I slipped my hand beneath my pillow and pulled out my phone, checking to see who was calling at this hour.

It wasn’t a call, though; it was a text. From Tyler.

Your lights are on, it read.

I was suddenly glad I’d handed him my phone earlier, and completely embarrassed that I’d freaked out on him back at the school. We’d driven home in the kind of charged silence that had made it feel like we’d had a fight even though he hadn’t done anything wrong. It was all me, really, being weird and jumpy about the fact that I was some kind of aberration who had no memory of what had happened to me for five whole years.

Very observant, I texted back, unable to stop myself from smiling now.

His response was immediate. I left you something. Look out your window.

I hoped that “something” was him.

But as quickly as the thought sprang to my head, I stamped it out. Stop it. He’s just a friend. Just a friend . . . Unfortunately, that mantra wasn’t working very well.

Still, I was a little disappointed when he wasn’t standing there on the other side of my window. I frowned, opening the window and leaning out.

On the ground was a bag—the same smooth brown paper his comic book had been bagged in from the bookstore.

Like a seasoned veteran, I was out the window and back in my room in a blink. I peeled back the paper and peeked inside.

Immediately, I texted him back. A book?

After only a slight pause he answered: One of the best in my collection.

I looked again, to see what it was: Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury. I’d heard of it but never read it. It was old, like the other one, and he had it in plastic even though this one was a regular paperback.

I don’t want to ruin it, I responded.

I trust you. And that simple, three-word statement made me grin so wide my cheeks ached. A second text said, I thought it might help you sleep.

My mischievous side kicked in. So you’re saying it’s boring?

This time the wait was a little longer, and just when I thought maybe my teasing hadn’t translated over text message and he wasn’t going to answer, my phone buzzed again. I’m saying I want to share one of my very favorite things in the world with you, Kyra.

CHAPTER SIX

Day Three

I FINISHED THE BOOK AT 4:25 IN THE MORNING, exactly four hours and thirteen minutes after I’d started it. Since it was 238 pages, that was just under a page a minute, so I knew I wouldn’t be winning any speed-reading contests or anything.

I knew now why it was one of Tyler’s favorite things. I loved it. Not in the sense that I felt all warm and fuzzy after reading it or anything, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it. About Montag, the main character who’d spent his life burning books, and his technology-addicted wife, and the free-thinking girl next door who was “different” from everyone else, never fitting into her strange, emotionless society.

I was different, I couldn’t help thinking. Like Clarisse had been.

I continued to be haunted by the book long after I’d slipped it back into its synthetic sleeve and placed it on my nightstand. I was downright giddy at the prospect of seeing Tyler again, and maybe I’d talk about the book with him if it meant drawing out our time together, because I was so not above going there.

I glanced up when my bedroom door started to open, but then it stopped and there was a brisk knock.

“Yeah,” I called, keeping my voice down since it was only . . . I checked: 7:47.

It opened the rest of the way, and The Husband was there, filling the doorway and studying me. We hadn’t spent much, or any, really, time together. I’d avoided him as much as possible, staying in parts of the house where he wasn’t—my room namely—and venturing out only when necessary. Just seeing him now made my stomach do nervous flips.

I couldn’t help it; I still had that bitter taste in my mouth over our first encounter. Deep down, I knew none of this was his fault, but it didn’t change the fact that I blamed him, at least in some part, for the way things were. For my parents’ divorce, for that new kid in the nursery down the hall, for the guest room I was living in.

He made an attempt to smile. “Hey, kiddo,” he offered, and inside I grimaced. My dad called me “kiddo,” not him. “Your dad’s here. He’s waiting for you in the kitchen.”

I didn’t say anything, just stared woodenly at him until he finally got the point and retreated with a shrug.

Since I hadn’t really slept, I’d never bothered putting on pajamas, so I quickly stripped out of what I’d worn yesterday and snagged the first pair of jeans and a vintage-style T-shirt I could find in the bags my mom had delivered—glad she’d gotten my sizes right. She’d even bought me a pair of simple black-and-white Chuck Taylors, which, as far as I was concerned, went with everything. They were a little stiff for my liking, but I figured they’d be broken in soon enough.

My dad was alone and sitting at his same spot at the kitchen table when I came in. He looked up at me earnestly.

Without meaning to, I caught myself giving him the once-over. Evaluating his clothes, his state of cleanliness, his posture, right down to trying to decide how red his eyes were.

He’d showered and changed clothes since yesterday, and if I wasn’t mistaken, I thought he might have gotten a haircut. He hadn’t shaved, but his beard looked . . . trimmed . . . less scruffy. Even his eyes were clearer as they caught mine.

“Sorry I didn’t make it back here last night; I got tied up.” He shook his head and glanced away from me.