His eyes are a little wild, but only for a moment. He blinks and the demons are gone. He’s startled. Regretful. Ashamed.
“I’m sorry.” My hands are up. I’ll have a bruise tomorrow, but this is my fault. I know better. “I’m sorry.”
The baby fusses, and we both freeze. After a second, she settles.
His parents’ bedroom door opens, and Geoff leans out into the hall. “What are you boys doing?” he whispers fiercely.
“It’s nothing,” Rev says. “Go back to bed. We’ll shut the door.” He glances at me ruefully, and his voice is ironic. “Come on in, Dec.”
In his room, Rev sits cross-legged on his bed, leaving me to take the desk chair. I straddle it and rest my arms on the back.
“Sorry,” he says, his voice low. “I didn’t mean to do that.”
“My fault.”
“No.” He looks at me. “It wasn’t.”
“I shouldn’t have grabbed you.”
He shrugs, but tension radiates from his form. He’s biting the edge of his thumbnail.
I frown and wheel the chair over to the end of the bed and rest my head on my arms. “What’s the story, Rev?”
“I keep thinking about him.”
His father. “Did something happen?”
“No.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
He finally looks away from his comforter. “Do you really think I’m a martyr?”
“No. Do you really think I am?”
“Sometimes.”
Ouch. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say ‘damn’ before.”
He winces. “I shouldn’t have lost my temper.”
“I think you’re allowed.”
“No, I’m not. Would you reinstall the stupid app so we can talk about whatever you came over here for?”
“You’re not allowed to lose your temper?”
His expression is pained. “Dec.”
“Seriously, Rev, you’re like the most laid-back person I know. If you don’t go off on someone in the cafeteria once in a while, people are going to think you’re inhuman. In fact, I was starting to worry.”
He doesn’t smile. He’s quiet, locked inside his head.
I realize I’m probably in the running for the Most Selfish Friend award. And here I practically shoved my way into his room. For what? Because I don’t have the balls to tell a girl who I am? Boo-hoo, Declan.
I edge the chair back a few inches. “Do you want me to go home?”
His eyes flick up. “No.”
“Okay.”
“But I do want you to reinstall the app.”
“Rev—”
“Seriously. I need to . . . to . . .” His voice is tight, and he makes a circular motion with his hands. “Uncoil.”
I hesitate, but he’s watching me expectantly. “All right.” I reinstall it.
There’s an email waiting.
I can’t make myself click on it. I can only imagine what it says. Her green dot is no longer lit. I toss the phone at him. “It’s the most recent chat.”
He tortures me by reading at the speed of someone who needs to look up every word in the dictionary.
After a few minutes, I want to grab it away from him. “You’re killing me here, Rev.”
“I was reading the earlier messages for context.” He sighs and tosses my phone at me. “I agree with her. You are good at making things as complicated as possible.”
“Do you think she hates me?”
“Which you?”
I wince. “Either one.”
“No.” He hesitates. “I think you need to tell her.”
“You read what she said. She doesn’t want to talk to me.”
He shakes his head. “She said she’s glad she doesn’t have to stop talking to you.”
“No, she said—”
“That’s exactly what she said, Dec.” His expression grows a bit angry. “Exactly. Verbatim.”
“She said she’s glad I’m not Declan Murphy.”
“But you are Declan Murphy! You are not two people.” His fists are clenched, and his breathing has grown quick.
I shove my phone into my pocket and study him. “What is going on with you, Rev?”
He rubs his eyes. “I don’t know. I’m just tired.”
I think of how he sat in the hospital with me, saying nothing. His silence was more supportive than anything he could have said.
I don’t know how to do that in return. Maybe I can offer something else, though. I pull out my phone and do a quick search, then turn it around and slide it across the bed.
He doesn’t reach for it. “Did she send more?”
“No. It’s a poem I had to read for English. Read it.”
He looks up, and the expression on his face is exactly the one I’d wear if he suddenly said, Hey bro, read this poem. “What?”
“Just read it. I think you’ll like it.”
Because he’s Rev, he doesn’t give me a hard time. He picks up my phone and reads it.
His expression evens out. “You’re right. I do like it.” He slides it back to me, and for an instant, I think his face will crumple and he’ll cry. His voice is a breath away from breaking. “But I don’t feel like my head is bloody and unbowed. Not now.”
The air feels weighted, like he’s going to say more, so I wait.
“Lately,” he says, more steadily, “I feel like everything is a test.” He swallows. “And I feel like I’m getting closer and closer to failing.”
“Like how?”
“I almost hit you in the hallway.”
“I deserved it.”
His eyes flare with anger. “No, you didn’t!”
“Shh.” I glance at the door. “Okay. I didn’t. What’s your point?”
“I almost hit you.” He says this as if it’s significant.
“And?”
“And what if I had?”
“People around school would probably want to shake your hand.”
He glares at me. “Don’t joke.”
“You’re worried that you almost hit me? I’m pretty sure I would have gotten over it.”
“But what if I couldn’t stop?”
I stare at him. This question is so incongruous of what I know of Rev that it’s almost comical.
The expression on his face is anything but.