I wave him off. “Let’s just get this guy paid and go home.” He turns toward Rebel Tonic, but I capture his sleeve. “Are you sure you can trust him?”

He lifts his shoulders and shrugs. “I don’t know, but it’s the only idea I have.”

I free his sleeve and Ayden gives Rebel Tonic my wad of cash along with a crumpled stack of his own. Rebel Tonic counts it out, and then a greedy grin forms on his acne-covered face.

“Fan-freaking-tastic,” he says, balling up the bills and stuffing them into his jacket. “Give me like a week, and I should have the information for you.”

“How are you going to contact me?” Ayden asks as Rebel Tonic backs toward the gate.

“By email,” he tells him, pushing his glass up the brim of his nose. “And don’t try texting me on that phone number I gave you the other day. My mom took my phone away.”

“His mom? How old is he?” I frown, doubtful that this ordeal is going to end well with Rebel Tonic. The only thing that stops me from chasing his skinny butt down and snatching the money back is the glimmer of hope in Ayden’s eyes.

“I’m not sure,” Ayden mutters with his eyes still fixed on Rebel Tonic. “Maybe like fifteen?”

“As old as Kale?” Yeah, I highly doubt this is going to end well.

Ayden finally looks at me when Rebel Tonic disappears out the park gates. The sky has shifted to stardust, darkness blankets the land, and the streetlights have clicked on, highlighting the way home.

“So, what were you going to tell me about Lila and Ethan?” he asks.

I scuff my boot across the grass. “The night we heard the news about your brother, I overheard them talking about how they knew your brother getting … killed was a possibility, that the people were out there, and they could come for you guys or something like that.”

He rubs his hand across his forehead. “I knew that, too. That it was a possibility.”

“Oh,” I say at the same time he adds, “But…”

“But what?” I press with interest.

“But I don’t know. I’m starting to wonder if they know more about my sister, brother, and me than even I know.”

Silence encases us.

“What are you going to do?” I finally ask, zipping my jacket up all the way to my chin.

“I don’t know.” He draws the zipper up his own jacket then glances up at the moon. “We should get going before Lila and Ethan get home and notice I’m gone.”

“Were you supposed to leave the house?” I ask as we hike across the grass.

“Not after what happened today. At the class, I mean. Plus, they’re worried about that guy we saw watching my house.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry I told my mom about that. I just felt that, with everything going on, they should know.”

“It’s okay. I’m glad you did. I should have told them myself.”

I twist a strand of my hair around my finger. “Ayden, do you think what happened today … Was that a panic attack?”

He’s quiet before he answers. “I was remembering stuff.”

My head whips in his direction. “What?”

He exhales. “It happens sometimes … when I’m stressed out … or when things happen that remind me of my past.”

We arrive at the iron gate and veer down the sidewalk, past the homes sparkling with Christmas lights, wreaths, inflatable globes, and even some with artificial snow.

“Was it the stress of today?” I scoot over as one of our neighbors strolls by, giving us a friendly wave.

“Yeah, kind of,” Ayden replies, waving back.

“Kind of? Was it the letter from your sister?”

“Yes and no.” When I stare at him, silently pressing for more, his shoulders slump. “I don’t want to lie to you anymore.”

“Then don’t,” I say frankly. “When I told you that you could tell me anything, I meant it.”

He contemplates what I’ve said. “It was because of all the touching we’ve been doing.” His voice is barely audible and crammed with apprehension.

“Oh.” My shoulders sink along with my mouth. “I get it.”

He abruptly slams to a halt, grabbing my arm and stopping me with him. “No, you don’t get it.” Panic floods his eyes. “I want to touch you. I think about it all the time… Have ever since that day in your dad’s office when I…”

I can’t see his cheeks, but I can picture how red they are, like every time he talks about something sexual.

“When you got turned on,” I calmly finish for him.

On the inside, I’m a wreck.

All the way back then,

His heart danced for me,

Spun a longing for my soul

And sought the taste and feel of me.

All this time, all this time, all this time,

He wanted me.

He bobs his head up and down. “You’re the first girl who ever made me feel that way.”

“The first that’s ever turned you on?” I ask, astonished.

I’ve often wondered how sexually experienced he is, if he’s still a virgin. The first time I met him, he was wearing all black along with a leather collar, gauges in his ears, and he was sporting black nail polish. I assumed back then that, because of his rough appearance, he was experienced. Then I actually got to know him and discovered how much he hated being touched, and I questioned my initial assumption. I still don’t know for sure, since he never offers to talk about his past.