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“You need a Tylenol, Ira?” he asks.

Peeling my eyes away from the board, I take one deep breath after another until I can wrangle “Crowd” Ira out of his box.

“I’m okay. My backpack’s a little heavy.”

My smile hurts my face. Even my cheeks don’t feel like cheeking today. All I want to do is hibernate until my pen pal decides to play with me again.

God, I was so sure this idea would work, too!

It worked with the rest of fucking Ohio.

We’re trending on four different sites. Every day someone has a new theory. Film final. Social media stunt. Anti-capitalist rhetoric. I think I heard a girl say something about… anarchy or… I don’t know.

I shake my head and walk away from the stupid, unreliable bulletin board.

October’s gone and November’s just cold. Bitter, freezing wind and icy rain that come out of absolutely nowhere. I don’t own a coat, and I’m not going to run out and buy one just to have the weather do a one-eighty.

I’ve lived here my whole life. I’m basically a bear.

The air smells like snow by the time I get back to my room.

I drop my backpack on the floor and flop face down onto the mattress. Part of me is waiting for Beckett to ask what’s wrong, or even say “hey.” All I hear is him tip-tapping away on his laptop like he’s writing six papers at once.

He’s been like this since we screwed around.

Hyper-focused on… something.

He still leaves me little notes around the room—things he bought, thanks for something I did—but our conversation is basically non-existent.

My cheek nests into the comforter when I turn my head. “What’re you doing?”

“Work.”

Thank you, Beckett. I’ve learned a brand new word.

“You work remotely?” I ask.

“No.”

I’ve had more meaningful talks with my figurines.

I push myself up to my elbows and watch him do whatever he’s doing. There’s no expression on his face. At all. It’s totally blank, but I see his eyeballs moving. Now and then, he’ll stop typing, wait a few seconds, then go back to typing.

“Do you need help?” I ask.

“Thanks, I’m okay.”

“Are you coming to club today?”

He doesn’t look up, but at least he laughs. “Definitely not.”

I kind of hate that.

Horror Enthusiasts is the one thing we do every week like clockwork. It was the whole reason we started talking at all after being assigned roommates because of our last names.

Beckett blowing it off feels pretty major.

There’s a stack of drive-thru bags on his side of the room that rival the size of my boredom. I should take out the trash. Maybe do a little dusting. Spray some fucking air freshener in here.