylan Archer is accustomed to white table cloths, many small and manageable courses, and light chatter over a meal.

Naturally I have to take him to my favorite wing place, where a line of bikers sits on their motorcycles near the entrance, smoking cigars and laughing loudly at one another’s expense.

If Dylan’s uncomfortable, I don’t pick up on it. His composure is intact as we sit ourselves at a table, stepping on discarded peanut shells along the way, and take in the grease-stained menu.

“What can I get ya to start with?” the waitress says, smacking her gum as she chews.

Dylan watches her jaw bounce, making no move to speak, so I order for us.

“Can we get two of the house-made root beers, please?” I ask.

“Sure, sweetie.”

As soon as she’s out of earshot, Dylan leans closer to me. “Just to clarify, you actually expect me to eat at this establishment?”

I laugh, but the loudness of it is drowned out by the rock music that’s piped through a blown-out overhead speaker.

“You know this—” I gesture around us. “—is actually more normal than your life. Not everyone has a chef preparing fancy tiny meals and cleaning up afterward.”

He nods, accepting my words without a fight, and decides he is going to try and be comfortable in this place. At least, that’s what I think is behind his deep exhale and the softening of his posture.

We’re both wearing our school uniforms, probably a poor decision on our part considering the amount of barbecue sauce that’s about to be in our vicinity.

“Any flavor preferences?” I ask him.

“Reed,” he says, putting the menu back in the holder at the edge of the table. “This is a one-time-only offer in which I’m telling you that you’re in full control of how this plays out.”

“Ooh,” I mock. “The power is already going to my head.”

He rolls his eyes.

“Do you prefer flats or drums?” I ask.

“Pardon?”

His eyes drop to my chest, and I swat at the air in front of his face.

“For the wings,” I clarify. “Flats or drums?”

He looks at me with confusion, confirming my suspicion that he hasn’t had a chicken wing in his life.

It’s both disappointing and wonderful that I’m about to break him in.

When the waitress comes back, she drops our drinks and a container of peanuts in front of us. I order three different wing flavors, curious to see what Dylan’s interested in, and a few sides to try out just in case he finds the entire experience too messy to indulge.

I crack a few peanuts open, breaking the shells into pieces just because I can.