“So,” I start, as my anger once again begins to boil. “You do know how to tell time, right? Like, you didn’t sleep through those lessons in elementary school?”

He lifts an eyebrow at me. Takes his time chewing. Finally swallows. He leans over the table. “Or,” he says, “you could try starting this conversation with something like, ‘Wow, Quint, you sure are late today. Did something happen?’”

My jaw tightens and I lean forward. “Or you could start with an apology. I’ve been here for an hour and a half. You think I didn’t have anything better to do with my time than wait for you? You couldn’t text, or—”

“I don’t have your number.”

I point toward the windows beside us. “You knew where we were meeting. You could have called the restaurant.”

This seems to give him pause. He pulls back slightly, his mouth open. It takes a couple of seconds before he says, “I didn’t think of that.”

I huff righteously and cross my arms over my chest.

“Okay. I’m sorry.”

“Sure, whatever. I just hope you were having a good time, beating your high score on … on Pac-Man, or whatever it is you were doing.”

His eyes narrow, a cross between amused and irritated. “Pac-Man?”

I wave my hand at him. “Ari has an old … never mind.”

He shakes his head. “Well, yeah. I totally destroyed my Pac-Man record. You know, right after I helped our rescue crew untangle a sea otter from a fishing net. Are you done with these?” He doesn’t wait for a response before gobbling down two more tostones.

Which is good, because I’m actually speechless.

I want to believe he’s making that up, but … I don’t think he is.

The waiter returns and Quint orders a root beer.

“She’s going to be fine,” Quint says once our server has gone again. “The otter. In case you’re wondering.”

I clear my throat, refusing to feel sheepish. “For the record, there was absolutely no way for me to know about that.”

“Yeah, I know.” Quint shrugs. “But just once, it’d be nice if you didn’t assume I’m an asshole.”

“I don’t think you’re an asshole. I just think you’re…”

He smiles expectantly. “Go on. You won’t hurt my feelings.”

“Irresponsible,” I say.

He hums thoughtfully and polishes off the last of the tostones. “Is that all?”

It feels almost like he’s mocking me, but … come on. I’m the one who had to put up with his immature antics all year.

“It’s enough,” I say. “A person can only be late to class so many times before their priorities become pretty obvious.”

He takes his time licking salt from his fingers. Our server delivers the root beer and Quint orders a plate of nachos topped with pernil asado.

As soon as we’re alone again, Quint gives me a smile that seems almost like … like he feels bad for me. “For the record,” he says, and again I can hear the mocking in his tone, repeating my words from earlier, “I work most mornings at the center. Even during the school year. That’s why I’m late so much, especially in the spring, because that’s when a lot of the animals separate from their moms and have to survive on their own, which just doesn’t go too well for everyone, so we get a slew of new patients all at once. It’ll be slower in the fall. Not that you care.”

I stare at him.

“Mr. Chavez knows this,” says Quint. “He understands that I have responsibilities”—drawing out the word like it’s the first time he’s ever said it—“and so he gives me a pass for when I’m late. In return, every two weeks my mom signs a form stating what I did at the center that justifies my absence at school, and Mr. Chavez gives me credit for it. It’s a—what was that fancy word you used yesterday? Ah—a symbiotic relationship.” He lowers his voice conspiratorially. “Between you and me, I think I’m probably the suckerfish.”

I raise my hand. “Hold on. You’re telling me that all this time you just let me believe you were sleeping in and … slacking off at the arcade or something, when you’ve actually been scrubbing pools and making fish puree?”

“Don’t forget the rescuing of baby sea otters,” he says.

I shake my head. “You did not say it was a baby.”

He shrugs. “It wasn’t. This time.”

I throw my hands up. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I tried to.”

“When?”

“Last fall, after maybe the third or fourth time I was late. I could tell you were mad, so I started to explain, but you just”—he waves his hand in mimicry of the queen of England—“waved me off. You didn’t want to hear it. In fact, I believe your exact words were ‘I don’t want to hear it.’”

“But…! But that doesn’t mean I didn’t want to hear it!”

He chuckles. “You do know how language works, right?”

“Oh, shut up.” I kick him under the table.

His chuckle turns into an outright laugh. “All right, all right. Maybe I should have tried harder. But you were … I mean, come on. You pissed me off, too. I thought, if you won’t bother to give me a chance, why should I try?”

“Because we were supposed to be partners!”

His smile vanishes and he gives me a look that’s like a silent reality check. “Prudence Barnett. You and I were never partners, and you know it.”

I want to argue with this statement. I do.

But … I can’t.

We were never partners. It’s the truth.

But that’s as much his fault as mine. I clench my teeth, thinking back to those horrible moments when I realized he wasn’t going to be there for our presentation. That he had ditched me, on that most vital of days.

“You couldn’t even be bothered to show up for our presentation,” I say darkly. “After I … I practically begged you to be on time. And you couldn’t even do that.”

“The center was shorthanded that day. My mom needed me to help out.”

But I needed you, too, I want to say. But I can’t, not to him. Instead, I bite the inside of my cheek and look away, staring down the sidewalk. The memory of that morning brings back the same anger, the same dread, and Quint must be able to tell that this argument is different, because when he speaks again, his voice has a tinge of concern behind it.

“Look, I knew you’d be fine. You’re…” He trails off, then gestures at me. One hand circling in the air.

I return a cool gaze to him. “I’m what?”

“You’re good!” he says with an uncomfortable laugh. “You’re, like, the best presenter in class. You didn’t need me.”

“But I did!” I yell.

Startled, he leans back in his seat.

I exhale harshly through my nostrils. My hands have started to shake. I need him to understand. All the other times he was late? Fine. Whatever. I can deal with it. But that day. That day. It was a betrayal. Doesn’t he get that?

“I hate speaking in front of people,” I start, but then I pause. I shut my eyes tight and give my head a quick shake. “No, that’s not … Once I’m up there, it’s fine. But beforehand? Thinking of how everyone will be watching me? It’s terrifying. The only reason I can do it is because I practice and practice and practice, and remember? I’d told you that we should get together and practice the speech beforehand, and you said you were too busy, even though you obviously just didn’t want to spend any more of your precious time on it, or maybe you just didn’t want to spend any more time with me. Which is—I get it, whatever.” I wave my hands through the air. “But I can’t just wing it like you can! So I had to do it all myself. I had to plan the speech without you, I had to rehearse without you, but at least … at least I thought you’d be there when the time came. I thought you’d bring our papers and then people wouldn’t be staring at me, and also, you could … you know. Do the thing you do.” It’s my turn to gesture vaguely at him. “Make people laugh. Put them at ease. Then I could give our presentation, and it would be great. Except you weren’t there! And realizing that you weren’t going to be there? It was awful!”

I finish.

I’m not really finished. I could go on. The way he interrupted the speech. The way he took his sweet time handing out the papers. But my eyes are starting to prickle and I don’t dare keep talking.

I can’t look at him, so I stare at the table instead, scratching my temple with the pen.

Only when Quint laughs, which is as infuriating as it is unexpected, do I realize I’ve used the ink end and just scribbled on my face. I grimace and rub at it with my fingers.

“I meant to do that,” I mutter.

“Trendsetter,” he mutters back. Then he grabs a napkin, dunks it into a glass of ice water, and leans across the table. “Here,” he says, scrubbing the ink from my skin.

When he’s finished, he drops the crumpled napkin onto the table. Our eyes meet. I can’t read his expression, but I can tell he’s mulling something over. Something big.

The table is small. He could probably lean across and—

“I’m sorry,” he says, startling me from the so-not-okay direction my thoughts were heading. “I didn’t know. I thought … You always seem so confident in front of the class. I had no idea.”

He does look legitimately sorry.

He inhales and goes on, “You know the other night when they were having karaoke here?”

I nod. I’ve barely thought about karaoke these past few days, but now the memories come surging back. The first powerful chords of “Instant Karma!” The way the restaurant faded away as I sang. All except Quint, for that one moment, his eyes glued to me, his half-astonished smile …