The injuries sting, but suddenly there’s a throbbing in my ankle. When he pulls me to my feet, that throbbing becomes a shooting pain. I howl.

“Is your ankle twisted?” he asks, settling me back down. He seems reluctant at first and blushes again, but eventually he gently places his fingers on either side of my ankle, moving upward. At one point, the pain is so bad I whimper.

“I think so,” I say. “I am officially a moron.”

He reaches down and picks me up. He hefts me into his arms easily, as if I’m just a bag of groceries. “I’m taking you home.”

That sounds just fine to me. “But I live a mile away,” I say, embarrassed.

“Not at all,” he answers. It’s a hot day, and his breathing isn’t labored, so I relax a little, even though I still feel like a goober. “I just hope it is not broken.”

“Let’s not overreact,” I say. “I’ll be fine.”

He carries me the entire way without so much as getting red in the face. I hand him my keys and he holds me up with one arm while opening the front door, then lifts me easily up the stairs. I’m about to direct him where to go, but he never hesitates; he steps to the right and twists open the door to my room, without a word. A weird sensation creeps over me as he lays me in my bed, lifts the sheets out from under me, and covers me. I’m only marginally aware of my hot-pink thong panties lying on the shag carpet, near his feet. How did he know which bedroom was mine?

“Thanks,” I say, nonchalantly reaching down and sweeping the panties under my bed. That’s when I notice my old Zac Efron poster, across the room, framed by my posters of the Eiffel Tower and Big Ben. I’ve been meaning to tear it down ever since I started dating Griffin, but now it hangs there, in all its glory, a testament to my lameness. Strangely, though, Eron seems to be focused completely on me.

“Not at all. I will telephone the management of the soda fountain and tell them of this unfortunate incident.”

“You mean, you’re not going in?”

He shakes his head. “And who would play nurse to you? I think you need to stay off that ankle.”

“No, really, I’m fine….”

He smiles. “I insist.”

I settle back in the pillows. “You really don’t have to.”

“Julia …,” he says, wagging a finger at me to say, Stop arguing.

“Fine. Um, I think my mom has some soda in the fridge. No egg creams, unfortunately.”

Eron laughs, his eyes never leaving mine. They’re focused in such a way that makes me a little queasy. Or maybe that’s just the heat. Or maybe it’s that right then, I realize that Eron doesn’t seem to take notice of his surroundings at all, as if he’s not interested. Or as if he’s already seen my bedroom a thousand times before.

“You’re Italian, is that right?” my mom says, inspecting Eron as she ladles gazpacho into his bowl. A little of it spills onto the table.

He nods politely.

I hope Eron realizes what he’s in for. My mom could make the most hardened of criminals weep. Add my father, and it’s past cruel and unusual. If Eron thought my questioning was harsh, he may end up jumping from something very high at the end of this meal. That’s why I only brought Griffin around my parents once. Only once.

My mom is smiling sweetly, but that’s just one of her tactics: make them think she’s on their side, then strike. “Do I know your parents?”

“Mom …,” I groan.

“They’re … deceased, ma’am,” he says.

She purses her lips. I wait for her to offer condolences but that would reveal she has a heart and shift the power into his court. “So where do you live?”

“With my brother. On Hart Avenue.”

“Hart?” She turns to me and glares. I can read her mind: So did he have anything to do with the $1,200 repair bill for the RAV4? I just smile sheepishly and shrug. “Are you in school?”

“Not any longer,” he says.

“You’ve graduated?”

“I … left school, after eighth grade,” he says. “I needed to find a job.”

My dad nearly chokes on his soup. “But … school is very important!” he chimes in, like a public service announcement. My mom’s eyes narrow in disgust. Normally she’d have pity for a guy whose parents were dead and who had to drop out of school to get a job, but because her only child brought him home to dinner, because he’s a guy and who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men, he’s bad. I kick her under the table. She turns to me. I try to communicate telepathically: You are not interrogating a terrorist. Stop with the third degree.

She seems to get the picture, but then my dad starts in. “What are your plans for the future?”

“Dad,” I mutter, scooping the soup into my spoon and letting it dribble back into my bowl. My mom is always trying random recipes she gets from various shady sources; this “gazpacho” idea came from the back of a can of lima beans and tastes like water. “Stop.” I mean, questions about his future? Please. I see dinner in our future. And possibly me lunging across the table and gouging out my father’s eyes with my spoon.

Eron smiles and wipes his mouth with a napkin. “I am interested in going back to school,” he says, unwavering. He takes another sip of the soup. “I’d like to go back for architecture.”

I stop trying to telekinetically murder my parents, and stare at him, forgetting I’m holding my spoon. It falls to the table with a loud clatter. “Whoops,” I say as green goo splashes across the table and onto the front of my hoodie. But come on, trying to butter me up by pretending to have the same interests as me? Please.

I take a napkin and start to wipe up the mess, and then I realize something…. Did I ever tell him that that was what I was going to major in at college? That I had dreams of designing buildings, too? I don’t think I did. He just goes right on slurping his soup, not looking for a reaction from me. I think he’s serious.

“Mrs. Devine, this soup is delicious,” he says earnestly.

My dad and I both gape at him, then halfheartedly agree, just to be polite. The soup is good? For what? Considering that his apartment was littered with days of crusty old cereal bowls, I guess he isn’t too much of a culinary expert himself.

My mom beams and doesn’t say a word. I don’t think anyone has complimented a meal of hers since before she was married. Even better, he asks for seconds. Eron has silenced the beast. Score.

Afterward, I hobble down the hallway and Eron sets me up on the couch, in front of the television. He lifts my foot and props a pillow under it. I get the feeling he’s played nurse before, because his touch is gentle. Just like with the kiss last night, everywhere he touches begins to tremble. I hope he can’t see what a bowl of Jell-O I am around him.

“Can I have the remote, please?” I ask him.

He tilts his head, looking perplexed. “The …?”

“Remote,” I say, pointing toward the television. It’s sitting there, right on top of the entertainment center, plain as can be, and yet when he walks there, he fidgets for a moment, clearly unsure. Then he picks it up and hands it to me. “Thanks. Want to watch House with me?”

He purses his lips. “Watch the house? Is something going to happen to it?”

“You don’t watch much TV, do you?”

The show starts. He shakes his head and sits down on the couch beside me. Instantly, he’s enraptured. Some kid is having a convulsion on an airplane. Eron’s eyes bulge. I can almost hear his heart beating, even from a cushion’s length away. The kid flops around a little in the narrow aisle, white foam dribbling from his chin, and then it cuts to the opening credits. I don’t think Eron has taken a breath since the show began. He turns to me. “That was … terrifying.”

“But satisfying,” I point out.

He nods and leans against the back of the sofa, making himself comfortable. “Will we find out what is plaguing that poor child?”