Leo Martino Steals Back His Heart

by Eric Geron

Genres: YA LGBT & Pride; YA Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

Leo Anthony Martino loves love.
Unfortunately, love doesn’t love Leo back.
Leo Martino’s hunt for love has been a total flop. Over the years, every single crush has ghosted him, leaving him miserable and alone. By senior year, Leo concludes he must be unlovable.  It’s time to stop trying.
But when he finds himself obsessing over the irresistible Lincoln Chan, Leo decides to give love one last shot—and this time, he has a plan. He’s going to change everything about himself to become the “perfect boyfriend.” And the plan actually works. . .but will he take it too far?

Release date: January 14, 2025

Publisher: Harlequin

Print pages: 304

Sample

Prologue

I, Leonardo Anthony Martino, love love.

I just don’t love how I haven’t found it yet.

I take my chunky, blue scrapbook bedazzled in diamond rhinestones from the center drawer of my desk. Every time I’ve got a crush, like today, I document it here. It’s bursting with taped-in tidbits. The bookmark from the book signing with Lincoln? Check. The wristband from the hayride with Vincent? Check. The smiley-face sticker from Travis? Check.

Don’t worry. No locks of hair. That’s where I draw the line.

Grandma Gina used to say I was sentimental, like her. She used to scrapbook. It’s been three years since she passed, and I’ve kept the tradition going into high school, comforted by the snip of scissors and the tear of tape. Of course, I’d never tell anyone besides Dillon and Varsha. They get me—from my sentimental scrapbooking to the checklists that I make for practically everything, like my Back to School Checklist and the one for how to have the best summer ever, which included reading ten books (check!) and getting muscles (still a “work in progress,” sadly).

As I flip through my scrapbook to avoid folding my laundry, I grimace at a photo of my first-ever crush, Lincoln Chan—Eastfield High’s Most Popular—and quickly skip his section.

There’s Julien, Vincent, Travis, and Enzi. Each one of them made my heart soar, sing, patter, and plummet. I relive the emotional roller coasters by simply turning to any of their sections: weeks, months, and—in Lincoln’s case—years later.

Pages boast ticket stubs and delicately pressed flowers. Restaurant business cards and photo-booth printouts, with silly poses involving plastic bowler hats and wood mustaches on Popsicle sticks. I had a genuine connection with each crush. In every instance, I saw a glimmer of something extraordinary taking shape. Each crush showed me the promise of my First Great Love Story. The hint of something real. Reciprocal. Ours. The scrapbook stands as proof it wasn’t all in my head. That we and us and ours were well within reach until, well, they weren’t.

Each love story stopped at almost.

One by one, my crushes vanished in a poof before anything could materialize into more than fading mementos stuck to scrapbook pages. Walked away. As if I’d never meant a thing.

But I love love too much to give up searching for it.

I land on a fresh blank spread at the back, and glue in a picture of Sergio Rodriguez, Crush Number Six. He’s standing on Jenkinson’s Boardwalk—with his dark features, cute big ears, and neon Speedo—shielding his eyes from the sun with his hand. Even though he’s been a classmate since forever, we talked for the first time this summer while vacationing down the shore. Two weeks later, I can still smell his banana sunscreen and coconut deodorant body spray.

In my scrapbook, I scribble the sharp crests of waves, embellishing them with silver glitter. I add beach tags from our days in the sand. The brochure to the stinky aquarium we visited. Photos of the ocean. Order tickets from the bakery. And the IHOP logo torn from the corner of a kid’s menu from when we shared a hot stack of pancakes before trekking to the beach and lying side by side in the sand.

I remember the way Sergio fixed me with a smile, letting his sights linger.

“Hey, Leo?”

I froze. “Yeah?”

“I like hanging with you.”

My stomach felt like it did when I was on the Pirate Plunge. I was happy.

Along the top of the page, I doodle hearts, dabbing them with pink glitter. Now, thinking about seeing Sergio on the first day of senior year tomorrow sends my stomach into knots. True, my other crushes haven’t worked out. But I’m hoping things with Sergio will,

finally leading to my First Great Love Story—without the part where he vanishes in a poof. Each time that happens, Mom tells me I’m a rare bird. That it’s not easy for someone as special as me to find just anyone. That it’s going to take a person just as special—and just as rare—to be able to recognize those qualities.

I close my bloated scrapbook with a sigh and run my fingers across the diamond rhinestones adhered to its cover. The constellation of diamond rhinestones makes me wonder if I really am a diamond in the rough. But I end up concluding that I may be more like the rough.

Because the sticky thing about loving love?

It usually doesn’t love me back.

 

1

“For the hundredth time: It’s not you! It’s them! All of them,” Dillon insists.

“You have to say that. You’re my best friend,” I protest. When it comes to my love life, I’m really starting to believe I’m the problem. Otherwise, the math just . . . isn’t mathing.

We finish a lap through the crowded school halls, which are abuzz with that raucous first-day-of-school energy, and start another lap, holding our iced coffees. The before-class coffee laps are a new tradition, thanks to my Back to School Checklist, which also included taking a full hour to get ready, arriving to school twenty minutes early, and personalizing our lockers. Check, check, check.

Dillon offers a sympathetic smile. “I mean, some of those guys have been terrible.”

I wince. “Terrible is such a strong word.”

Dillon challenges me with a deadpan stare.

“Seriously, I’m convinced my problem is me.”

His deadpan stare persists, even as he takes a slow slip of his iced coffee. “It’s your inner saboteur talking. Again.”

“Ugh. Maybe.” I glance around the hall, but there’s no Sergio in sight. “Do I look okay? Be honest.”

“When am I ever not honest?”

Now it’s my turn to give the deadpan stare.

“Yes. You look nice,” he relents.

“Nice? Just . . . nice?” I press.

“What’s wrong with nice? It’s better than okay,” he says. “If you told me I looked nice, I’d think that was . . . well . . . nice.”

With his glossy brown hair, white collared shirt, and beige khakis, Dillon does look nice.

Mom’s consistently described Dillon as nice, ever since we became friends in ninth grade, when we discovered our shared love of putting fried eggs on everything. Pizzas. Burgers. Salads. You name it. And as a Nice Guy—one of the few left, apparently—Dillon’s the best sounding board a friend could ask for. And with no drama of his own, he has plenty of room for mine.

I beam. “You always look nice.”

“Why, thank you kindly.”

We’re halfway down the hall when I stop short at the trophy display case, which boasts a framed photo of Sergio with a swim team medal hanging from his neck.

Dillon knocks into me with a yelp, his plastic cup nearly flying from his hand.

I let out a wistful sigh. “He’s so dreamy.” I catch my reflection in the backboard mirror and gasp. I look far from nice. The skin under my eyes is purple from not sleeping a wink. How did I not notice that in the bathroom mirror at home? The humidity alone has given my hair a next-level poofy factor. I pull at a wayward coil, only to forlornly watch it spring back into place. And my buttercup-yellow T-shirt has way too many wrinkles. Taking the full hour to get ready was all for naught.

“Dillon, you are a filthy liar.” I pull my hair into an apple-size bun. “No wonder I send all the boys running.”

Dillon rolls his eyes. “Hopeless.”

“Hey! Check this out!” Our third best friend, Varsha, appears beside us, phone thrust in front of her. I realize too late that she’s showing us a video of a ten-foot alligator lunging at an unsuspecting old woman strolling on a marshy embankment.

“Varsha, no!” I cover the screen with my hand. My insides are already churning enough as it is.

“But you love my animal attack videos.”

Varsha is obsessed with anything animal-related. Especially attacks on humans. Apparently, it’s fine if it’s justified. She especially enjoys scenarios like elephants trampling their whip-cracking ringleaders.

She clocks my blue mood. “Oh. Still no word from Speedo?”

“Still no word.”

Two weeks ago, when I saw Sergio tanning in a lawn chair on the beach—yes, in

his Speedo—I nearly tripped face-first into some kids’ sandcastle moat. After Sergio bolted up in alarm, I took his concerned thumbs-up as an invitation to stroll over and say hi. He ended up inviting me to hang out that night—and every day after, too. Sure, I mostly watched him play hours on hours of Diablo IV in the dim den of his family’s vacation rental, but there were so many bright moments too. Like when he convinced me to ride in the back of his two-seater bike to the bakery. Or when we met at the beach to hang and he’d packed a picnic basket for us. And one night, he let me pick which movie we were going to watch (Lord of the Rings). We ended up watching all three films and then went to IHOP and the boardwalk, where we shared a vanilla-orange-cream soft-serve swirl before slipping into the air-conditioned aquarium.

It was only two weeks, but they were two glorious weeks.

“I wish I could’ve gone down the shore with you. I still really want to learn how to surf,” Dillon says. While I spent half my summer down the shore, he was at an art camp in Maine.

Varsha gives a reproachful look. “You know my theory on sharks and surfing, right?”

“That a person is more likely to get struck by lightning?” Dillon asks.

“Are we talking about my odds of Speedo wanting to be my boyfriend?” I chime in.

“Hopeless,” Varsha says before taking a sip of her iced coffee.

“So hopeless,” Dillon adds.

“He’s the one!” I insist.

Varsha gives me the side-eye. “You say that for every crush.”

“No, but it’s different this time.”

“He also says that for every crush,” Dillon asserts.

“You guys!” I whine. “I can’t graduate from high school being that person who’s never had a relationship,” I say, despite knowing my friends are in the same boat. “People will judge me!”

Varsha cocks her head. “Honestly, who cares?”

“Clearly not you two.”

“Fine. Check to see if he got back to your many, many texts,” Dillon says.

“Leo, no! I told you not to keep texting him!” Varsha cries, swatting me.

I give a sheepish smile. “Well, he wasn’t replying! What was I supposed to do?”

As I slide my phone out of my pocket to check if Sergio has replied to my question posed yesterday at 5:34 p.m. asking how he’s doing, I feel the paper-thin PS5 skin decal of Lilith, one of the demons from the game Diablo IV, come up with it and flutter down to the floor.

We all stop to look at it.

“Your gift fell,” Dillon points out.

“Thank you, Captain Obvious.” I scramble to get it, but Varsha beats me to it. 

“Gift?” she asks.

“What? You know I’m a gift giver.” I take back the sticker I’ve been holding on to all weekend, wondering when I should give it to Sergio. It’s not like I meant to get him something. Mom surprised me with a trip to Paper Source, and I ended up wandering into Game World, where I just so happened to find a sticker from Sergio’s favorite game. Talk about fate! Obviously, I had to get it. Plus, it was only a few bucks. Still, I’m chock-full of nerves thinking about giving it to him today.

A small gesture for me always seems like a big deal for someone else, and never in a good way.

I slip the sticker back into my pocket, thinking of the scrapbook tucked in my desk drawer. My stomach clenches as I imagine yet another chapter closing, another door shut.

“Oh, come on.” Dillon smiles at me, and I know he knows exactly what’s on my mind. “It’ll happen for you. Trust the process, remember?”

Trust the process.

Dillon adopted the catchphrase from our art teacher, Mr. Yokoi. I can’t see how it applies to painting a still life, let alone my love life.

Dillon hitches up his backpack. “Besides, there’s so much more to life than romance.”

“Oh yeah? Like what? Robotics?” I tease. Truth be told, I’ve always admired how he and Varsha have a whole lot more going for them than purely chasing after romantic pursuits. In fact, Varsha doesn’t care about romantic pursuits at all, since she’s aromantic. Varsha prefers posting knitting videos on her TikTok and raising money for wildlife conservation. Meanwhile, Dillon spends his free time programming robots and fine-tuning his tenor voice in hope of joining the all-state chorus.

Dillon grins. “Actually, yes. Did you hear about the CleanBot? It can fold laundry!”

I groan. “If my first boyfriend is a robot, so help me god.”

Varsha fixes me with a withering gaze. “Just be thankful you weren’t eaten by a gator.” She shoves her phone back at me, where something—or someone—frantically splashes around. Good thing we’re in Jersey.

Senior girls from pom squad stop in front of us to record a TikTok, using the packed hallway as their backdrop. Sakura Nakamura lifts a LAST FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL poster while her friends hem in around her, all of them looking like they might burst into nostalgia-induced tears.

As the pom squad records themselves talking about how devastated they are to be one step closer to the end of high school, Dillon leans close to us. “Happy last first day of school, friends.”

Varsha shudders. “High school can’t end soon enough.”

“For real,” I add, catching Sakura eye Dillon with a flirtatious smile. It’s so obvious she likes him, but he can be pretty oblivious to that kind of stuff, unlike me—the Hypervigilante. 

“Forget Speedo,” Varsha says. “We’re not even going to know him this time next year. I’ll be studying bio at Princeton. Dillon will be engineering robots, and you’ll be, well . . . You really should at least start by figuring out which teachers you want to ask for letters of rec.”

I sigh. “Why does the thought of that make me incredibly sad?”

“The fact that we’ll all be on different journeys, or the fact that you don’t have a dream college to apply to and are behind in even thinking about the application process?” Varsha asks.

Unfortunately, she’s right—I have no idea what’s next for me, post-graduation. I have no idea what’s next for me this morning with Sergio. “No,” I reply. “The fact that Speedo could be just a long-lost memory by then.”

Varsha squints. “I’m not sure, but I’m concerned.” She says it with love. Varsha and I became close friends the day she affectionately made fun of how I sliced an avocado crosswise versus lengthwise in ninth-grade Home Economics, which was followed by her offering to let me put all my textbooks in her locker so that I could make my own locker into a bona fide “snack locker,” which is what you’d get if a hotel minibar and a theater concession stand had a baby.

“You don’t actually know where things stand with him yet,” Dillon reminds me.

Varsha gives a reassuring smile. “I mean, he could just be a really poor communicator, and if things don’t work out for whatever reason, you’re going to find someone better.”

“Yeah. Totally,” Dillon agrees. “I mean, you’re total boyfriend material. Who wouldn’t want to date you?”

“Hmm. Let me consult my scrapbook,” I joke. But deep down, I’m serious. And I don’t want to find “someone better.” I want Sergio. He’s not like anybody else. He can do the most spot-on Gollum impression, packs the best picnic spreads, and the sound of towels rubbing together sets his teeth on edge. Plus, he lets out this adorable squeal when a demon attack leads to a game over.

“Fierce Five sighted.” Varsha nods as Sakura joins Lincoln Chan, Travis Matthews, Katie Cooper, and Eamon Troy, aka the Fierce Five—our school’s trademark flock of hot, rich seniors, which includes not one, but two former crushes. Crush Number One and Crush Number Four.

My friends and I shrink back and share a collective shudder. While the three of us spend most weekends rating ice cream flavors and watching Disney movies, the Fierce Five—and a majority of the school, TBH—spends their time partying and living in their own R-Rated Realm.

Apparently, that makes everyone way cooler than us. To add insult to injury, Eamon pantsed Dillon sophomore year and accidentally grabbed his underwear, showing his butt off to half the grade . . . and Sakura told Varsha the gum she chewed really brought out the yellow of her teeth. While I haven’t been personally attacked—though Travis did say I looked “goofy” once and used me to do his Spanish homework—Lincoln and Travis are the It Couple,

 which feels like a personal attack. Even three years after Lincoln ditched me, seeing them together still stings, whether they’re posing in coordinated (and steamy) Halloween costumes or simply holding hands in the hall.

Is it my imagination, or does Lincoln shoot us a mocking smirk when he spots us? This place is a haunted house of past crushes.

See earlier: High school can’t end soon enough.

At least Sakura doesn’t seem to hate our guts—evidenced by how she’s eyeing Dillon up and down again. Not that he sees.

“Jerks,” Dillon whispers once they’re out of earshot.

Varsha smooths her hair. “I still haven’t forgiven Katie for spreading that rumor about how I bring my own toilet paper to school because the cheap toilet paper here gives me a rash.”

“Isn’t that true?” I ask.

“Yeah, but still!” Then Varsha lowers her voice: “I’d love to see any one of them get chased down by a grizzly.” The imagined scenario is starting to appeal.

“But then Sakura wouldn’t be able to give Dillon elevator eyes,” I whisper.

A blush creeps into Dillon’s cheeks, and he grins in good fun. “No, she didn’t!”

“I agree with Leo on this one. She totally did. Either that, or she was scrutinizing your outfit to make fun of it later.” Varsha appraises him. “Not that it’s a bad outfit. You look nice.”

“There’s that word again.”

Dillon shrugs. “Well, whatever that was, I’m not interested. I have better—”

“‘—things to do with my time,’” Varsha and I conclude in mock unison.

“Exactly!” Dillon throws an arm around each of us. “You guys know me so well.”

Sakura’s association with the Fierce Five aside, it baffles me why Dillon wouldn’t spring at the chance to pursue her when I’m out here in a love desert. He isn’t aromantic like Varsha, yet he’s never liked anyone, at least that I know of. Last year, after Varsha came out, he told us that he’s “straight but maybe not,” but that it was irrelevant because he’s not going to date until college. Unlike me, he thinks it’s irrational to date in high school because you’re not going to end up with that person anyway. Personally, I think it wouldn’t hurt for him to just let go and let love in.

When Dillon and I first started hanging out, Mom asked me if I had a crush on Dillon. I almost did a spit take. I’d insisted that we were just friends, and that the only time he’d given me a heart palpitation was when he volunteered me to be the speaker for a group project in tenth-grade Language Arts. On the other hand, Sakura is definitely experiencing those heart palpitations on the reg. I wonder if she hasn’t admitted it for fear of her so-called friends finding out she has the hots for a Mere Peasant.

We pass through another long white hall with glaring fluorescent lights, and I give a cursory scan to the students continuing to stream in from the entrance. Still no Sergio in sight.

“Ugh! Where is he?” I mutter, finding I actually miss him. I can feel it in my bones. I shared a real connection with him, more real than with anyone else before him. He opened up to me, sharing he likes ASMR—something he hadn’t told anyone. And the next day, I came over with a junky old keyboard I found in the garage of my vacation rental and told him to close his eyes while I clacked the keys. The smile washing over him. The dreamy way he looked at me after opening his eyes. Not to mention the many sweet gestures. We watched all three Lord of the Rings together—the extended editions, for crying out loud!

There’s no way I could have misread the situation this time.

I fidget with the faded paper wristband that he gave me to join him at Jenkinson’s Boardwalk—hard evidence that it wasn’t all a dream, which only makes me feel more sick to my stomach, like when we spun way too fast on the Tilt-a-Whirl.

Then the troubling—but familiar—radio silence after returning to Eastfield.

Did I text him one too many times?

Then—

I stop and squeeze Dillon’s arm. “OMG, there he is!”

Leaving the cafeteria with a Taylor egg-and-ham sandwich is none other than my six-foot-tall crush. He’s wearing a My Hero Academia T-shirt and Converse high-tops, and he’s got a stylus and tablet under one arm—no doubt sketching Marvel superheroes whenever he gets the chance.

Our eyes lock as our paths cross in slow motion. My heart races as I search for that familiar playful way he’d looked at me the past two weeks.

It’s so different from how he’s looking at me now.

Suddenly, his handsome face breaks into a huge smile. He waves, and I wave back. My stomach clenches, and then does it again at the idea of pushing myself to give him the sticker. But seeing his radiant smile gives me the permission I’ve so desperately needed to proceed with my plan.

But then time speeds back up and he passes by without missing a beat.

“Mary Allison!” Sergio wraps Mary Allison Pointer in a giant hug and spins her around as she squeals and asks about his summer.

He wasn’t waving to me at all.

Dillon wriggles in my grip. “You’re cutting off my circulation.”

“Oh. Sorry.” I release his arm. “What should I do? Maybe he didn’t see me? Should I go over there?”

“No!” Dillon hisses.

“Yes!” Varsha urges me with a nudge. “Go! Go! Go!”

I approach Sergio, grinning even though my throat has gone bone-dry. “Hi, Sergio!”

Mary Allison stares at us with a confused look on her freckled face. 

The stretch of silence lasts an eternity. Finally, she takes the hint and waves goodbye before ducking into the rush.

“How are you?” I ask—after I remember how to use my mouth to form sound.

Sergio blinks, bold black eyebrows climbing, his whole sinewy body tensing up. “Good, good.” His eyes dart around like he’s checking out who’s watching us.

“Oh, good!” My voice climbs an octave. I reach for the sticker in my pocket. My heart feels like it’s going to hammer right out of my chest. “I—I got you something. I saw it and thought you might like it, you know . . . you mentioned wanting one and . . . yeah.” My hand snags.

“I’m good. Thanks, though.” He gives a thumbs-up.

The kind you’d give to a stranger on the street—not to the person who watched you play Diablo IV in a big fluffy towel in the den of a vacation rental for two full weeks.

“See ya.” Sergio vanishes around the corner before he can even see the sticker I finally remove from my pocket.

Cheeks burning white-hot, I spin to face my friends.

Varsha winces. “Oof. That was rough.”

“Seriously.” Dillon massages his arm as we continue down the hall.

“Maybe he’s just having a day,” I try, optimistic even though it feels like my heart just plummeted to the fiery depths of the Burning Hells.

Varsha sighs. “We love you, Leo, but you’re hopeless.”

“And Speedo’s another terrible guy,” Dillon adds. “Sorry.”

Something inside me crumples. I wouldn’t say Sergio is terrible, but I get the sense now that the feelings are far from mutual.

Dillon pats my shoulder. “Like I was saying, it’s not you. It’s all of them.”

I’ve always wanted nothing more than for one of my crushes to crush on me back—and to have my first real boyfriend. Or at least a Valentine’s date. Yes, my crushes have let me down—and my friends can’t be totally wrong about me being boyfriend material. Right?

Or am I fooling myself? Wouldn’t be the first time.

 

The rest of the morning flies by, helped along by my thoughts racing a mile a minute.

By the time Calc starts, with Lincoln Chan ignoring me as per usual from across the aisle, I’m more convinced than ever that my problem is me. No matter what my friends say, there must be something wrong with me. Am I an ugly, awkward troll and just don’t see it? Maybe I’m not as self-aware as I thought.

Like some sort of Rubik’s Cube, I twist and turn, desperate to unlock what I might have done to scare off Sergio. How else could things have gone

from one hundred to zero? Again? In the notes app, I form a checklist of questions to ask him: 1. Do I have bad breath? 2. Is my body too pale and stringy? 3. Am I too chicken for refusing to wade in the waves when you wanted to go surfing? That last one comes with all the morbid ocean-related fatalities Varsha’s planted in my mind over the years.

Before I know it, I’m in eighth-period Lit with Sergio, who’s playing some game on his phone under his desk, glancing up every now and then so he doesn’t get caught. I try to ignore the daydream playing out in my mind of running my hand against the prickly short hair of his fresh fade cut and tracing the spiral of his ear.

Look at me. Please look at me.

I fidget with the sticky end of my wristband, which reminds me of the boardwalk, which reminds me of biking to the bakery and nibbling our crumb cakes while watching the ducks from a bench by the pond. The sun growing warmer, spurring us to pedal his two-seater to the beach. Chaining it to the rack and walking up the sagging, splintered stairs, past the tall green reeds, through the fence, and onto the sun-warmed dunes, flip-flops in hand. Spreading our towels out and lying with our eyes closed and sunglasses on as we soaked up the rays, despite every part of me internally shuddering at thoughts of sun damage and melanoma.

Even then, I couldn’t stop thinking how wonderfully surreal it felt to be lying beside him. We never interacted during the school year. He was a swimmer, a gamer playing D&D with his tight-knit group of friends, and I was off in my own world. I’m the one nobody takes seriously, known as the kid who a bird pooped on during laps in Phys Ed. Or the kid who farted during a moment of silence for a fallen crossing guard during a Halloween assembly in fifth grade. I was suspended for three days because the principal thought I did it as a joke, making the sound with my mouth to get some laughs, and I didn’t have the guts to tell her otherwise. Sergio and I would have never come together if not for the uncanny twist of fate of both our families renting neighboring beach homes. It was like magic.

From my spot in the front row, I sit up straight and answer Mrs. Welsch’s question on our summer reading. Perhaps Sergio would fall in love with a perfect student.

I stare hard, once more willing him to look at me. Still no dice.

After he refuses to look my way, I tune out Mrs. Welsch going over the syllabus and doodle hearts in my notebook. The smell of his coconut deodorant body spray brings me back to looking into his eyes on the beach as we laughed. The memory reminds me that we did have something special, and that I should go for it. Take one last shot.

Push yourself, Leo.

When all fifty-seven agonizing minutes of class are over and the bell rings, I pack up with the speed of a cheetah and step around his desk to face him. I swat back the nerves and force a big smile.

“Hey . . . uh . . . Long time no talk,” I say, my heartbeat drowning out my voice. Is two days a long time?

“What’s up?” he says.

“Everything okay?” I finally ask, fighting the urge to turn tail and run.

“Yeah, why?” He trains his attention on his backpack zipper, which is refusing to close, like how I’m refusing to shut up.

“I was wondering . . .” My face flushes and I give a cartoonish audible gulp. “I had a lot of fun hanging out with you and . . . I just get the sense that . . . Did . . .” My throat feels like it’s literally closing up. “I was wondering what happened. Why we stopped talking and you seem like you’re not into it anymore?” I grip the edge of his desk to keep the classroom from spinning.

Sergio succeeds in zipping his bag and shoulders it, its anime-themed key chains jingling.

“Oh, and I got this for you.” I offer the Lilith decal.

Zubin George, ...