How do you even respond to that? The silence is awkward and uncomfortable, and she has no idea what to say now. She’s always been bad at light conversation — mostly because she knows she sounds awkward and she hates that. She’d rather be quiet than draw disapproval. She fidgets with her hands for a minute before forcing them to lie still in her lap.
The silence stretches, thins, distorts, until Stiles thinks it’s going to break. Finally, when he can’t take it any more, when he’s done fidgeting with the damp spot on his jeans, he says, “Hey, so—uh. I should probably get home before my Dad freaks out again, the last thing you need is your Dad to freak out looking for you when he’s the Sheriff, right? My number should be in your phone now, cause I called you? In case…I dunno, in case you need the book back before I finish it.”
“Oh, yeah, yeah probably. Dads freaking out is definitely bad.” It’s like his pattern of speech is contagious. Reflexively Summer glances at her bag, where the phone is, as if she might need to check to be sure the smartphone saved the number. “I won’t — I mean, I won’t need the book back. I might call you, though?” A thought strikes her, and she carries on with it before she can wind herself up about it. “I’m going midnight bowling with some of my buddies tomorrow night, if you want to come?”