Page 8 of Make Me Dream of You

“You don’t even know what she looks like, bro.”

“I don’t have to.”

“She could be, like, an old lady or something.”

“Her profile says she’s twenty-one.” It’s the only piece of personal information on either of our profiles.

“Dude. It’s the internet. People lie. She could literally be a man.”

I throw my keys at his head. He easily dodges, and they clash with a metallic ring on the concrete floor.

“Am I wrong?” He laughs nervously while scanning my immediate area for anything else I might throw.

I grunt.

“Instead of pouring your heart out and telling all your deepest darkest secrets to this mystery person, maybe you should, I don’t know, go talk to a therapist and then go out and make a real-life connection with someone.”

I glare at Wood for a good minute. “I went to a therapist for four years after the accident. It didn’t help as much as talking to her the last eight months has. And I don’t want a real-life connection.”

I’m not even going to think about how the first woman to catch my eye in over a year turned out to be Bex’s little sister, who used to spy on us making out in my car after curfew.

“I wouldn’t be good for anyone right now,” I add.

“Not with that attitude.” He takes a last chug of Gatorade, wipes his chin with the back of his hand, then puts it back in the fridge. “Speaking of real-life connections…could you do me a favor?”

“What kind of favor?”

He lowers his voice. “I just need you to introduce yourself to my lady friend when she comes out.”

“Forgot her name?”

“It’s Cindy or Cynthia or something like that.”

He has that pleading look—the one that’s annoyingly sincere. I roll my eyes, but say, “Okay.”

Cindy/Cynthia emerges from Wood’s room a few minutes later in ripped jeans and a loose sweater. She looks like his usual type – tall, long hair, pretty smile.

“Ready to go?” Wood asks.

She nods then spots me sitting at the counter. She blushes when I nod her direction and then quickly looks away.

I get that reaction a lot. Sometimes I make people uncomfortable. Or they think I’m intimidating with all my tattoos. I also don’t have an easygoing smile like Wood.

He jerks his chin in her direction, widening his eyes in plea.

I stand and take a step toward her, putting out my hand. “I’m Noah.”

She still seems unable to make eye contact for more than a second at a time. “Um, I’m Madison.”

Behind her, Wood silently snaps his fingers and mouths, “Of course!”

My phone dings on the counter. That pathetic little pang of hope surges through me. I snatch it and the screen lights up with a message notification.

It’s her.

“I know that look,” Wood says with a little chuckle in his voice.

I want to tell him to mind his own business, but he’s right. I’m already grinning like an idiot at just the sight of her name—or, screen name, I guess. My heart pumps harder.

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