"What are you doing here?" I ask Ezra.
My tone sounds curt, clipped, irritable even, and I immediately feel a little guilty for it.
He has just as much right to be in the library as I do. And he was here first. It's not like I have a personal dibs on the Art History aisle.
Ezra seems just as surprised to see me here as I am surprised to find him - his eyebrows shoot up and he tilts his head ever so slightly to the side. He slams the book that he was reading shut - a large, thick book with a midnight blue cover that perfectly matches his eyes. He places the hefty volume back on the shelf in front of him, before turning his attention back on me.
It's been several weeks now since he and I have actually spoken. After I made it totally clear to him that I was no longer interested in playing
