“None taken,” Sammie says.
Virgo and Evan give us a quick tour of the common area. It smells like microwave popcorn and patchouli (a sort of gross combination), but it also makes me want to live on my own.
I can’t believe that I’m not going to Stanford. That I bombed everything except that stupid physics test. I know there are other options, other colleges that I could still get into, but I haven’t even thought about any. My father was so hell-bent on my following in his footsteps, I never even thought to research anything else.
The thought of it makes me dizzy and a little nauseous, but the last thing I need is to have an Episode right now. I take a deep breath and try to calm myself down.
Evan and Virgo lead us up to their room on the fifth floor. Virgo unlocks the door and pushes it open. “Welcome to our man cave.”
“It’s way cleaner than I expected,” Sammie says. And it is. The decor is sort of typical boy—navy blue and gray comforters, a few posters on the walls, and Christmas lights strung on their bunk beds—but overall, it’s pretty nice, and it smells much better than the common room.
“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Virgo plugs in his phone and turns on Spotify. “Tame Impala?”
“That works.” Evan sits down on the bottom bunk—his bed, I presume—while Virgo climbs to the top. Sammie takes the one chair in the room, so that the only place for me is either next to Evan on the bed or on the floor. I choose the floor.
Virgo leans over the top bunk. “Want to contribute to the satisfaction rate?”
“Are you seriously thinking about getting us drunk?” Sammie says. “Thanks, but no thanks.”
“No, you dork.” Virgo laughs. He sits up and pulls out his phone. “I’m hungry and I was just going to offer all the free pizza you want.”
“Oh, got it,” Sammie says. “Sure. That sounds good.”
After a few minutes of debating crust thickness and toppings (we settle on corn bread, half–Canadian bacon and pineapple, half-pepperoni), Virgo tries to call in our order. “An hour and a half for delivery versus half an hour pickup? Forget that. I’ll just come get it.”
Evan takes a few cans of pop out of the small fridge next to the desk and passes them around to us. We toast: “To rainy August days, drunk freshmen, and pizza deliberation.”
Evan takes out his guitar and starts to play again. I lean against the bed and watch him. I can’t help but feel sad at the thought of him—the thought that there’s this really nice person who I can’t let into my life—not because of who he is, but because of how hurt I am.
My phone dings and I pull it out of my bag. Sammie’s sent me a covert text: You are smitten.
I don’t write back. Instead, I just glare at her and shake my head.
About twenty minutes later, Virgo jumps down from the top bunk. “Time to get the ’za.”
“I’ll come with you!” Sammie says before she turns and winks at me.
They are out the door before I can protest or offer to join them or figure out some excuse for not being left alone here with Evan.
Thankfully, they leave the door wide open. The hallway is packed with the laughter and running of all the weekend visitors, but in here it’s dark, and it’s relatively quiet. It’s just Evan and me, and I’m not sure what to say or do.
Evan puts away his guitar and then he sits on the floor next to me. “May I?”
I nod. He’s so close, I can feel his warmth, hear his breath, smell his clothes—a perfect mixture of fresh dampness from the rain and fabric softener. He’s familiar and comfortable, and yet I feel like I should maybe get up and run far away from him.
But I don’t.
He looks at me. “How are you?”
I laugh. “You’re always asking me that.”
“Am I?” He smiles. “Well, I guess it’s because I want to know.”
“I’m okay, I guess.”
“That’s not very convincing.”
“It’s been a rough summer,” I say. “A very rough summer.”
He hangs his arms over his bent knees and nods. “Seems like it. Want to talk about it?”
“Not particularly,” I say. “But thank you.”
I don’t feel like telling him, but I do feel this strange desire, this need to lean against him, to rest my head on his shoulder.
So I do.
He leans back against me, and then he kisses the top of my head.
“You’re so nice to me.”
“I try.”
“I do remember,” I say finally. “Anne Boyd’s party. Seven Minutes in Heaven.”
“You remember?”
“The last fifteen seconds? You were my first kiss. Of course I remember.”
He laughs. “Oh no! I was your first kiss? I kind of want to apologize or something. I hope I didn’t ruin you for life.”
“No way.” I shake my head. “Not at all. If anything, you set the bar high. And, I mean, nothing’s hotter than making out on the uncomfortable edge of a cold bathtub. Nothing has compared since.”
He laughs. “Seriously. What could be better than shower curtains and shaving cream?”