Lindsay launched herself at me as soon as I left the bathroom. I hugged her back numbly.
She held me at arm’s length. “Devon, you are just so…” She looked like she might cry. “You are just the best. You saved Ezra’s life tonight, do you realize that? You know he can’t swim at all? He never had lessons—you should’ve had them, Ezra, this is why people need lessons.” Yes. This situation right here. They should use it for swim-lesson advertisements at community centers across the country. I could just see the brochure now—Ezra in sweats, me looking bedraggled, and in the forefront, Lindsay Renshaw, glowing and beneficent with a speech bubble above her: This is why people need lessons.
She was still holding onto me. “Stanton Perkins is the biggest dumbass—pardon my language—that I’ve ever met in my entire life, and you’re great, Devon, you did a great and brave thing—”
I couldn’t deal anymore. It was too much.
“Yeah, no.” I broke away and stepped toward Foster, who was holding my phone and my shoes. “It was nothing.” I didn’t look at Ezra as I said, “Thanks for the clothes, I’ll get these back to you.…”
Ezra spoke. “Devon.”
“We got to get going. Curfew was, like, an hour ago. Come on.” I slipped my shoes on and jostled Foster toward the stairs, but Ezra followed.
“Dev. Wait.”
“We really gotta go,” I said, and then I took the stairs two at a time, burst outside, and powered down the front path, desperate to put as much space between me and Ezra Lynley as possible.
Foster was quick on my heels. Or at least I thought it was Foster. I neared the end of the front path, but in a few quick strides, Ezra caught up to me, circled in front, and stopped me dead in my tracks. If the vast majority of the defenders in the state weren’t faster than Ezra, I don’t know why I thought I would be.
“Wait,” he said, and he had his hand outstretched toward me, fingertips just brushing the sleeve of my sweatshirt, gently rooting me to the spot. I wanted to shrug him off, but at the same time, I wanted to fall against him and bury my face in his shoulder. I wanted to commiserate about what had just happened, and make sure he was okay, and discuss how Stanton really is psychotic. I did none of the above. I just stood, burning under the light pressure of Ezra Lynley’s hand and trying not to cry.
“You’re…” Ezra searched me out. “You’re sure you’re okay?”
I concentrated on looking normal. “I’m fine,” I said, though there was a 66 percent chance that the effort it took to keep from bawling might cause my throat to explode. This was probably not an accurate statistic, but still. “I’m just tired. I want to go home.”
“I’ll drive you,” he said.
“No.” It came out sharper than I intended. “No, it’s okay.”
“Please.”
Over Ezra’s shoulder, I could see Lindsay and Foster lingering on the front steps together. When I looked in their direction, Foster whirled around to face the house, leaning forward as if something about the storm door was really fascinating. I almost smiled. But then I caught sight of Lindsay, her hands clasped in front of her, biting one lip in a perfect look of friendly concern.
Ezra followed my gaze to the two of them. Lindsay blossomed into a smile at the sight of him, a hopeful sort of smile, like maybe their evening could be salvaged once I left.
I looked away. “It’s fine. Really.” I stepped to the side, and Ezra’s hand just hung there for a moment, reaching for nothing.
He let it fall to his side, and I dared to look at him. Concern played across his face. There was a little crease between his eyebrows that was just begging to be kissed away.
I had to get out of there.