You say that a lot,

"Don't worry — I don't understand any of it," I said wryly.

"I'm counting on that."

"So, in plain English, are we friends now?"

"Friends…" he mused, dubious.

"Or not," I muttered.

He grinned. "Well, we can try, I suppose. But I'm warning you now that
I'm not a good friend for you." Behind his smile, the warning was real.

"You say that a lot," I noted, trying to ignore the sudden trembling in
my stomach and keep my voice even.

"Yes, because you're not listening to me. I'm still waiting for you to
believe it. If you're smart, you'll avoid me."

"I think you've made your opinion on the subject of my intellect clear,
too." My eyes narrowed.

He smiled apologetically.

"So, as long as I'm being… not smart, we'll try to be friends?" I
struggled to sum up the confusing exchange.

"That sounds about right."

I looked down at my hands wrapped around the lemonade bottle, not sure
what to do now.

"What are you thinking?" he asked curiously.

I looked up into his deep gold eyes, became befuddled, and, as usual,
blurted out the truth.

"I'm trying to figure out what you are."