“I had a neighbor in college. All four of her cats were on their second lives.”

He stops laughing, and it almost looks as if he’s going to be successful at regaining at least some composure, until he cracks, and the laughter just starts pouring from his lips again. His laugh is raspy, deep, kind of sexy and also kind of contagious.

“One was even a TV meteorologist,” I say, holding up a finger.

He rubs tears from his eyes. I, on the other hand, manage to gain control of myself and take another bite of pizza.

“It’s true,” I say.

He eventually calms down and takes a drink. Then, he slowly sets the glass back down onto the coffee table.

“M&M’s,” he says.

I look up. “What?”

“Every Sunday, I go to the same gas station down the street and buy a pack of M&M’s, and I eat all of them except for the green ones.”

I feel my eyebrows instinctively furrowing.

“Why?” I ask.

“It goes back to when I was a kid,” he says. “When my sister and I were little and my parents would stop at the gas station, they’d always let us get a bag of candy to share. And we’d always get M&M’s. Then, once we got in the car, we’d divvy them up. She got the green ones. I got the rest.”

“That doesn’t sound very fair.”

“That’s all she wanted,” he says, shrugging his shoulders. “They were the best, evidently.”

“Okay,” I say. “So what do you do with the green ones now? Do you just…throw them away?”

He stops and shakes his head.

“No, I mail them to my sister the next day.”

I start to laugh but then notice his face is completely sober.

“Wait.” I cover my mouth. “You’re serious?”

“As a heart attack,” he says.

“So, your sister gets a bag of green M&M’s every week?”

“Yeah,” he says, chuckling. “Pretty much.”

“That’s kind of cute,” I say. “Strange, but cute.”

He shrugs his shoulders.

“Your turn.”

I feel my chest rise as I take a breath and think about it for a second.

“I don’t know,” I say.

His eyes find mine, and one side of his mouth turns into a crooked grin. It’s kind of endearing. “You do everything backwards.”

I feel my eyes narrowing and my eyebrows slowly making their way toward each other again, but I don’t say anything.

“You eat your pizza crust-first,” he continues, eyeing my half-eaten piece of pizza.

I look down at my plate. Sure enough, there’s a little triangle left — with no crust.

“You read your newspaper backwards,” he goes on.

I cock my head to the side.

“When I first met you, you turned to the back page first. Even your name is backwards,” he points out.

I bite the side of my bottom lip. “Those aren’t so strange, are they?” I ask, timidly.

He laughs.

“Nah. Now, when you start walking backwards, I’m taking you straight to live with that cat lady.”

I laugh, and at the same time, try to keep myself from blushing as I force my eyes back to the television screen. We both watch the show on it for a little while longer then until his voice breaks my concentration.

“Look,” he says, pointing at the TV. “What did I tell you?”

On the screen, there’s one woman left standing in front of the judges, and her arms are covered in tattoos.

My smile starts small and eventually stretches across my face. I’m starting to believe he might be on to something.

“Thanks for letting me come over.”

He’s standing on the other side of my door now, three steps from his own.

“Pizza’s a lot better when it’s not so quiet,” he adds.

I push out a laugh. “I agree.”

And just then, he brings his face so close to mine that his lips are nearly touching my ear. My heart starts racing, and for the first time around him, my stomach seems to do a somersault. It feels like butterflies, and it’s terrifying and a little sad, I think. But I can smell the soft, sweet scent of his cologne, and it seems to calm me somehow. I know I should be weirded out right now — I have no idea what he’s doing — but this feels good, and I can’t stop smiling this nervous, happy, strange smile.

“They were reruns,” he whispers, his breaths trailing over my skin.

I freeze as my mouth falls open and surprise quickly devours my face. “I didn’t believe you for one second,” I say, shaking my head.

He shoots me a suspicious look. “Not one second?” he asks, backing slowly away from me.

I try my hardest to scold him with my eyes, even though every other feature is betraying me.

“Good-night, Miss Cross,” he says, sliding a key into his lock and pushing open his door.

I lower my eyes and softly laugh to myself. “Good-night,” I say.

“Coming,” I call out from across my apartment.

I don’t even bother looking at the peep hole this time. I figure its either Hannah or possibly Jorgen. For all I know I left my keys in the door again. But when I pull open the door and look up, I freeze.

“Amsel,” I manage to get out.

I don’t know when I started calling him by his last name to his face. Somewhere along the line, it just kind of happened. I step back to let him inside.

“I can’t stay long,” he immediately says, taking a step forward. “I really have to run. I just, um, found something I thought you might want.”

He holds out a photograph.

“You know I love you, Logan — Ada,” he quickly corrects.

My heart stings in my chest. There are two hands in the photo, each wearing a ring.

“I know,” I say, taking the photo and lowering my eyes to it.

We stand there for a while. I don’t even know how much time passes. We’re both so still. My eyes are on the photo. His eyes are most likely on me, watching for my reaction. I try not to react — for his sake and mine.

After a moment, he breaks the silence.

“Well, I’ve got to go.”

He reaches out and touches my hand.

“Take care, Ada.”

I look into his eyes. I love those eyes. I miss those eyes.

“You sure you don’t want something to drink or anything?” I ask, as he takes a step back toward the door.

“No, I’m sorry, I really am running late. I just found that yesterday and wanted you to have it.”

I look down at the photo again and sigh. This is the first time I’ve ever seen it.

“Okay,” I say, nodding my head. “Thank you,” I add.

I follow him to the door, and when he opens it, Jorgen is just opening his door across the hall.

I watch as Jorgen eyes Amsel up and down once, then steps outside and closes his door behind him. He waits there, facing us. He looks as if he’s not trying to make it obvious that he’s watching the two of us, but somehow, I know he is. Amsel too takes a good look at Jorgen. Then, he turns and glances at me.

I try to conjure up a faint smile to let him know it’s okay.

He glances back at Jorgen. There’s a look on Amsel’s face. I can’t tell if it’s simply a greeting or more like a warning. Either way, Amsel nods his head once and makes his way to the stairs.

I follow Amsel’s figure down the stairwell until he’s out of sight. And when I look back up at Jorgen, I realize he was doing the same thing — following Amsel. His eyes are still planted on the stairs. I take the opportunity to steal another glance at the photo, and then I quickly slide it into the pocket of my hooded sweatshirt.

“Who was that?” Jorgen asks, curiously.

It takes me a second to answer him. I have to retrieve my mind from a different time first.

“A friend,” I say, as I toss my gaze to the ground.

I look back up a second later, and Jorgen’s eyes are still on me. He looks at me like he wants to believe me. I think I look at him like I want him to believe me too.

It wasn’t completely a lie. Amsel is my friend, but he’s also a whole lot more than that.