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“‘Cause last time they talked, he was acting manic and rambling about some guy he met. Mom asked where the guy’s from, blah blah blah. Turns out, he doesn’t even know this motherfucker’s name.”

My stomach twists, but I laugh it off.

“You regret getting assigned with him yet?” he asks.

“No. Why would I? Ira’s great.”

Asher pats my shoulder. “My sweet, sweet summer ginger.” Then he lets go of me and hops the stairs up to the bedrooms.

Cryptic and a little terrifying as usual. Maybe it runs in the family.

I grab a glass of sparkling wine off the gold-covered table and throw it back, swallowing the bad taste in my mouth.

Ira never told me he was seeing someone.

Honestly, I should be happy for him. College relationships improve graduation rates. This is probably great in the long run.

I just…

Chapter 8

Ira

I dump the entire shopping basket on the conveyor belt. Dozens and dozens of bright pink boxes clatter onto the rubber like gunshots. I burst out laughing—and immediately turn my volume down.

The cashier’s eyes widen.

“Did you buy out the aisle?” she asks.

You know it, baby.

It’s getting harder to drag “Crowd” Ira out of the box lately.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

“My frat is doing a big… um, Valentine’s party,” I say, and my voice cracks hard midway. “I’m sorry. It’s a lot.”

Maybe it works. Maybe it doesn’t. I don’t care. Nothing can wiggle my mood. Life is pink-tinted skies, marshmallow clouds, and conversation hearts. If a girl at the grocery store thinks I’m the craziest dude she’s ever seen? Fuck it.

Make me an urban legend.

It’s only half a lie anyway. Beckett’s note did ask me to grab some V-Day candy for Tuesday; it just wasn’t specific. I’ve been waiting three months for this to hit the shelves again—even if they taste like sugary chalk.

The messages matter more than the taste.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

She laughs, and I laugh, too.