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X’s, Y’s, and Z’s crowd my head.
    I’m so busy recalling the formula that I don’t see the figure in the blue jacket directly in my path on the stretch of road between Bliss High and the Arbor until it’s too late. I twist the bike to the right, and it climbs halfway up the curb before the force of the abrupt turn topples it on its side, flinging me onto the grass.
    I lie on my back, face-to-face with the sky, breath rapid and heart racing. I think I’m okay, but I’m too stunned to move.
    â€œNettie, are you all right?” Someone crouches next to me. I recognize the low voice and risk turning my neck. Okay. That worked. Sore, but functioning. I see white-striped blue sneakers. My eyes move up, all the way, to blue eyes under light blond hair.
Callen?
    â€œCallen?” I say aloud. He nods, searching my face, probably worried the fall scrambled my brains.
    â€œAre you okay?” he repeats.
    I take a deep breath, reenergizing myself. “I think so.” I prop myself up on my elbows. “Just . . . shocked.” I sit up, head spinning. I check my clothes—grass stains all over my jacket, but no rips, no blood.
    â€œYeah, that was . . . unexpected,” he murmurs, with his typical understatement. He stands and holds out his hand, adding, “I should have been paying more attention. Thanks for not running me over.”
    I grab his hand, and he pulls me to my feet, and we stand facing each other. My knees feel wobbly, and I can’t tell if it’s because I’m looking right at him or because of the fall.
Witson was too tall,
I think. Callen is medium height, and I don’t have to crane to look into his eyes. Lia’s always complaining because he’s two inches shorter than she is, but for me, he’s—
    Lia.
    We’re still holding hands.
    â€œOh, oops.” I pull my hand away and make a show of brushing off the grass and dirt on my jeans. But it’s like I want to brush off his touch because it felt way too good and now I’m guilty. “No, it’s my fault, not yours. Sorry, next time I’ll watch where I’m going,” I babble. He doesn’t say anything.
    I haul the bike up and wheel it to face forward while frantically trying to come up with more to say. It’s been a while since Callen and I were alone together.
    â€œAre you sure you can ride?” he asks, inspecting my face again. How dazed do I look? His scrutiny reminds me of my frizzy hair. It must look even worse. I try to seem casual as I run my hand through it.
    â€œI’m fine.” I summon up my best imitation of my mother’s chastising-librarian voice. Still, the idea of getting back on the bike unsettles me.
    â€œAre you headed home?” he asks, glancing down the street.
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œMe too. Let’s walk together,” he suggests, gesturing me forward on the concrete sidewalk.
    â€œOkay,” I agree quickly, glad for the excuse to stay off the bike, without having to admit that I’m scared.
Alone with Callen.
We’re close to home, ten minutes give or take, but still.
    Silence the first few steps. I’m sweating, partly out of nerves and partly because it’s way too hot for this jacket. I’m only wearing it because of the Missive about the weather. I clear my throat.
Say something.
    â€œYou’re not at practice.” I wince. I might as well have said,
I’m boring. Ignore me.
    â€œCoach was sick, so he called it off.” On a route we could walk in our sleep, we wordlessly turn off the main road and enter the Arbor, stepping off the sidewalk and onto the mostly empty cobblestone streets. Squirrels scamper through the trees above us.
    â€œKind of brave to cancel practice when the game is so close.” Our high school teams are facing off next week for the first game of their year, timed to coincide with the new season of
Blissful Days,
which will also,