Adrian's head snapped up so fast his neck cracked. "What?"
His mother was still sitting on the edge of his bed, her expression careful, measured, like she was about to tell him something that might break him or save him—she wasn't sure which.
"Last week," she said. "Dante showed up at the house. Asked if you were okay."
"You already told me he came by. Three days ago."
"No." His mother shook her head. "I said he came by three days ago. But that was the second time. The first time was last week. Right after—I assume—right after he left campus."
Adrian couldn't breathe. "What did you tell him?"
"I told him you were sick. That you'd been fighting something for a few days and weren't seeing anyone." She paused, studying his face. "He seemed devastated. Like he blamed himself for you being unwell. He asked me to tell you he was sorry. That he didn't mean to—his words exactly—'destroy you.'"
"He didn't destroy me—"
