I came to return a textbook. That was it. That was the entire plan – drop off the Gatsby anthology he'd left at my dorm, leave it on his counter, walk away before the conversation turned into something neither of us could control.
The plan lasted until the parking garage.
He followed me down the stairwell. "You didn't have to bring it yourself."
"It's a textbook, Rhys. Not a peace offering."
"Then why didn't you just leave it at my door?"
"Because I'm not a delivery service."
"You came up three flights of stairs to hand me a book you could've left on the mat. You wanted to see me."
"I wanted to return your property. Don't flatter yourself."
Our voices were bouncing off the concrete – the parking garage turning every word into something louder and uglier than it needed to be. Fluore
