He eyes the cheeseburger suspiciously, probably trying to gauge the likelihood that I spit in his meal. Which I did not, because as stated previously, he isn’t worth my spit.

“I had a –”

“No, let me guess. You had a cheeseburger.”

“Thanks, Matty,” I say, pulling the box towards me. The aroma of a juicy cheeseburger wafts out and spirals around my bedroom, fighting off the smell of the stale junk food I’ve been munching on all day long.

“Ah, well, I can’t take credit. Louis told me to bring it for you - said he would’ve done it himself but he was afraid you’d throw a book at him.”

“Don’t kid with me, Ava. There’s no such thing as a cheeseburger factory.”

I think - well, I think for the first time, we’re both being completely honest with each other. No sarcastic quips or vicious jabs or silly jokes about how he can’t live without the diner’s cheeseburgers.

 Stupid cheeseburger.

 I'm all in.