“Ah.” He half smiles. “Do you want to get ice cream?”

“You had neither nature nor nurture on your side!”

“So, no ice cream?”

“Of course yes ice cream!”

He nods and takes a right. “There was some therapy involved.”

“How much therapy are we talking about here?”

“Couple years.”

“Did it entail a brain transplant?”

“Just lots of talking through how my inability to functionally communicate my needs stemmed from a family

that never allowed me to. Same old.”

“They still don’t allow you! They’re trying to—to erase you and turn you into something else!” I am incensed. Enraged. Incensedly enraged. I want to mutate into Beezilla and pillage the extended Ward family at the next Thanksgiving. Levi better invite me.

“I’ve tried to reason with them. I’ve yelled. I’ve explained myself calmly.

I’ve tried . . . a lot of things, believe me.” He sighs. “Eventually I had to accept what my therapist always said: all you can change is your own reaction to events.”

“Your therapist sounds great.”

“He was.”

“But I still want to commit patricide.”

“It’s not patricide if it’s not your own father.”

An angry scream bubbles out of me. “You should never talk to them again.”

He smiles. “That will send a strong message.”

“No, seriously. They don’t deserve you.”

“They’re not . . . good. For sure. I’ve considered the possibility of cutting them off many times, but my brothers and my mom are much better when my father isn’t around. And anyway . . .” He hesitates. “Today wasn’t that bad. It might have been the best dinner I’ve had with them in a long time.

Which I’ll chalk up to you telling my father to can it and shocking him into temporary speechlessness.”

If that dinner was “not bad,” then I’m a K-pop idol. I gaze at the dusky Houston lights, thinking that the way his family treats him should diminish him in my eyes, realizing the truth is just the opposite. There’s something patient about the way he quietly stands up for himself. About the way he sees others.

Another pang near my heart. I don’t know what they’re about. I just really . . . “Levi?”

“Mm?”

“I want to tell you something.”

“I told you: your lungs are not shrinking because you’re training for a 5K—”

“My lungs are totally shrinking, but that’s not it.”

“What, then?”

I take a deep breath, still staring out the window. “I really, really, really like you.”

He doesn’t reply for a long moment. Then: “I’m pretty sure I like you more.”

“I doubt it. I just want you to know, not everyone is like your family. You can be . . . you can be you with me. You can talk, say, do however you want.

And I’ll never hurt you like they did.” I make myself smile at him. It’s easy now. “I promise I don’t bite.”

He reaches over to take my hand, his skin warm and rough against mine.

He smiles back. Just a little. “You could rip me to shreds, Bee.”

We are silent for the rest of the drive.

• • •

SCHRÖDINGER BURROWED INTO my backpack, tore a package of kale chips, decided they were not to his liking, and went for a nap with his head pillowed on the half-empty bag. I burst into laughter and forbid Levi to wake him up before I can take a million pictures to send Reike. It’s the best thing to happen all day—a reminder that while Levi’s actual family might suck balls, his chosen one is the best.

“I’m very impressed,” I coo to Schrödinger while petting his fur.

“Don’t cuddle him, or he’ll feel rewarded,” Levi warns me.

“Are you feeling rewarded, kitty?” Schrödinger purrs. Levi sighs.

“Whatever Bee’s doing, do not experience it as cuddles. Those are punishment pets,” he says in what he probably means as a firm tone but is instead adorably helpless, and I get another pang, to my heart and my ovaries. I do hope he’ll have kids. He’d be an amazing dad.

“Those chips were on my desk for days and Félicette never managed to open them.”

“And that’s not at all because Félicette doesn’t exist,” Levi yells from the kitchen.

“You should teach Félicette your ways,” I whisper to Schrödinger, and then join Levi in the kitchen just in time to see him throw away what’s left of my unjustifiably overpriced Whole Foods chips.

“Are you still hungry? Should I make you food?” I shake my head.

“You sure? I don’t mind making—”

He falls silent as I fall to my knees. His eyes widen as my smile does.

“Bee,” he says. Though he doesn’t quite say it. He mouths it breathlessly, like he often does when I touch him.

And now my fingers are on his belt, which qualifies as touching. Right?