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Before anyone can say anything else, I hurry forward. “Yeah, because it’s all her fault, right?” I spit at Ollie while looping my arm through Zayla’s, ready to get her the hell out of her. “Screw you, Ollie. You’re such a goddamn player. And whatever. Be what you want to be, but don’t try to blame her for making her think you wanted more, because even though you won’t admit, that’s what you did.” I narrow my eyes on him. “I know what you say to her when no one else is around because she tells me, so don’t stand here and pretend like you didn’t act like she’s more than just a hookup.”

His lips part, but before he can get a word out, I hold up my hand.

“Nope, we’re done here.” With that, I steer Zayla and I around, doing my best to ignore the stares we’re getting.

But I’m feeling a little bit uneasy. I usually try to stay lowkey and off the radar and tonight I made two scenes. I never should’ve gone out. Not when I needed to study. And definitely not after I got the phone call from my sister.

It rattled me—phone calls with her usually do. And I think it threw me into protective mode.

When Zayla and I reach the last of the throng, I make a right down the sidewalk and start our mile walk back to the dorms. Zayla doesn’t speak a word as we walk, clutching onto my arm, and staring silently up at the night-kissed road. It’s a quiet night except for the occasional car that drives by. Still, even with nothing really happening, I keep my free hand next to the pocket my mace is in. It’s a habit I developed two years ago, before I ever thought to carry mace.

“My heart feels broken,” Zayla finally says as we near an interaction.

“I know.” I look left then right before I guide us across the street. “And it’s a valid feeling, but Zay, you’re better than Ollie. I know that’s probably not what you want to hear right now, but it’s true.”

“No, I’m not,” she mumbles as we reach the sidewalk.

“Yes, you are,” I insist as I cut across the lawn and toward the two-story brick building that our dorm is in.

“No, I’m really not.” She jerks her arm from me and glares at me. “You don’t get it. I’m not like you. I’m not tough. I’m not independent. I’m not brave.”

“I’m not any of those things,” I begin to protest, but she cuts me off.

“You walk around here, not giving a shit about what anyone thinks, taking on frat boys, and standing up for both of us. You always just do whatever you want. And part of me is so envious of that,” she says, a tear streaming down her face. “But the other part of me wonders how on earth you can exist the way you do without being lonely. Or is that just part of your façade.” She stomps off toward the building, leaving me standing in the quad, completely speechless.

Is that what she really thinks of me? That I’m lonely. And that I put on a façade?

“I’m not lonely,” I call out after her.

But she keeps on marching forward until she reaches the door where she swipes her keycard and steps inside, leaving me by myself outside—ironically.

Grimacing, I trudge toward the building, vowing to myself to never, ever go to another party again because nothing good ever comes from them other than brokenness.

Chapter 2

Harper

Iwake up the next morning with a throbbing headache. It’s like I’m hungover, but this is more of an emotional overload sort of hangover. I’m also grumpy. I can tell that the moment I open my eyes. I can’t remember what I dreamt about, but I had this icky feeling coming from inside my body, so my bet is a flashback from that night filled my REM cycle for at least part of the night. I kind of want to lie in bed all day, but I need to study, so I drag my ass out of my bed to get ready and then I’ll grab some coffee.

The dorm room Zayla and I share is a fairly decent size, and we each have our own bedrooms that are on opposite sides of each other with a small living quarters/ kitchen space directly in the middle. It’s the perks of going to Fairfield University, which is a private college located about thirty minutes from my hometown of Havenford. I’m lucky I can even go, since my family isn’t wealthy by any means, and a year’s tuition here costs more than my dad makes in a year. My older brother actually paid for it, and he did so without even putting a dent into his bank account since he’s currently a big football star who makes big bank. And while I’m not up for handouts, I really wanted to go to this university. But I promised him I’d pay him back when I become a therapist. That’s the plan anyway. I just hope my grades remain good, so I can get into a decent grad school.

As that thought crosses my mind, my stress level goes through the roof. Deciding I need to recenter myself, I put my air pods in while I get my clothes together so I can go shower. I also waste some time cleaning up the living quarters space, picking up wrappers and soda cans that Zayla left all over the kitchen table. I love the girl to death, but she’s messy as hell. Then again, I’m a neat freak. Or at least I have a habit of cleaning up messes. Have ever since my mother died and neither my brother, sister, nor father showed any signs of stepping up to pick up after the house. I let it go too until one day I found a dead rat in our panty. That was the final straw for me and after that, I became the designated house cleaner.

Once the place looks clean enough, I collect my clothes, drop my air pods on top of my dresser, I head for the bathrooms that are located just down the hallway. It’s early on a Sunday and hardly anyone is awake, which means I get the bathroom to myself, just the way I like it. The hot water feels wonderful, and I stand under it for a while, trying to visualize it washing off the shitty events of last night. But it’s not working at all. I keep thinking of that verbal dueling match I had with Brooks and how I have this feeling people are going to be talking about it on Monday. I hate being the topic of gossip. I should’ve kept my mouth shut last night. But I didn’t not once, but twice.

I sigh heavily as I think about all the stuff I said. Then my thoughts drift to Zayla and all those things she said to me before she took off into our dorm building. I know she was hurting and also a bit drunk, but it still makes my chest ache thinking about it. Does she really think that about me? That I’m lonely and fake? And that I don’t care about what anyone thinks? Clearly she’s wrong about that because I’m standing here washing the shampoo out of my hair, wondering what she thinks of me.

“Screw this obsessive overanalyzing shit,” I mumble as I rinse the last of the suds out.

I’m going to go talk to her so we can work this out. I’m sure she probably won’t even remember saying it.

I get out of the shower, dry off, put on a pair of wide legged jeans and a fitted black turtleneck. I leave my hair down to let it air dry, slip on my socks, and converse sneakers, then grab my things and return back to my dorm room.

It’s quiet when I enter, which means Zayla is still asleep. And I’m not about to wake her up, so I drop my dirty clothes into the hamper, collect my wallet and phone, slip on my leather jacket, head off to get coffee.

I’ll talk to her when I get back and everything will be okay.

It has to be, right?