LOVE SHOW

by Audrey Bell
Copyright © 2014 by Audrey Bell. All rights reserved.

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“You have to pick the places you don't walk away from.”
-Joan Didion
Table of Contents

Table of Contents
LOVE SHOW
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Epilogue
Chapter One
The fall of my senior year of college, my roommate
decided I was a head case because of the espresso
machine to which we owed our friendship.
Actually, David probably decided I was a head
case the first day of freshman year, when we met. My
mother had just decided to get divorced for the fifth time
and I had just decided I’d had enough.
"I just don't understand where the rest of your room
is," my mother said for the eighth time.
"This is the whole room. All of it."
"But where will you put your espresso machine?"
"In the hallway. The espresso machine can go in
the hallway or it can go with you, but it is not going in
here."
"I think you should complain. I thought you were
supposed to be going to college. This looks like a prison
cell."
I’d stepped out of the tiny room with the espresso
machine to catch my breath. And that’s when I’d met
David.
He had taken the espresso machine and, because he
had no one to move him in, he'd also taken my mother.
Anyways, he'd been fine with my being a head
case and in love with the espresso machine until the last
week of November my senior year, when he decided he
was definitely not okay with either.
 I had just gotten back to Northwestern from my
third-round interview at The New York Times and had to
put the finishing touches on a junior staffer's piece on
online privacy before memorizing idiomatic expressions
for my advanced Arabic test in the morning.
So, I needed a few cappuccinos.
It was the fourth cappuccino that did it. David
stormed out of the room.
"What. The. Hell. Are. You. Doing."
I held up my Arabic textbook. "Test tomorrow."
"Are you kidding me?"
"Sorry, I know it's late."
"It's not late. It's early. It's five forty-five in the
morning," he said.
"Seriously?" I glanced at the clock. "Gosh, time
flies."
"Time does not fly, Hadley. It moves at a constant
pace." He looked at me seriously. "You look like a drug
addict. And not in a good way."
"Can you ever look like a drug addict in a good
way?"
"I'm sure it's been done before. But not by you."
"Well, I'm not on drugs."
"That's okay. I'm having an intervention anyways."
“A study intervention?”
He took my Arabic book away.
I smiled and held my hand out for the book.
"David, I need to study."
"You need to study like the Mojave Desert needs a
dry spell. You have a 4.0 GPA. You are the last person in
the world who needs to study. Here are some people who
need to study. Me. Tara Barnes. Kim Kardashian. Miley
Cyrus. You do not need to study. You need to take a nap, a
Xanax, and a two-year vacation."
"Oh, please.”
"You're addicted to work."
"I am not addicted to anything." I tried to snatch
the book back from him.
"You are. Work and caffeine and possibly sugar,"
he said mildly, leafing through the pages. "I mean, look at
this. You learned how to speak a language in college. You
want to know what I learned?"
"Theater?"
He arched an eyebrow. "How to roll a joint." He
closed the book. "Anyways, this is unhealthy. It's unhealthy
for you and it's even more unhealthy for me."
"How is it unhealthy for you?"
"Because, people think I live with a drug addict.
And your work ethic makes me feel small and pathetic and
lazy and we can't have that. I need to feel superior or,
when that's not possible, at the very least, equal to you."
I smiled. "I need the book back."
"You need to get laid," David said.
"Let's talk about this later."
 "Like when?" David asked.
"Today."
"When today? Before or after the newspaper staff
meeting?"
"Christ, I forgot about that. Dinner. We can cook
dinner."
“Isn't the newspaper cohosting the Ambassador to
Turkey at the multicultural center for dinner tonight?”
I looked at him. “I need the book back, David.”
He sat down on the couch. "How was the
interview?"
"Seriously?"
"You want the book back?"
I exhaled. “It was fine.” I rubbed my chin. “I liked
the journalist who interviewed me. She seemed cool—
intense but cool.” I shrugged. "They said they weren't sure
about my experience level. It would be in Africa, not the
Middle East, and Arabic's not as useful. But, the interview
seemed fine. I liked her a lot.” I shrugged.
"That's good!"
“Yeah. It's good.” I agreed. “I really want the job.”
He looked at me expectantly.
“So, is that all?" I asked, reaching out my hand for
the book.
“Of course not. I want to discuss your mental
health and your sex life. That was supposed to be an
icebreaker.”
 “Look, I get it. I'm stressed out right now and it's
freaking you out and I woke you up—”
“It's not freaking me out. I'm worried about you,”
he said sincerely.
“There’s nothing to worry about. Promise.”
He smiled. “It's not an insult, Hadley.”
“It is, though. Kind of,” I said. “Like, you're
worried I can't do what I signed up for.”
"Well, that's not what I meant. I'm not worried that
you can't do it. I'm worried that you're going to do
everything you signed up for so well that you won't ever
enjoy anything.” He smiled. “I'm saying you’re awesome
and you need to take a nap and get laid or, at the very
least, make out with a stranger.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
He rolled his eyes. "It has to do with the college
experience."
“Fine. You're right.”
"See, the thing—” He stopped himself short.
“Wait, what? I'm right?”
“Yes. Now, can I have the book?”
"So, you'll make out with a stranger?"
“No. You're right. I'm a head case. I'll take a nap.”
He growled.
“Book.”
He handed it back to me. “We're not done here. I'm
just going to bed. Not to sleep, obviously. You would look
down on that. I'm going to practice transcendental
meditation and possibly achieve nirvana. I'll let you know
if I get there.”
He flounced back to his room and I returned to the
text, my eyes blurring.
Chapter Two
David had probably been right to worry about my
mounting sleep debt. After my Arabic exam, I went to the
wrong library to meet with one of the freshman staff
writers for The Daily Northwestern who had doubts about
a piece he'd been working on.
Justin Shelter hunched over his laptop at a corner
table in the engineering library. Which was crowded. And
quiet. On a Friday! David would've had strong words for
this.
"Sorry,” I said breathlessly. “I forgot we were
doing this here. I forgot you were an engineering student
altogether. That's the kind of day I've had.”
“No sweat,” Justin said with a grin. “Thanks for
coming.”
Most of the kids who worked for the paper were in
the Medill School of Journalism, but there were a few
outsiders. Justin was one of them. He was also one of our
more talented writers. He had a knack for investigative
journalism and had spent the last month working on a
piece on alcohol and student health.
I read over his most recent draft while he watched,
occasionally chewing a stray fingernail.
A student had died over the summer from alcohol
poisoning, and it had prompted a lot of concerned emails
from the administration, but no real changes. The death
hadn’t occurred on campus, but Justin thought it might be a
symptom of a larger issue.
He was right—a dozen different students, most of
them freshmen, had been hospitalized since the beginning
of the year for alcohol poisoning and eleven of them had
come from the same address, an off-campus fraternity
house.
“Wow,” I said when I got to that point. “That
changes things.”
He nodded. “I know.”
“Have you contacted anyone at the fraternity?”
“Yeah, I emailed the president twice. He hasn't
written back, and I don't think he will.” He frowned. "I
asked a few other kids. They didn't exactly give me
anything printable. Unless, ‘don't be a fag’ counts as a
legitimate comment.”
“Animals,” I said. “Well, if they don't want to
defend themselves, fine.”
“I don't want it be a takedown piece, you know?
It's about student health.”
“Yeah. But, you can't change facts,” I said. “The
fact that kids have gone to the hospital from their parties at
a disproportionate rate isn't a takedown. It’s just what’s
true.”
He squinted at his computer screen. “Yeah, I
know.”
“Make it clear that the house is at the center of the
incidents. Say they declined your repeated requests for
comment. Talk to a few other people. People who aren’t
in the fraternity but go to their parties. See if they can give
you a better idea of what happened, whether the fraternity
should bear some of the responsibility or not, whether this
is specific to this fraternity or specific to fraternities in
general,” I shrugged. “You want to be fair, but you can't
leave it out.”
“I know.” He smiled ruefully. “I just don’t want to
seem like a kid with an ax to grind.”
“You're not the story. The facts speak for
themselves, not to your opinions,” I said. He'd have heard
that if he'd taken a journalism class. “It's a good story,
you've worked hard on it.”
He nodded. “Yeah. Yeah. Right. I know.” He let
out a heaving sigh. “Just…it would be easier if it were
easier.”
I laughed. “Yes. It would. But, listen, I think you
are great. I think the article will be great,” I said. “Don't
let it stress you out. It's a good story; it's an important
story. You know all this.”
He nodded. “Thanks. Sorry to be an alarmist. I just
wasn't sure what to do.” He grinned. “Literally no one
ever read my high school newspaper, so I didn't have to
worry about it.”
“Well, people will read this.”
“That's the problem!” He smiled and then sighed.
“Alright, well, I'll get a draft to you sometime next week.
Exams are killing me.”
“Take your time.”
He laughed. “Right. How many writers do you say
that to?”
“None. Zero. Only you. But you're the only person
who investigates anything, so you're special.” I got to my
feet. “You coming to this multiculturalism thing?”
He shook his head. “I’ve got to study this stuff,
unfortunately.”
“Well, I have to practice my speech. But email me
if anything else comes up, okay?”
“Yeah, of course.”

David and Nigel, his friend from the GSA, were making
risotto when I got back to the apartment to change into
something less ratty than my torn jeans and ragged t-shirt.
“I thought you were coming to the dinner,” I told
David.
David raised his eyebrows. “I’m coming to the
dinner for you, but you really can't expect me to eat
cafeteria food on a Friday night.”
I looked at Nigel. “How'd you get roped into this?”
“I wanted to come,” Nigel insisted.
“Liar. I don't even want to go.”
Nigel laughed. “So, David said you were just
meeting Justin Shelter?”
I nodded. “Yeah, you know
him?”
“I do. I'm trying to set David up with him.”
“You're joking,” I said.
“What's wrong with him?” David asked. “I knew
something was wrong with him.”
“I just didn't know he was gay.”
“Does he know he's gay?” David asked.
“Yes,” Nigel said.
“I'll take it under consideration.”
Nigel shrugged. David had a bad habit of falling in
love with straight boys. Nigel had a bad habit of trying to
fix it.
“You know who needs relationship advice?”
David asked.
"Amanda Bynes," I said.
“Close.”
“Miley Cyrus. Kim Kardashian,” I said. “Tiger
Woods.”
“Hadley Arrington. Front of the line.”
Nigel laughed. “Ooh. Really? I want to help.”
"I need to get dressed,” I said, sighing.
"She needs to get laid," David told Nigel.
I went to my room and pulled on a black dress that
I'd worn to a winter formal my junior year of high school.
It had held up well, like the saleswoman at Bergdorf's had
promised.
My mother and I had been on one of those horrific
college tours that everyone goes on with their parents,
where the only thing you end up doing is fighting.
She'd signed divorce papers that November and
Tom, Julian, and Leah—my stepfather, stepbrother, and
stepsister—had disappeared as quickly as they'd arrived.
The house had disappeared too, another casualty of the
divorce.
We'd moved to a penthouse apartment on Market
Street, and, after three months of refusing to unpack, I'd
finally put away my books and my clothes. I'd been dusting
off the box of picture frames to put up around my room
when my mother told me that Lawrence had proposed.
We’d left on the college tour the next morning. I
would end up remembering each school by what we fought
about there.
NYU had been our last stop. The dress had been an
attempt at a bribe.
“You have to understand, Hadley,” my mother
said, after she'd bought the dress and a pair of shoes that I
would never learn to walk in. “You'll be gone soon, and I
don't want to be alone.”
I had already known that, but I had never heard her
say it aloud and it made one thing very clear to me: being
afraid to be alone made you dependent on someone else.
Someone you hadn’t met yet. A stranger. And a stranger
was an incredibly stupid and unreliable thing to depend
on.
 I promised myself I would never do that. And I
never did.
When I stepped back out of my room, David
handed me a plate of butternut squash risotto. “Nigel said
he needs to know what's your type.”
I looked at Nigel. “Of what?”
“Of man,” David said.
I took a bite of the risotto and closed my eyes. “I
could live on this stuff.”
“I think her type needs to be very, very, very
calm,” David said.
“I don't have a type,” I admitted. I set down my
fork.
“Last boyfriend?” Nigel asked.
I rolled my eyes. My last boyfriend had been Luke.
In high school. Nice kid. I had liked him. Lost my virginity
to him. The whole nine yards. I broke up with him when he
said he loved me. It reminded me too much of my mother.
He told everyone I was a huge bitch. I didn’t
blame him for that. But, he also told everyone I was a slut.
That was, first of all, a lie, and second of all, a douche
bag move.
He’d been the popular one, though. People
believed him. Everyone believed him. And when everyone
believes something about you, it might as well be true.
“Some lacrosse player,” I said dismissively, not
wanting to get into it. "High school.”
 “Seriously?” Nigel asked. “Your type is lacrosse
player?”
I shook my head. “No. I don't have a type. My last
boyfriend was a lacrosse player. That’s all.”
“Well, good. We don't have a lacrosse team,”
David said.
"On second thought, maybe it is lacrosse player," I
said.
“Her type is not lacrosse player. Don't try to find
one,” David said. “She'll hurt it.”
“How would I hurt a lacrosse player?”
“You’d kill him with your Arabic textbook,”
David said.
“Well, when's the last time you went on a date?”
Nigel asked.
I cocked my head, trying to think. “I don't know.
Nobody's asked me out since high school.”
“Well, to be fair, that would be hard to do,” David
said. “The only things that might have gotten to know you
well enough to ask you out are your textbooks and the
newspaper, and, as you may have heard, they generally
don't ask questions.”
“Ray Chang,” I said, ignoring David. “He was the
valedictorian of my high school and my ex-stepbrother
was on the fencing team with him.”
“We have a fencing team. And valedictorians,”
Nigel pointed out.
 “We didn't exactly hit it off,” I admitted. “And it
was a prom date, not a real date. We both needed someone
to go with.”
“Okay, who’s your celebrity crush?”
“Edward Murrow.”
“Is he in Twilight?” Nigel asked.
“No, he's been dead for decades,” I said.
They both looked at me blankly.
“He ended Joe McCarthy's career?” I reminded
them. “He did the report on the Army-McCarthy
hearings?”
Nothing.
“George Clooney made a movie about him? Good
Night and Good Luck. Come on, really?” I said, looking
from Nigel to David.
“Huh, missed that one,” Nigel said.
David exhaled. “So you're saying you're a
necrophiliac? Is that it?”
“I'm saying I'm not interested in being set up with
anyone,” I said. “I don't want a boyfriend.”
“I'm not trying to find you a boyfriend. I'm trying to
get you laid so you relax. And then I can relax.”
“Who is the last person you hooked up with?”
Nigel asked.
I shrugged. The last person I'd hooked up with had
been Andrew—a boy I still worked with on the
newspaper—and it had been the night I found out I would
be Editor-in-Chief.
It had been the kind of night that only ever happens
right after finals. The kind of night when you can’t tell
exactly what it is that has gotten you so drunk: exhaustion
or alcohol or relief.
“Andrew,” I said. “But that barely counts.”
“Andrew is not her type,” David said. “Which is
unfortunate, because he would be very convenient and he’s
in love with her.”
“He’s not in love with me.”
Nigel cocked his head. “So, basically, you don't
know what you want."
“She has no idea,” David said.
“She needs to go to tailgate,” Nigel said.
“Okay, I have things to do.” I picked up my plate
of risotto, waved the printout of my speech in front of
them, and walked to the sanctuary of my room.
"You're coming to tailgate," David called after me.

The speech went off without a hitch.

I walked back to campus with David, sipping
vodka and lemonade from a Gatorade bottle. Nigel had
abandoned us to meet a student at the University of
Chicago he had just started dating.
“I'm tired,” I admitted, wincing as I swallowed a
large gulp of David's concoction.
My phone vibrated in my coat pocket and I stared
at the unrecognizable number.
“I bet that's the Times.”
“Doubtful,” I said. “On a Friday night?”
“Answer it!” he said urgently.
"Hello, this is Hadley.”
“Hadley, it's Suzanne Reiss from the New York
Times.”
“How are you?” I asked, nodding at David to let
him know he’d guessed correctly. He fist-pumped
exuberantly. I rolled my eyes.
“Listen, I just wanted to give you a call and tell
you how impressed we were with your candidacy.” She
took a breath. “Unfortunately, we've decided to go in a
different direction with someone with more experience.”
I swallowed. What are you supposed to say to
that? Thank you for being impressed?
“But, I really want to emphasize that we all thought
you did a great job and that you were a strong candidate
for this position. And we will certainly keep your résumé
on file for future openings.”
I swallowed. “Ah, okay. Yeah. Thanks. That'd be
good.”
“I'm sorry this isn’t better news,” she continued.
She sounded sympathetic. “We wish you every success,
not that you'll need our wishes to achieve it.”
I blinked. "Oh, um. Okay. Well, thanks for letting
me know.”
 “Of course, Hadley. I really do wish it were better
news. Have a good evening.”
“Thanks,” I said again. “You, too.” I pushed the
phone back into my bag, trying to pretend that didn't just
happen. That I hadn't just been told “no” by The New York
Times.
I should have seen it coming.
I blinked twice, surprised at the hot rush of anger
and hurt I felt. It was childish, really, to cry over not
getting a prestigious job that I was lucky to even be
interviewing for, but here I was, disappointed, out of
sorts, strangling the flash of emotion in my chest.
I looked up at the starless night. I multiplied
numbers in my head until the tears dissipated and then I
took a long swig from the Gatorade bottle and flashed
David a falsely bright smile.
David slipped his hands into his pockets and
watched me warily. “What did they say?” he asked after a
second.
“I didn't get the job.”
“What?” he looked shocked. I took another sip
from the Gatorade bottle, thinking of the hundreds of nights
I stayed up too late and woke up too early and said no to
too many friends.
I had believed, foolishly, that because I gave up on
fun, I was entitled to a job at the Times. I didn’t like that I
had allowed myself to think that way.
 He reached for me. “I'm sorry.”
“No, it's fine. Really,” I said. I stepped away, not
particularly wanting to be comforted.
It doesn't matter, I told myself. There are other
newspapers.
I swallowed thickly.
"Hadley, slow down. Come on," David said. He
jogged to keep up with me.
There are so many other newspapers. So many
other places to apply. She said they would keep you in
mind, anyways. And it's fine. It doesn't matter. No big
deal.
It's funny how quickly you begin to talk yourself
out of your own dreams. I took another long sip of the
lemonade and vodka.
David caught up to me. He grabbed my wrist.
“Hey, talk to me.”
“It's fine.”
"It's not." He shook his head. "It's their loss, but it
still sucks."
"Right." I bit my lip, wondering if I'd picked the
wrong pieces to showcase or if I had seemed too shy for
the Eastern Africa bureau or something. “I'm sure they'll
really suffer without me. It's a miracle they've kept afloat
since 1851 without my services.”
He wrapped an arm around my shoulders and I let
him hug me briefly. He didn't say much else. There wasn't
much else to say.
When we got home, I took a shower. I washed the
shampoo out of my hair and slapped my hand against the
shower wall twice. "Fuck," I muttered. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."
When I got out of the shower, I looked at myself in
the mirror. My eyes showed most of the week's damage;
red-rimmed and dark-circled, the left one was slightly
larger than the right. That happened whenever I went too
long without a normal amount of sleep. I toweled my hair
into some kind of nasty Mohawk and got another good
look at myself in the mirror.
"You look like a troll doll," I told my reflection.
"A fucking demented troll doll."
I cleared my throat.
"And you're talking to yourself. So, you've lost
your mind." I exhaled and huffed. "Clearly. No wonder
they didn’t hire you. You’re fucking crazy.” I closed my
eyes, unwilling to look at myself for another second.
"You've Got Mail is on!" David shouted.
I toweled off my hair and put on a bathrobe.
"Say something so I know you didn't drown
yourself!"
"Be right out!" I called back.
I shuffled out of the bathroom and over to David. I
sat down next to him on the couch just as Meg Ryan was
being stood up by Tom Hanks at the café.
"You've Got Mail could only be the name of a
romantic comedy in the 90s," I said. "The only thing I like
about my inbox is the delete button."
David took a handful of popcorn. "You. Need. To.
Get. Laid."
"I need to get a job." I said. "And a haircut. And
new eyes. Have you seen this? My eyes are different
sizes."
He looked at my eyes. "It's ‘cause you're tired. So,
close them. And stop talking. And go to sleep."
I yawned, thinking of something else to say about
the inanity of romantic comedies, but as soon as my eyes
were shut, I dropped off into slumber.
Chapter Three
David had been counting on doing a lot more wheedling to
get me to go to tailgate.
When I walked out of my room at 11 AM, he was
already drinking with Nigel. He lifted a plastic cup in my
direction and grinned wickedly. Nigel was squinting at a
beer, jabbering on his cell phone to someone he was
calling 'Snookums.'
"So, I've been thinking that it's a requirement for
you to attend tailgate,” David said.
"Sure.”
"Seriously?"
I shrugged. "Why not? I don't have anything better
to do."
He opened his mouth and then closed it.
"Wonderful. Put on something waterproof. They're calling
for a monsoon."
“Perfect,” I said dryly.
Nobody should drink alcohol at eleven in the
morning. It's a recipe for disaster. Nigel was slurring his
words by noon and David was trying to cut my hair and I
was singing Ke$ha at the top of my lungs.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I demanded when
he came at me with scissors.
“You need a haircut.”
“No.”
“Trust me.”
 “No.”
He pouted. “But, Hadley, I’m dying to cut
somebody’s hair.”
“Cut your own damn hair.”
David checked his reflection in the mirror and
tossed his head from side to side so his golden locks
bounced. He pouted. “That would be criminal,” he said.
“Your hair, however, is problematic. And Nigel has a
limited quantity of hair."
I looked at Nigel's buzz cut.
"Go away," I said to David as he snipped in the
air. "That is dangerous."
"Please, Hadley, please, Hadley, please, please
—”
I looked in the mirror. “There is nothing wrong
with my hair.”
“You have so many split ends, it’s giving me a
panic attack.”
“Oh my God,” I said.
He smiled maniacally. “Yes.”
“No.”
“Suit yourself,” he huffed, dropping the scissors on
the counter. He sipped his lethally strong vodka lemonade
from a hot pink Hello Kitty cup he had bought on one of
our epic trips to Target.
“You’re making out with a stranger today," David
announced. He filled my glass with another generous
portion of lethal lemonade.
"I can't drink this."
"You can. And you will. And then you will find a
stranger, make out with him, and have the college
experience."
"That's it?"
"No, that’s the beginning," David said. "Baby
steps. Nigel!"
Nigel opened his eyes. “What?”
"Are you falling asleep?"
"No," Nigel said.
I slurped my drink through a straw. David turned
the music up louder. By the time, I’d had my third vodka
lemonade, I probably would have let David cut my hair
and then perform open heart surgery if he wanted to.
"We need to go," Nigel said to David.
"Hadley, we're leaving," David said to me.
“I love you so much. I think maybe we should get
married,” I said to David.
“I did not go through hell in high school so that I
could marry someone with a vagina.” He gave me a
withering look.
“We would be a great couple though. And we
wouldn’t ever have to have sex.”
“Don’t be disgusting.”
“I love you.”
He dragged me by the wrist toward the
refrigerator. “You need to drink more. You have the
alcohol tolerance of a four year old.”
“Well, maybe we could have sex once if we
wanted to have kids.”
“Please stop talking.” He handed me a Red Bull
and I made a face. “Don’t even start. You are drinking
that. I am not going to carry you home. I’m just not. If you
pass out in the parking lot, then you can stay there. In the
Monsoon. Where you will drown.”
“That’s mean.”
“That’s why I’m giving you a Red Bull,” he said.
“You would totally carry me home.” He made a
face. He would totally carry me home. He just wouldn’t be
happy about it. So, I drank the Red Bull.
We stumbled down the tree-lined block to the
parking lot where the student tailgate was held. I wore
jeans and boots with a heel, and a tight purple tank top to
show a modicum of school spirit.
“I should have worn a coat.”
“You’re too drunk to be cold.”
“You don’t know everything.”
“I know most things,” David replied wearily.
“What is the point of even going to this thing? They
aren’t going to beat Nebraska,” I said.
“Nobody cares about the game. It’s for the social
scene,” he said. And, that was true. Most of the students
would stumble back to their dorms and apartments long
before halftime.
“Hadley!” Andrew Brenner shouted as soon as we
walked into the parking lot, which was jam-packed with
people I knew and people I’d never seen. Everyone
looked drunk.
I hugged Andrew warmly. Mostly because, in spite
of David’s insistence that I wouldn’t feel cold, I was
freezing.
“It’s supposed to rain,” Andrew warned me, with
an eye to the sky. “There’s a low pressure system moving
northeast out of Kansas.”
“Oh, okay,” I looked up at the foreboding clouds
and nodded. “Low pressure.”
Andrew really liked the weather, which was
endearing, but…you know, tedious. He knew all sorts of
facts about dew points and densities and southerly
breezes.
So long as you didn’t let him get started on
meteorology, he was the sweetest kid in the world. But
he’d started in on the weather. And no matter how sweet
he was, I couldn’t take much of it.
Usually, David would have taken this opportunity
to interrupt and drag me somewhere more interesting, but
he gave me a thumbs up and an encouraging smile.
“I’m just going to say hi to someone,” he said.
"David," I hissed at his rapidly retreating back.
"Hey, did you hear back from the Times yet?"
Andrew asked.
I cocked my head at him. "Nope. No, I didn't. Not a
word. I did hear that there was a hurricane off the coast of
West Africa, though. Sounds wild.”
Andrew looked at me incredulously. "No way."
"I'm pretty sure," I lied.
"Where?" He pulled out his iPhone. "Do you know
if the system has a name? That would be virtually
unprecedented. It's almost December! And it’s the
Southern hemisphere…”
"I've got to run," I said. I lunged after David, but
quickly found myself jumbled in a vaguely familiar sea of
purple. The music was thumping. The pavement vibrated.
I’d felt houses vibrate from aggressively loud speakers,
but I’d never felt the actual ground move.
And I thought I was drunk, but I definitely wasn’t. I
mean, not compared to the people here. I wasn’t throwing
up in a garbage can like the skinny girl in jean shorts a few
yards to my right. And I hadn’t yet taken off my shirt, like
the screaming, incoherent boy to my left.
“This is trippy,” I muttered to myself.
Appropriately, I took that moment to trip. Not badly. I
caught myself. Still, I tripped.
Someone wrapped a warm hand around my arm
and helped me up.
I brushed my hands off on my jeans, cringing.
“You okay?”
 I looked up into a pair of thick-lashed brown eyes.
They were soft. Bedroom eyes. Deep and big. Something
you wanted to fall into.
Okay, so I was definitely drunk.
He was handsome, too, in a blue plaid shirt, with a
playful smile—halfway between teasing and happy to see
you—and tall, at least six two. We were standing close
enough that I had to lift my chin to look into his eyes.
He waved a hand in front of my eyes. "Hey.” He
laughed gently. “Are you okay? Did you hit your head?"
“Oh. Sorry. No,” I said awkwardly. “I’m-I’m
good…I’m fine.” I smiled. “I’m great. Just clumsy.”
Someone shouted in our direction and the
handsome stranger turned his head. “One second, okay?”
He took a few steps towards a pickup truck parked at the
edge of the lot.
“There you are,” David said, grabbing my wrist
and yanking me forward. “Where the hell did you go?” he
asked.
“Where did I go?”
“You were supposed to make out with Andrew.”
“What?” I turned my head. I was just drunk enough
to want to make out with the handsome guy in plaid. I tried
to locate the back of his head in the crowd, but David kept
pulling my wrist.
“I am not making out with Andrew.”
“Andrew likes you.”
 “Says who?”
“Everybody who has eyes.”
“That’s ridiculous. And I've made out with
Andrew. It was not memorable."
"Right, you were drunk."
"Not that drunk."
“Mm…” he took a deep breath. “You need to make
out with someone. Break the totally depressing vow of
celibacy you’ve taken—”
“I haven’t taken a vow.”
“Nobody goes through three years of college
without so much as drunkenly hooking up with a stranger
without taking vows. Or being, you know, Mormon, or
something,” he indicated vaguely with one hand. He
looked at me suspiciously. "And I know you're not a
Mormon. One, you’re drunk and two, you’re a caffeine
fiend."
I took in a deep breath of the cold air and ran my
hand through my hair. Something about being cold and
drunk and wobbly from having tripped made me want to
do something moderately crazy. “Well, there was
someone over there,” I said vaguely.
“Excuse me?”
“There was someone…you know, cute. Over
there.” I indicated over to where the stranger in plaid had
been.
“You think someone’s cute?” he repeated slowly.
"I've literally never heard you say that before. Where?"
“Over there," I gestured. "But, I don't think—”
“Where? Who? Why didn’t you say something
sooner?”
“Okay, you’ve got to stop yanking my arm,” I said,
as he pulled me back towards where I had been when I
fell. “I mean, I think you’re going to dislocate my
shoulder.”
The rain started with a few fat and icy drops and
quickly picked up. Some people screamed dramatically
and began to flee. Others cheered and turned up the music.
“FUCK!” David shouted, throwing his head back.
“Where is he?”
“In a plaid shirt.”
“Of course, you would want to make out with
someone in the middle of a stampede,” he shouted at me.
“I don’t want to make out with anybody!"
He rolled his eyes as someone’s shoulder banged
roughly into mine and he pulled me closer to him. The rain
turned from soft drops to a steady stream. I shuddered as it
ran down my hair and my back. The wind whistled across
the parking lot and empty plastic cups skittered across the
ground around my feet.
“There!” I said. “He’s right there.”
And he was right there, with a handful of boys who
seemed totally undisturbed by the rain. He was leaning
against a red pickup truck with that easy smile on his face.
He glanced up at the rain, like he was happy to see it.
David pulled me closer. “Him?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. Go talk to him.”
“What? No.”
“Yes.” He gave me a little push.
“Wait, what am I going to say to him?” I asked
David.
“Just talk. You’re smart.”
“No, no, no, no,” I said, digging in my heels,
literally. “This is a bad idea. This is like…”
Then, he saw us. He stood up and smiled at me.
And David disappeared.
“Hey!”
I looked behind me to see whom the Plaid Stranger
was talking to. Nobody.
Or rather to me.
And I was David-less and I had nothing to say. My
throat closed up.
“I was wondering where you went,” he said.
I nodded. “Uh-huh?”
Jesus, Hadley. All you can come up with is
syllables?
Tree branches swayed and rustled overhead. Dead
leaves whipped around in circles in the parking lot. He
reached me in three easy steps. I looked at his hands. That
was easier than looking at him. They were stained with
blue and red ink and I thought maybe I could ask him about
that, but that also seemed really weird.
Where the hell had David gone? I turned my head
once more behind me. He was nowhere. I looked at the
handsome doe-eyed stranger and smiled, uncomfortably.
"Do you want a beer?"
"It's raining," I pointed out.
He smiled. "We’ve got the waterproof kind of
can.”
I nodded. "Okay. Yeah, sure."
He stepped back towards the pickup and tossed me
a beer, which I caught, barely.
“Sorry,” he smiled.
“No worries, I got it.”
“We’re going to wait it out,” he said, nodding up at
the sky.
"Yeah," I said. I looked up at the sky, too. That
was even easier than looking at his hands was. Flirt, I
reminded myself. You think he’s cute. So flirt.
"It seems like a lot of shit like this has been
happening all week,” he mused.
"Rain? Or people raining on your parade?"
"My tailgate," he amended, grinning. The rain
picked up.
“Yeah.” I needed a drink. Or a funny story to tell. I
tried to open my beer, and found that my hands were
scraped and shaky. He took it, wordlessly, cracked it open
and handed it back to me.
"Thanks." I said. "I know what you mean. About
the rain."
"Yeah? Who’s ruined your week?"
I smiled. I looked up at him. His eyes were just as
soft now. And I hadn't hit my head. That was a real thing
that his eyes were actually soft. "I don't know. Nobody.
Myself. The Cairo bureau. In Egypt. Sorry, you're not
stupid. I'm sure you know Cairo is in Egypt. Anyways, this
woman named Suzanne works there and she...well, it's
kind of her fault. Actually, I don't think it’s her fault. It’s
totally my fault. She was really nice about it. But, yeah,
rain." I looked at him again, unable to shut up, maybe
because he didn't appear to be totally horrified. He just
looked like he was listening. Although, I was horrified.
"Sorry, I'm drunk. I mean, all that's true, but I'm also drunk,
and my life is kind of a mess. Or, it feels like a mess. I
guess it's not actually a mess. I just thought I knew exactly
what to do to get exactly what I wanted, and I never really
considered that maybe it wouldn't work out. And then,
like, the second it didn't work out, I just immediately
talked myself out of believing I ever even wanted it. And I
feel like I was so sure of everything that it would be
embarrassing to admit that things didn’t work out like I
planned. You know? I was always the sensible one. And if
it turns out I wasn’t sensible—and that I just deluded
myself into thinking I was—I would feel like such a
fraud.”
I caught my breath. “I mean, I kind of am a fraud,
I’ve realized. So, I'm pretending that it's all good. And so
far nobody's noticed. But I’m a mess. You can probably
tell. I'm a drunk mess. You're way too polite, by the way.
You should make a face or something before I say anything
really embarrassing."
"I don't think you've said anything embarrassing,"
he said quietly.
"Right. Well, that's because you have no idea what
I'm talking about. It makes no sense."
He grinned and cocked his head. "It makes some
sense."
"Doesn't make any sense." I shook my head and
took a sip of the beer.
"No. It does.” He stepped closer. "I mean, I don't
know about Egypt or Suzanne, but I get that feeling. Not
knowing why you're doing what you're doing? And feeling
like a fraud? I get that way sometimes, too."
He was so goddamn handsome. And there was
something gentle about him and I was cold and drunk and
it was raining and I hadn’t gotten the job and for once I felt
really like I didn’t have anything to lose.
He met my eyes and smiled, sheepishly. “I mean
—”
I stepped forward and kissed him.
Suddenly and impulsively.
 Because I wanted to. Because I had nothing to
lose. Because I believed, for once, there wasn’t anything
to lose here.
I saw his eyes dilate before I shut mine tightly. He
lifted me off the ground and I wrapped my legs around his
waist and he kissed me back.
I knew I had been kissed before. Except for
suddenly I was sure I had never been kissed at all. Not
really. Not like this. It had never been like this.
I heard someone make a hooting noise, but mainly I
just heard the rain falling and the people running around us
and the soft sound of his breathing.
Mainly I just felt the way he kissed me and the
firmness of his jaw and how he so obviously knew exactly
what he was doing.
After a moment, he lowered his mouth to my neck
and I threw my head back, letting his warm, soft lips press
against the sensitive place underneath my chin while the
cold water ran down our faces. I shivered. From him or
the water I couldn’t tell.
We both jumped slightly at a wild crack of
thunder. He set me onto my feet, laughing. I opened my
eyes and looked at him. He stood with his hands open and
at his sides, a wide smile on his face as he watched a bolt
of lightning split the streaming, gray sky.
I looked up, too, at the lightening crackling across
the sky like a scar.
 He put a hand on my hip. “Hey. You’re something,
you know that?” He breathed.
“Police,” someone shouted. We both turned to see
students running and flashing red and blue lights. The
sirens of the campus police blared loudly.
I came to my senses. I was in the middle of a
parking lot in a thunderstorm, practically in a monsoon, in
the arms of a strange man. This was so irresponsible. I
stepped back from him and started to run.
“Hey, wait up!”
I didn’t turn back, though. The last thing I needed
was to get cited by campus police for public intoxication.
The rain came in torrents, and the students, who
were drunk and disorderly to begin with, moved riotously
towards the lot’s gate.
“DUE TO INCLEMENT WEATHER THE
TAILGATE IS CANCELLED. ALL STUDENTS MUST
DISPERSE. DUE TO INCLEMENT WEATHER THE
TAILGATE IS CANCELLED. ALL STUDENTS MUST
DISPERSE.”
"Hold up!"
I jumped as someone grabbed my arm.
“What the hell, Hadley?”
David, it was just David.
“Are you insane? Or have you been reading a lot
of Nicholas Sparks novels?”
“I don’t know,” I shouted at him. “Let’s go.”
 We ran through the rain, so fast that David couldn’t
ask me any questions, so fast that I couldn’t think about
anything but running. When we reached the off-campus
bridge, which offered some refuge from the rain, he gave
me a toothy, evil grin.
“That was pretty hot,” he said. The rain was
louder underneath the bridge.
"I cannot believe I did that,” I said breathlessly.
“Neither can I,” he said.
“Who was that?” I asked.
“He was delicious. Nicely done.”
"Do you know his name?"
“No clue. Was he a good kisser?”
“Yes,” I said. I closed my eyes. “I think I’m having
a heart attack. Actually.”
“Wow. That is good.”
“From sprinting. Not from him,” I said. I leaned
against the bridge’s rough brick wall, trying to calm my
heart rate and my breathing.
“Well, my plan worked.”
“We are stuck under a bridge in a rainstorm and
I’m not wearing a coat and I’m wet, and guess what? I’m
not so drunk that I can’t feel the cold. I’m cold. If this was
your plan, then you’re going to need to rethink your
definition of success. And where is Nigel?"
"With Snookums.”
I exhaled.
 “That was extremely sexy.”
"Shut up."
"Epic, almost."
“I’ll hurt you.”
“Like, The Notebook.”
“Or maybe I’ll just murder you. I’m going to
murder you. Yep. The Notebook with a side of murder.”
He laughed happily. “You looked like you were
enjoying it."
I rolled my eyes. "Well, I'm drunk."
"Do you regret it?"
No. I didn't. But I didn't quite want to admit that,
either. "Ask me when I'm sober."
I told myself I was just out of practice. I only
thought it had been amazing because it had been so long.
Still, I knew I didn’t want to take it back. I
wouldn’t take it back for anything. I touched my hands to
my lips. I wished I’d told him my name.
Chapter Four
The stranger and the kiss stayed with me for an
embarrassingly long period of time. Like, all through my
hangover the next day and right through to the next
weekend—the weekend before my very last exams, when I
felt like I was too busy to breathe.
Somehow, it kept coming back. I thought about his
soft lips. His hands on my legs. I thought about it almost as
much as I thought about the New York Times.
I hadn't told anyone else that I didn’t get the job. I
wanted to pretend it hadn’t happened.
Justin Shelter handed in his piece on alcohol
poisoning on Sunday which meant it would run in the last
edition of the paper. That worked to his advantage. He
would be off-campus for the initial backlash.
Nobody from the fraternity had offered a comment,
but Justin had followed my advice to interview other
people and pulled a few telling quotes. The piece was
excellent. For some members of the fraternity, it would
probably be explosive.
Justin had talked to one of the students who'd been
hospitalized, and she said that the hospital had told her
that her drink had been laced with ruphonyl, the date-rape
drug. He had even managed to get a student health
administrator on the record, admitting that the university
was only aware of the students who had been hospitalized,
not where they had come from.
 I ran through the article one last time, checking for
split infinitives and stray commas. When I was confident it
was flawless, I closed out of the editing window. I
scrolled through the pages once more, saved all changes,
uploaded the edition to our website, and sent the final
design files over to our printer. I pushed back from the
computer and sighed.
Done. Last issue of the semester.
I should have printed out my Arabic paper and
read it one final time, but instead I opened a new tab in my
browser and logged onto Facebook.
I'd done this a few times this week: logged on and
started clicking through random profiles, looking for him.
It was pathetic. And stalkerish. And I kept doing it.
I told myself that if I had his name the mystery
would be solved and I'd stop thinking about it. I told
myself that I'd always been an information addict and
knowing nothing about the stranger I’d kissed forced me to
do some research. But, I knew I was deceiving myself. I
liked kissing him and I wanted to know who he was.
Twenty fruitless minutes later, our printers
emailed me and confirmed receipt of the production files.
It snapped me out of my social media trance. I thanked
them, shut down my computer, and printed my Arabic
paper.
I felt sorry for myself as I walked to my car in the
cold. I told myself to get a grip—I'd be going back to San
Francisco tomorrow with David for winter break.
Last I'd heard from my mother, she'd been dating
someone new named Sol. That had been in August, but I
hadn't been home since last December. I missed San
Francisco. And it would be nice to have nothing to do for
a few weeks.
And maybe there I could forget about the stranger
in the parking lot and The New York Times.
Chapter Five
Campus was quiet the morning Justin's article ran. I
snapped a photo of the issue and texted it to Justin: Looks
good!!
Haha, on a plane home. Save me a copy!
I cut through the library and dropped my Arabic
paper in the box outside of Professor Haskell's office.
David was packing when I got back to our
apartment.
"Do I need sunglasses?"
“Do you know anything about San Francisco?”
He looked at me blankly. “It’s like in Northern
California and you went to high school there.”
“It’s a permanent cloud. The sun is not a thing in
San Francisco.”
“It doesn’t say that on the Wikipedia page,” he
replied blandly. “I’m packing sunglasses.”
“Waste of space.”
“They're very small. And they will help me sleep
at night.” He yawned. “So, have you tracked down the
Nicholas Sparks boy?”
“That never happened. He doesn’t exist."
“Normally, people introduce themselves before
making out. I don’t think I fully explained the art of the
drunken make out to you.”
I rolled my eyes. "Don't bring sunglasses.”
“Well, what should I pack?”
 “Normal clothing,” I said. “My mom’s pretty
casual about Christmas.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Your mother is too
fabulous to be casual about anything."
"Except holidays," I smiled at him. I tried not to
complain about my parents to David. They were annoying,
but they had never tried to hurt me. David's had. They
threw him out of their home when he was a junior in high
school. He had told them he was gay, thinking that they
might find a new church—one that wasn't so homophobic.
It had backfired.
He'd lived with his sister and her husband after
that. They were kind, but David knew they partly resented
having to provide for him when they had young children of
their own.
David still made an effort—every now and again
when he thought they might come around. He'd tried last
year at Christmas and returned from break early, white-
faced and quieter than I'd ever seen him. He hadn't spoken
to them since.
"Are we going to your church or anything?" he
asked. "Do I need a suit?"
"No," I smiled. "Just bring your fine self, no
sunglasses, and stop talking about the stranger. Oh, and
don't tell my mom I didn't get the job at the Times."
"You didn't tell her?"
"No. And you aren’t going to either. She'll, like,
think I need to see a therapist," I said. I went into my room
and grabbed my suitcase. "Come on. We've got to get
going."
I checked my phone a few times on the way to the
airport while David read Justin's article.
"This is the kid you want me to date?"
"Nigel wants you to date. I'm not even sure he's
gay."
"He's in the GSA."
"So am I," I pointed out. "Gay-straight."
"There are no straight boys in the GSA," David
replied. "Girls, fine. Boys, no." He folded the paper.
"Good article, though. He sounds feisty."
I smiled. "I guess."
"He's not feisty?"
“He’s quiet at first,” I said. “But, yeah. He’s a
little feisty.”
"Well, you've got to look out for the quiet ones.”
He nodded. “Like you.”
When we reached the airport, I got the first and
only email complaining about Justin's article—from
Alexander Faulk, the president of the fraternity.
Hi Hadley:
I wanted to let you know that I saw Justin
Shelter’s article in the paper. I'd like to be able to speak
on the record, if possible. I'm the President of the
fraternity in question. Maybe we could do a follow-up
piece. Please let me know if we could organize
something.
Best,
Alexander Faulk
It was a reasonable request, even though I knew
Justin had given them the opportunity to get on the record a
half-dozen times. I tapped out a reply while we checked
our bags:
Alexander, thank you for reaching out. I've left
campus for winter break, and I will not be able to assign
a staff writer to a follow-up piece until January.
However, if you would like to write a letter to the editor,
we could post it online until we have a chance to run a
piece with your statement in it in January. Let me know
if you'd like to do that.
All best,
Hadley
I felt reassured by the reaction, though. Perhaps he
had told the rest of the brothers to let him handle it.

When we stepped out from baggage claim in San

Francisco, the damp cooling air whispered across my
neck. It felt gentle and clean. San Francisco’s air was soft
—humid, but almost never too hot or too cold. I felt the
tension in my neck and back dissolve underneath its
soothing touch.
I squinted through the haze of headlights, found a
cab, and gave the driver our address in Pacific Heights.
My mother had kept the house in her last divorce. I
had pretended not to care, but secretly I'd been happy. We
usually ended up in hotels or apartments when her
marriages ended.
My mother would always say: “Hadley, darling,
the memories in that place just haunt me.”
But, really, when you lose five childhood
bedrooms, memories start to sound like bullshit. I mean,
don’t memories live in your head?
We pulled up to the white-brick Georgian-style
house and I yawned as the cabdriver helped carry our bags
up the stairs.
"You good?" the driver asked.
"Yes. Thank you!" I smiled and paid him and
turned to the door.
“This is pretty,” David said.
I fumbled for my keys and frowned when they
didn’t work. "Well, that's weird.”
"You sure it’s the right key?"
"Yeah. Maybe she changed the locks." I shrugged
and rang the doorbell. "She never stops losing her keys.
Fair warning, I think she has a new boyfriend named Sol.”
"That's what I like about Veronica. She really gets
after it."
"Oh, please," I said, rolling my eyes.
I smiled broadly as the door swung open.
 A man in a maroon bathrobe, holding a newspaper,
gave me a long, searching look.
I raised my eyebrows. Solomon was not at all
what I was expecting. He was about half-a-foot too short
for my mother for a start, and too old. Way too old.
“Well, hi there,” I said.
“Can I help you?”
So, the boyfriend hadn't been expecting us.
Wonderful. Solid start. “Hi, I’m Hadley.” I held out my
hand and stepped through the doorway.
“What—excuse me? Are you selling something? I
did not invite you in.”
“I’m Veronica’s daughter,” I smiled winningly. I
looked around the foyer. The entire place had been
redecorated. A new maid stood by the stairs with her arms
crossed.
Solomon still looked totally confused. “I believe
you’re sleeping with my mother,” I said delicately. I
nodded at the maid. “Hi, you must be new, too. I’m
Hadley. So, where is she?”
The maid looked like she was going to faint. “Roy!
Who are you sleeping with? What is she talking about,
Roy?”
“What the hell are you talking about?” the man
asked me, turning red.
I flinched. Shit. I opened my mouth and closed it.
“I—um. Okay. Does Veronica Mapplethorpe live here?” I
squinted. I couldn’t remember if my mother had kept
Seth’s last name. “Or Veronica—”
“Veronica Mapplethorpe sold us this house,” Roy
said. His voice shook with indignation and rage. “And I
am most certainly not sleeping with her, young lady.”
I took a step backwards, grabbing my bags, and
herding David, who was grinning from ear to ear, out the
door.
“I am so, so, so, so sorry. I thought—you see—I
mean.” I spluttered. “Nobody told me—there was a—”
“We’re very sorry. This has been a huge
misunderstanding. You have a lovely evening,” David
said, gracefully pulling me out of harm’s way and closing
the door.
“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.”
David burst out laughing.
“Oh my god,” I said.
“So. That was hilarious. Please tell me your
mother actually lives in San Francisco and we aren’t
homeless.”
“I can’t believe she didn’t tell me that she moved,”
I breathed.
"Focus. What's your actual address?"
"That was it!”
"Okay. Maybe time to make a phone call."
"Ugh," I said to him.
“What is she talking about, Roy?” David
mimicked.
I reached for my phone and called my mother,
heart pounding.
“Hello?” she answered breathily.
“Veronica. What. The. Hell.”
“Oh, Hadley, darling, where are you?”
“I am at what I thought was our house,” I said as
calmly as possible. “Except for someone, not you, named
Roy lives there now.”
“Oh, darling, I’ve moved.”
“Yes, clearly. You have moved. Where to is what
I’d like to know. And where do you get off not telling me
you sold the house?”
“Oh, honey.”
“And our cab is gone!” I exclaimed.
“I’ll tell Solomon to pick you up.”
"Are you fucking kidding?"
“Oh, Hadley, please don’t swear.”
“YOU SOLD OUR FUCKING HOUSE WITHOUT
TELLING ME.”
David giggled.
“This is so not funny,” I said to him.
“Well, I did send you a change of address card in
the mail,” she took a shallow breath and exhaled. “The
little pink cards?”
“IN THE MAIL? Who does that? You can’t send
me a text message or an email like a normal person? You
couldn’t pick up the phone—”
“Well, I think that’s sort of vulgar—”
“You think it's vulgar to call me? Seriously?"
"You never answer your phone."
"That's not the point! Listen, tell Salmon—”
“Solomon.”
“Whoever the fuck. Tell him to get here pronto. I
mean it,” I said. “This is so screwed up.” I firmly hit the
end call button on my phone and huffed.
David started laughing again. I gave him a severe
look.
“Your face, Hadley. My god. His face. Her face,”
he shook his head. “Amazing!”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I growled at him.
The house we were standing outside of, the one I’d
lived in when I graduated from high school, was on top of
one of San Francisco’s many hills. You could almost
always make out the red Golden Gate Bridge through the
billowing fog from my bedroom window. I had loved that
window.
I kicked my suitcase onto its side and sat down on
top of it.
David didn’t speak for a moment. “Sorry,” he
finally said. “I guess it's not that funny. You grew up
there."
“Whatever.” I yawned. “I’m just annoyed she
didn’t tell me the new address.”
 “That’s what you’re annoyed about?” he shook his
head. “Man.”
“I mean, who doesn’t tell their daughter that they
moved?”
He laughed softly. His parents probably wouldn’t
tell him if they moved, but that would be a conscious,
purposeful decision. My mother had forgotten to tell me.
Most of the time, quite honestly, it felt like she had
forgotten she had a daughter at all.
A black Range Rover pulled up. David raised his
eyebrows at me when the window rolled down.
“You Hadley?”
“Yeah,” I said grouchily. Solomon looked pleasant
enough. Older than my mother, just starting to lose his hair,
a friendly smile.
He got out of the car to help with our bags. He
wasn’t wearing a power suit, just sneakers and jeans and a
sweater.
He offered me a hand. “I’m Sol.”
I took his hand and shook. “Hadley.”
“And this is…”
“I’m David McPhee,” David said with a friendly
smile.
“Nice to meet you.”
Once we’d gotten our bags loaded up, Sol tried to
make conversation: “So, Hadley, your mom tells me you
want to be a journalist?”
 “Yep,” I said.
He nodded. “Very cool.”
“So, how do you know my mother?” I asked
casually. This was a fun question to ask her boyfriends. It
always made them squirm.
“Well, we, um, you know…” his voice trailed off
and I smirked. “It’s been a month since we got married, I
guess,” he finally said.
I whipped my head around to look at his reflection
in the rearview mirror. “You got what?”
“Married.”
“Holy shit,” I muttered. My mother did a lot of
crazy shit, but this was a whole new level. I was
embarrassed to have David witnessing it.
“She—she didn’t tell you?” Sol stammered.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said brightly. “I’m sure
the next time that I come home, you’ll be divorced.”
“Hadley,” David said, shocked.
“I can’t believe she didn’t tell you!”
“I can,” I said calmly. “So, where did you say we
were going?”
“Belvedere.”
“Where?” I demanded in outrage. Belvedere was
not in San Francisco. We had always lived in San
Francisco.
“Belvedere,” he repeated. “It’s just outside the
city.”
 “Oh my god,” I said. That was a bigger revelation
than the marriage or the house. Sometimes it felt like we’d
lived in countless different places, but we’d only ever had
one city.
Belvedere.
Unbelievable.
I inhaled thinly and massaged my temples. This
was a total disaster.

Sol’s house was gorgeous, set about an acre back, with

waterfront views. My mother wore a lavender shift dress
and beige Chanel flats. She kissed me on each cheek.
“Darling, it’s so wonderful to see you. And David,
love, I’m so happy you’re here to visit. Let me give you
both a tour.”
“I’ll put their bags in the guest room,” Sol offered.
“Oh, thank you, dear,” she said.
When he disappeared, I turned on her. “So, you’re
married. And you’ve moved.”
“Yes,” she said calmly.
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.”
“Hadley, you just always get so upset when I tell
you I’ve met someone or that I’ve decided to move.”
“Well, it’s way more upsetting that you didn’t tell
me at all. I literally found out from a stranger named Roy.”
She sighed. “I’m sure your guest doesn’t want to
hear this.”
 I looked at David. My mother was right. He didn’t
want to hear this. He’d had enough stressful Christmases. I
gritted my teeth. “Well, how was the wedding?” I asked
civilly.
“We hardly had a wedding,” my mother sniffed.
“We just went to town hall.”
She showed us the big kitchen with its wraparound
porch overlooking the infinity pool and Sol’s dock slip
down on the bay. The house was beautiful, big, modern,
and immaculate.
“I can show you upstairs, too,” my mother said,
when we reached the staircase.
“That’s okay,” I said quickly. “We’re tired. I’m
tired. I just want to take a shower.”
She brought us up to the guest rooms, which were
identically beige with sea foam accents.
“Sorry,” I muttered to David once she’d left us to
unpack. “I didn’t mean to go all teenaged drama queen on
you.”
He laughed. “I kind of liked it. So, is this her fifth
husband?”
“Sixth,” I shook my head. “Honestly, why bother?
How can you think, after five failed marriages, that it’s
worth getting married for a sixth time?”
He smiled and shrugged. “Maybe she loves him.”
“Right,” I said.
“Well, she loves you,” he said, a little bit sadly.
 I exhaled and closed my eyes. “Yeah, I know. I
know. You’re right. I’m being a bitch. I’m over it. Totally
over it. We’ll have fun. In Belvedere with my crazy
family.”
Chapter Six
It ended up being the nicest break from school I’d ever
had. Sol and my mother were still in some kind of
honeymoon phase, so I took David all over—to the Castro,
Golden Gate Park, Stinson Beach, the Ferry Building, and
the old Marine bases.
“I love it here,” David said when we were
walking across the bridge, bundled in warm coats.
“Seriously, I do,” he said fervently. “It’s so beautiful. And
the people seem so happy.”
Later that day, we went to Greens for overpriced
organic food and priceless views. The water came right
up to the window and David sipped lemonade and told me
about South Dakota.
“It's cold,” he told me. “And small. I felt like I
couldn’t breathe. There’s all this wide-open space, but
everyone knew everyone. And it was so conservative.
And you know me...I’ve always had the voice and the limp
wrists. I never seemed straight.” His voice wavered for a
moment. He seemed raw, like he was actively
experiencing what it was like to be there. “I just
sometimes felt like I would be crushed by it. I couldn’t
hide it. Being gay. Being me. I couldn't hide it."
He hardly ever talked about this. It hurt to hear.
“I tried though. God, I tried.” He sighed. “I think
what bothers me most about it, though, is that it made me
ashamed of who I was. And I’m not ashamed of who I am.
And I’m never going to let anybody do that to me again.”
I met his shining, blue eyes and saw the resolution
there. I believed him.
Chapter Seven
On Christmas Eve, my mother insisted we have brunch.
Alone. Without David.
My mother wore Prada. I wore ripped jeans and a
Free Lil Wayne t-shirt I’d gotten at a college journalism
conference in Ohio. She was horrified.
“With all of the beautiful clothing you have, I can't
believe you would choose that shirt—”
“Do you want me to take it off?” I asked. “Because
if that would make you more comfortable, I can.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Hadley.”
She ordered a salad with dressing on the side. I
ordered a burger and curly fries. She grimaced.
“So, tell me about school.”
“It’s great,” I said.
“I’m very proud of you,” she said. “And I’m very
proud of your writing.”
I fought the urge to say something snarky.
“Thanks,” I said.
“You know, I have an old friend at Vogue. I feel
like that might be just the place for you.”
I stared at her incredulously. “Are you kidding
me?”
“Well, they have really good articles in Vogue."
“That may be true, but that is not just the place for
me. No matter how good the articles are. I’m clueless
when it comes to fashion.”
 “You’re not clueless. You just choose to dress
like…” she paused, thinking for an inoffensive word.
“A slob?” I suggested.
“A tomboy.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“Well, you should think about it. I'll email her."
"Don't email her."
"Don't tell me what to do, Hadley. If I want to
email my friend, I will.”
"Okay, but I don't want to work at Vogue. I want to
be a reporter anyways, not a long-form journalist."
She wasn't listening. She was watching a petite
brunette woman out of the corner of her eyes. "Betty Sachs
had so much plastic surgery I don't even recognize her
anymore."
I followed her gaze. "That’s so interesting,
Mom."
She looked back at me. "What were we talking
about?" She nodded. "Shopping after lunch. You need new
boots."
"I like these ones," I said defensively. "I could use
a book though."
"You know, Solomon and I met at a bookstore."
That surprised me. "Which one?"
"Barnes and Noble. I thought he worked there. He
kept trying to tell me which books I should read. Anyways,
he recommended so many, he insisted on paying for
them." She looked at me dreamily. “He’s not like any of
the other men I’ve been married to.”
I’d heard that before. I’d probably hear it again.
“That’s nice,” I said, instead of: that’s delusional.
"He's really the one," she said emphatically. “Are
you dating anyone? I had a crush on a new boy every week
when I was in college.”
“That’s more David’s
style.”
She laughed. “No one, really? You’re such a pretty
girl.”
I shook my head. “I don’t have time for a
boyfriend.”
“You’re only going to be busier after you
graduate.”
“Right. Well, I’ll cross that bridge when I come to
it,” I said.
“Let me give you some advice.”
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.
“You’re young. You can be a little reckless,” she
smiled. “You won’t be able to be reckless when you’ve
got a job and a family. Have some fun—the beginning of a
new relationship is the most fun. And you’re in college.
Nothing is that complicated.”
I thought about the boy in the parking lot. It hadn’t
been fun. That wasn’t the right word. It had been
terrifying, but in a good way. It had made my heart drop.
Not fun, but something else almost like fun—something
you felt more deeply that fun. Something that made you go
weak.
Chapter Eight
We flew back to Evanston three days before the semester
started. David had a bag full of new cooking utensils from
Williams Sonoma that my mother had given him for
Christmas and I had three new pairs of shoes that wouldn’t
survive three minutes at a college party.
We hauled our bags back to our room after
midnight—the flight had been delayed and then they didn’t
have a gate for us, and my back was in knots. I collapsed
into bed, taking off my shoes as I turned off the light.

My phone woke me up before 7 AM.

Justin’s name flashed on the screen.
“Hey, Justin,” I said. “Um, is everything okay?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“What’s up? How was your Christmas?” I sat up
and flipped on my bedside lamp.
His voice shook slightly when he responded:
“Okay. Um. I just got back.”
“Yeah? Where’d you go?”
“London?” he sounded unsure of even that.
I sat up in bed, “You sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah, I-I just... I got back last night. There are all
of these texts from people about the article. And some of
them are threatening and there’s stuff on that campus
gossip blog and my roommate’s not even talking to me and
—”
 “Justin, slow down,” I said. “What’s going on?”
“That article,” he said. “About hospitalizations
from drinking. People are pissed off.”
“Shit,” I muttered. I had never heard back from the
fraternity president after I offered to print a letter. I got out
of bed and started pulling on clothes.
“I’m kind of freaking out.”
“Well, don’t do that. I’m coming over. We’ll
figure out what to do, okay?”
“Alright,” he said shakily.
I glanced out the window at the bleak morning. It
looked cold. It was always cold in Evanston in January. I
shouldered into a parka and ran out the door.
Justin lived in the freshman dorms, which were
pretty, bucolic stone buildings clustered on the quad. I
swiped my ID at the door and jogged up to his room.
“Hey,” he said. He looked like he hadn’t slept.
His hair was tousled, he had dark circles under his eyes,
and I could see worry lines creasing his forehead. “Sorry.
I didn’t realize it was so early. I’m kind of jetlagged. I
just…I didn’t know what to do.”
“You called me. That’s what you’re supposed to
do,” I smiled reassuringly at him. “Let me see the emails.”
“They were sending texts, too. I-I deleted most of
them,” he said sheepishly. “But…” His voice trailed off as
he handed me his phone.
The first text I saw read, you’re a faggot. stay the
fuck away from our frat and don’t write any more lies
about us.
“Have you responded to any of these?” I asked,
trying to keep my voice neutral.
He shook his head.
“Good.”
“Actually…well, I asked them to leave me alone.
A few times. Before I thought to call you,” he said softly.
“And it just made it worse…They said—they said they’d
stop if we printed a retraction.”
“We’re not printing a retraction,” I said flatly.
“Retractions are for correcting mistakes, and you didn’t
make a mistake.”
“Well, I deleted my Facebook. But, now there’s
stuff about me on CampusRag.”
“I fucking hate that website,” I said bitterly.
He smiled weakly. “Right.”
CampusRag was a gossip blog where anonymous
posters could say whatever they wanted about whomever
they wanted. It was basically a disgusting mess of
anonymous vitriol. Nobody deserved to be trashed on the
Internet. Especially not Justin.
“Alright,” I spoke authoritatively. “Don’t write
back to them and don’t let them think you’re intimidated.”
“But I am intimidated,” Justin insisted. “I just—I
don’t know what to do. And they’re telling the whole
world that I’m gay, which is something I haven’t told most
people.”
“I’m going to handle this. I promise.” I looked into
his glassy brown eyes. “Okay?”
“Okay,” he said softly. He closed his eyes and
pressed the heels of his hands to his eyelids. He pulled off
a heartbroken smile. He believed me. “Thank you.”
“Of course.” I spent a few minutes on his phone,
forwarding the text messages, and longer on his computer,
forwarding the emails. When I was done, I smiled at him
and squeezed his shoulders. “This will look better in a
few days.”
“Okay.” He breathed unsteadily.
I looked around the small, cramped dorm room. I
remembered how lonely dorm rooms could feel in the
awkward days before everyone returned from Christmas
break. “Do you have dinner plans?”
He shook his head. David would like him. I mean,
it would be hard not to.
“My roommate’s a great cook,” I offered. “You
should come over.”
He smiled. “I’d like that.”
“Good, text me when you’re free. It’ll be great.”
He nodded.
“Don’t freak, okay? We’ll figure it out.”
I felt less sure of myself in the hallway outside of
his room. There were official steps I could take to report
harassment, but it was a long, arduous process and a
resolution in April wouldn’t mean much to Justin now.
Plus, the paper’s faculty advisor, Dean Canady, had gone
to Romania for the break.
I fired off a quick email to him from my phone,
alerting him of the situation, and letting him know I was
looking for the quickest remedy. I scrolled through my
emails until I found the one from Alexander Faulk.
While I walked to my car, I emailed Faulk, asking
when he would be available to speak. I sat in the car
turned on the heat and waited for him to write back.
I’ve never been the world’s most patient person.
After a Miley Cyrus song and three commercials on the
radio, Faulk still hadn’t written back so I drove to the frat
house.
It was eight o’clock in the morning. I told myself
that civilized people woke up at eight o’clock, which
meant I was allowed to disturb the uncivilized people who
were still sleeping. Maybe teach them some good habits.
The frat house was charming, yellow and
clapboard. I parked across the street and walked as
confidently as I could up the porch stairs to the front door.
I hadn’t been to a frat house at Northwestern. Not
because I had anything against them. I didn’t. I just didn’t
have friends in fraternities.
But this felt personal. It was hard not to hold a
grudge against the organization responsible for bullying
Justin.
 I rang the doorbell and looked at the wide porch,
which would have been inviting if it weren’t carpeted
with crushed beer cans and cigarette butts. This is
revolting, I thought. How does anyone live like this?
I hit the doorbell again and then knocked loudly. I
thought of Justin. I took a breath and remembered that I
was here in a professional capacity.
Justin. Confront it head on. Like an adult. Man to
man. Woman to man. Just do it. I took a breath and
knocked once more.
“YO! Just come in. It’s unlocked!” someone
shouted over the faint sound of music. I pushed open the
creaking door. The wide entryway was dusty, but
uncluttered, and the French doors to my left were flung
open to an empty lounge, where the TV was on.
“Hello?” I called out.
Nobody responded.
“Hello?” I shouted, a little louder.
“There’s money in the kitchen. Just leave the pizza
on the counter,” the same rumbling voice called.
“I’m not delivering pizza,” I shouted back.
Who the hell ordered pizza at eight o’clock in the
morning anyways?
“Shit. Hang on.”
He came down the stairs, buttoning a red plaid
shirt.
When he looked up, my heart stopped.
 It was the boy from the tailgate who I had kissed.
God, he looked good.
And God he was the last person I wanted to see
right now.
I took half a step backwards like fleeing back to
my car was an option.
No, I told myself. Just do it. Pretend you never
kissed him. Never happened.
He laughed. It was a low, rolling, and pleasant
sound. He ran his hand through his damp hair. I bit my
tongue watching him.
“I really never did catch that name,” he said softly.
He slid his hands into his pockets and smiled at me.
“Hadley Arrington.”
“Ah. Hadley Arrington.” He smiled wider. “Well,
I knew the easiest solution to my problem would’ve been
asking you, but you are very, very hard to find. In fact, I
had very recently concluded that you were some sort of
rainstorm mirage.”
“I’m not a mirage,” I said flatly.
“I bet that’s what you tell all the boys.”
My eyes quivered in their sockets, absolutely
itching to roll. “Listen, is Alexander Faulk here?”
“You mean Xander? No. He’s not back from
Minnesota yet.”
I nodded. “Gotcha.”
“Hadley Arrington,” he repeated my name with a
wolfish grin, and came the rest of the way down the stairs.
He sat down on the steps and tied one of his sneakers.
“You remember me, right?”
I nodded. “Yes.” Unfortunately, since I’m not
here to make friends.
“You honestly don’t want to know my name?” he
asked. I looked at him, praying his name didn’t belong to
one of the email addresses I’d culled from Justin’s inbox.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Jack,” he said with a cocky grin. When I didn’t
return the smile, he ran a hand through his hair and stood
up. “I’m sorry. I’m not being very helpful. Are you okay?
You don’t look like you were expecting to see me. Um,
Xander’s not here. But I could give you his phone
number.”
“Well, is John Diamond here?” I asked.
Jack smiled again. “That’s actually me. Everyone
calls me Jack.”
Well, that was just spectacular.
He was the fraternity’s vice-president. And
therefore at least partially responsible for this. And the
person I’d have to confront about it.
“Great,” I muttered.
He cocked his head. “I have to say, you seemed a
lot happier about seeing me the last time we met.”
I flushed. “Well, I was drunk.”
His eyes twinkled. “You weren’t that drunk.”
 “How would you know?” I demanded. “Anyways,
I’m not here to discuss tailgate.”
His smiled faded a little. “Okay. Uh, what are you
here to discuss then?”
“I’m the Editor-in-Chief of The Daily
Northwestern,” I said. “One of my staff writers is being
harassed by members of your fraternity.”
His smile faded completely. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
He gave me a defeated look. “Christ. We told them
to leave it alone.” He ran his hand over his face.
“Told who?”
“Our sophomore class. They’re all
motherf….animals,” he said. He shook his head. “Damn.”
“Well, they’re not leaving him alone.”
“Yeah. Shit. I’m sorry…You want to talk over
here?” He led me into a study room off of the foyer. He
quickly closed the open sketchbooks on one of the bigger
tables and placed them on the floor.
I sat down across from him. He rested his chin on
one hand thoughtfully. “So, what are they doing?”
“Juvenile, cyber-bullying crap. I’ll forward you
the emails.”
“Oh, yeah, sure. Let me grab my computer.” He got
up and I heard his footsteps on the stairs. I focused on the
crooked dartboard hanging on the wood-paneled wall. Be
professional. Resolve the problem.
 I forwarded the material to his email address
while he went to get his computer. When he came back, he
looked grim.
“As you can see, this is clearly crossing the line,” I
said formally. “And while I understand that members of
your fraternity didn’t like the facts that were printed in
Justin’s article, you were repeatedly contacted with a
request for a comment. I let Alexander know he could talk
to Justin and clarify your position…” My voice trailed off.
He wasn’t listening to me.
His eyes were glued to the screen and he clicked
his tongue against the roof of his mouth regretfully. “Ah,
shit,” he said wearily. “This is not—this is not something I
knew about. Xander either. Our sophomore class is really
out of control.” He ran a hand through his hair and put his
screen down. “We’re looking into the roofie thing, by the
way. Honestly, we were all really freaked out when we
saw the article. I mean, I was and I know Xander was.
Neither of us even had known about it. That’s why Xander
emailed you. He wanted to explain.”
I took a deep breath. “And I told him he could.
Justin emailed you both, asking for a statement.”
Jack winced. “Yeah, I know. Xander is crazy busy,
though, and I’m not so good with emails.”
“Look, that’s not the point,” I said. “If there’s an
update, if you’d like us to print a statement, that’s fine. I
told you that we’d do that. But this shit has to stop. He
wrote an article about student health and you guys are
making his life hell.”
He cleared his throat. “I’m not behind this.” He
looked at me. “I mean, I’m not saying it’s not awful. It is.
But this is like a few random kids. This isn’t a fraternity-
wide effort.”
“Well, it needs to stop.” My voice sounded brittle
and harsh to my own ears. I didn’t want to hear about
Jack’s lack of culpability. “He wrote an article. He tried
to get a lot of you to talk to him, but none of you would. He
didn’t make this stuff up. It happened. It happened here.”
“I’ll talk to the guys.”
“No,” I said. “I don’t want you to talk to the guys.
I want you to let the guys know that they can either
apologize and take down the posts on CampusRag and
stop emailing him, or else they can deal with the
administration. I’m not going to let you bully one of my
staff writers out of school.”
“Hey,” he said indignantly. “I’m not bullying
anyone. I would never say any of this shit.”
“When you’re the head of an organization, you’re
responsible for its actions.”
He shook his head. “You’re confused.”
“I’m confused?”
“They voted for me because they were stoned. You
know what the vice-president of a frat does? Nothing.”
“The position exists for a reason, and not doing
anything when the organization you’re in charge of is
bullying a kid makes you culpable.”
“Look, I’ll get it to stop.”
“Good,” I said tersely.
“You don’t believe me?”
I shrugged. “I never said that.”
“I’ll take care of it, Hadley.” He met my eyes.
They were cool, calm, and for some ridiculous reason, I
nearly trusted them.
“Great. Thanks,” I said. I sounded like a bitch. I
had expected more of a fight, honestly. I took a breath and
exhaled. “Sorry. I really appreciate it. If you’d get it to
stop. I just—I don’t know. He’s a nice kid.”
He nodded. “I’ll take care of it,” he repeated.
I twisted my lips and snuck a look at Jack. He was
staring at me. I dropped my eyes and stood up. It struck me
as sad that the stranger I kissed at a tailgate, the random
person I happened to notice, would reappear like this. As
someone who was involved with an organization that was
hurting someone I cared about.
Everyone knows you shouldn’t trust strangers.
Shouldn’t listen to them. Shouldn’t take candy from them.
Shouldn’t get into their cars. You definitely shouldn’t kiss
them.
Most people learn this in kindergarten. But I,
Hadley Arrington, had missed that lesson. Or chosen to
ignore it. I slipped on my coat, feeling like an idiot.
 “Thanks for taking the time to meet with me,” I
said seriously.
“Yeah, no worries,” he said. “Sorry about this.
Really, I’m sorry.”
He walked me to the door quietly. When we
reached it, he set a hand lightly on my back.
I jumped.
“Sorry, sorry,” he said. He held his hands up
where I could see them. He looked at me. “Look, this is
really bad timing.”
“What’s bad timing?”
“This,” he said. He bit his lip. “After tailgate I
spent a while trying to figure out who you were. But
nobody could tell me.”
“Probably because I don’t ordinarily act like that.”
He smiled. “Oh. Well, that’s a shame.”
“For you, maybe.”
“For me, definitely.” He laughed. “So, can I ask
you to dinner or is that going to piss you off?”
“I don’t think now’s a good time to talk about
dinner.”
“Yeah. I know. Bad timing.”
“It’s always bad timing,” I said.
“That’s too bad.”
I stepped out of the door.
“Can I ask you a serious question, though?” he
said. “Why’d you kiss me?”
 I shrugged. “My roommate dared me.”
His face changed. Not dramatically, but enough to
know that what I said had been hurtful.
He laughed. “Ha. Of course, of course.” He
nodded. “I should’ve thought of that.”
I stared at the mixture of surprise and hurt on his
face and swallowed. He’d leave me alone if I left now.
But, I wouldn’t like the unsteadiness in my stomach.
I put my hand on the door to keep him from closing
it.
“I mean.” I swallowed. “He dared me to kiss
someone. And I chose you.” I flushed, as something else
crossed his face, and I pulled the door shut before I could
say anything else.
Chapter Nine
“You will never believe what happened,” crowed David
when I walked through the door. He was curled up on the
couch with a book and a cup of tea.
“You’re telling me,” I said. I shook my head and
walked to the kettle, which was still steaming.
He smiled at me. “What happened to you?”
“You first,” I said.
“Ben Mitchell,” he said simply.
I waited for the name to ring a bell. I cocked my
head and snapped my fingers. “Soccer player, right? You
were in love with him for a whole month sophomore
year.”
“Football player,” he corrected. “Tall, dark, and
handsome. And I was in love with him junior year.”
“Well, close enough. What’s up with him?”
“I saw him today.”
“That’s it?”
“No, that’s not it.”
I opened one of the cabinets in our kitchen and
rummaged around for tea bags. I yawned.
“He asked me out.”
“Wait-what?”
“He asked me to go see a movie with him,” David
said. “We had chemistry together last year. We were lab
partners. And when I ran into him at the grocery store
today, he just asked me to see a movie.”
 I hesitated. “Just the two of you?”
“Yes, just the two of us,” David said. “You
seriously think he’d ever invite me to hang out with his
friends?”
“Is he…out?” I asked cautiously.
David waved away the comment with his hand.
“No, he’s still in the closet, but I don’t really care. He’s
dreamy.”
I didn’t like the idea of David being someone’s
dirty little secret. Especially after what he told me in San
Francisco about never allowing anyone to make him feel
ashamed of who he was again.
“Yeah, but, I mean—isn’t that a big headache?
Dating someone who’s hiding his real identity?” I asked
cautiously.
“As previously discussed, Hadley, he’s dreamy.
Dreamy,” he said. “Plus, I’m not going to hide my real
identity. He can do whatever he wants.”
“If you say so,” I said. “You’ll still be around for
dinner, right?”
“Yeah. I’m making lasagna.”
“Can you make it for three? I asked Justin over.
From the paper.”
“Ah, the Justin that Nigel wanted me to go out
with?”
“Yes.”
“Hope you didn’t make any promises. Because I
cannot cancel on Ben.”
“I didn’t. I just invited him for dinner. I had the
craziest morning.”
“What happened?
“Well, I found out who I made out with at
tailgate.”
“Oh my god! Details!”
I made a face. “His name is Jack Diamond and
he’s the vice-president of Lambda Pi. That frat that Justin
wrote a piece on?”
David nodded, remembering. “Yeah, yeah. And?”
“So, basically, the Lambda Pi sophomores have
been harassing Justin ever since it published. So, I went
over there to find the president and see if he’d get
everyone under control and he wasn’t there, but Jack was.
It was so unbelievably awkward.”
“Oh my god. That’s terrible.”
“Yeah.” I shook my head. “Terrible.”
“What did he say? I mean, was he behind it?”
“No. I mean, he said he wasn’t behind anything.
And that he’d take care of it.” I rolled my eyes. “But, who
knows what that means?”
“I’m sorry, Hads.”
I waved away the apology. “Please. It’s Justin I’m
worried about. And I’m not going to even think about
kissing another boy until I have a job.” I exhaled.
David clucked. “That was just bad luck. You have
to put yourself out there.”
“No. I don’t want a boyfriend,” I shook my head.
“Long-term monogamy just doesn’t run in my family. I
don’t need that kind of drama right now. I need a job.”
Chapter Ten
David and Justin hit it off right away. Justin was a
hopeless cook, but an eager apprentice and he laughed
every time David threw his hands up at his attempts to
dice tomatoes or roll out dough or butter a pan.
David looked at Justin’s row of misshapen
zucchini slices. “Is this supposed to be an abstract art
project? I want nice, evenly sliced circles.”
Justin giggled.
I could tell he was disappointed when David left
abruptly, as we were clearing dinner. “That’s my ride!”
He planted a kiss on my cheek and gave Justin a loose hug
and flounced out the door before Justin could ask where he
was going.
“He’s a spaz,” I told Justin. I was pretty sure
David would lose his interest in Ben Mitchell quickly.
“You should come over next week, too. David cooks
every Friday night. It’s his way of achieving mindfulness.”
Justin nodded. “I’d like that.”

David didn’t come home until the next morning, and when
he did, he wore a big, foolish grin on his face that made
me like Ben Mitchell a whole lot more. Anyone who could
make David smile like that was okay by me.
Something else was different, too. Usually, David
gushed with details about what he wore and what he said
and what he liked and what he didn’t like. But David just
hummed happily when I asked him if he had fun.
“Oh, it was wonderful,” he said simply.
“What did you do?”
“He’s really great, Hadley,” he smiled.
I grinned at him. “Details?”
“Everything was just…” he sighed.
“Well, if you’re speechless, it must have been
pretty special,” I said. I bit into the granola bar I’d been
forced to eat because David hadn’t been home to make
breakfast. “Next time, have him sleep over, so I can get my
pancakes,” I said selfishly.
His face fell slightly. “Oh, um—I know you’re not
gossipy or anything, but I promised Ben I’d keep
everything under wraps. So, don’t say anything to anyone.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Okay…”
“And, um, if you see him … Well, I told him I
hadn’t told anyone. And then I realized, you know, that I
already told you. So, if you see him, just pretend you don’t
know him. Okay?”
I was about to nod my agreement, when I stopped
myself. “Why doesn’t he want your friends to know?
You’re out. That’s not a secret.”
“Obviously, but he’s still in the closet. And it’s a
big deal. He’s on the football team. You know, it would
be a huge amount of scrutiny and—”
“You can’t just tell him that your friends are
trustworthy?”
 “Hadley, could you please just not say anything?”
he pleaded.
“I’m not going to say anything,” I said. “But you
should be able to tell your friends. Just because he’s in the
closet doesn’t mean you need to keep him a secret.”
David shrugged. “I’m okay with that. I like him.”
“If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.”
I nodded and returned my focus to the USA Today
job application that a Northwestern professor had sent
over to me. It wasn’t a perfect fit—not like the Times job
in Cairo had been, but it would be a good experience—
working at the Washington, D.C. Bureau, reporting on
domestic politics.
I tried not to say something stupid or controlling,
though I was sorely tempted to point out that Ben was
asking him for a fairly significant sacrifice.
Chapter Eleven
I was buying my textbooks for class, muttering at the $130
list price on the new Arabic textbook, when my phone
rang.
I didn’t recognize the number, but I did recognize
the area code. 917. New York. It had to be my father
responding to my request to transfer money for books. My
mom responded more quickly to these things. But I liked to
make my dad do it. He hardly had to do anything else for
me and he could more than afford my books.
“Just in time, Dad,” I said.
“Actually, this is Jack.”
Note to self: New York is big. Sometimes people
with 917 area codes are not your father. They are
sometimes Jack Diamond.
“Sorry. I thought…I just called my dad and I
didn’t…never mind. What’s going on?”
He was laughing. He needed to stop that.
“Sorry,” he said. “This is serious. I should be
serious. We had a meeting last night—the frat. Granted,
not everyone’s back from break, but we told everyone to
take everything down and let Justin be. They went back
and deleted their comments from CampusRag.” He took a
breath. “I want you to know how sorry I am. I want you
both to know that—you and Justin. We’re not that cohesive
of a group, so it’s hard to know what everyone is doing all
the time, but we should’ve taken control of the situation
from the beginning. I’m sorry we didn’t and I’m sorry
Justin had to deal with that because we didn’t.”
As far as apologies went, it was pretty good. I was
impressed. Most people never took responsibility for their
actions and even fewer people took responsibility for the
actions of others that they could’ve prevented.
I took a breath. “Thank you,” I said. “I’m grateful.
Really. I know Justin will be.”
“Yeah, no problem,” he said.
I balanced another textbook on top of my stack.
“I’m at the bookstore, so I should go, but seriously, thanks
a lot, Jack.”
“Yeah, sure.” He was quiet.
“Well, I guess, I’ll see you around,” I said.
“Actually—before you go. Would you want to get
dinner sometime? Or do I have to wait for your roommate
to dare you again?”
I would’ve laughed if I hadn’t been so startled.
“Um, what?”
He chuckled. “Dinner? Would you want to go to
dinner sometime? Can I ask you out?”
“Ah, look, I’m at the bookstore.”
“Oh, I got it. I heard about that law. You can’t
agree to go on a date with anyone when you’re at a
bookstore.”
“I don’t think I’m available,” I managed to say.
He didn’t sound at all displeased. More than
anything, he sounded amused. “Ever? You are never
available for dinner? Wow.”
“Well, I just…I don’t know. I’m not really into
dating people right now,” I said. Or ever, I added silently.
“Well, who said anything about a date? Maybe I
just want to have dinner with you. Maybe I think you’d be
a fantastic conversationalist.”
“I doubt that, somehow,” I said.
“Why?” I could hear him smiling.
“Because in our first conversation, I was drunk
and made no sense.” I looked around to see if anyone was
listening. “And in our second conversation, I yelled at
you.”
“You didn’t yell. You spoke persuasively.”
“Well, it’s not a good idea,” I said. “It just seems
like things are rapidly devolving from not making sense to
anger and then like, the third conversation we have could
end terribly, you know?”
He laughed again.
“Stop laughing. I’m serious.”
“You’re scared that our third conversation will
devolve? Into what? Silence? That would be awkward,
but I bet we could survive it.”
“I really don’t have the time to date anyone right
now,” I said. That sounded believable. It was certainly
true.
“Aw, I’m not going to give up that easily,” he
smiled. “You’re the one who started it. You shouldn’t
have kissed me like that if you wanted to be left alone.”
“I—”
“I’m going to swing by,” he said adamantly. “We
can hang out. That’s a good idea. No dinner. Anti-date
date.”
“I mean, maybe.”
“What are you doing tonight?”
“Nothing, but—”
“Great. I’ll swing by tonight.”
“No, I don’t think you understand. I said dinner
wasn’t good for me.”
“I thought you said dating wasn’t good for you. We
won’t have dinner. It’ll be a non-dinner, non-date hangout
session.”
“I don’t even know what that means.”
“I just want to talk to you,” he said casually.
“Why?”
He laughed.
“What?”
“I think you’re fascinating,” he said, the same wry
amusement coursing through his voice. “I’ll stop by
tonight.” He hung up before I could say anything else.
Chapter Twelve
Truthfully, I had been curious as to whether Jack actually
would stop by that night. And I was oddly anticipating it,
even though I thought it was a terrible idea. My fingers
drummed on the countertop. The responsible thing to do
would be to tell him that this was insensible, that it could
never work, and that I wasn’t the kind of girl who could
handle dating a boy like him. Or any kind of boy at all.
But, eight came and went, and I gnawed on leftover
chicken, getting ready for classes to begin. It looked like
he wasn’t coming. I was about to change into my pajamas
when there was a knock at the door. I froze, then strode
purposefully to the door and opened it.
Whatever I had been thinking of saying went right
out of my head when I saw him. “Hey,” he said. He wasn’t
smiling, though his eyes were twinkling, and he bit his lip
when he looked at me. When he was standing this close to
me, I had to look up into his face, which made him seem
both taller and more handsome.
“Hi,” I said, and then I remembered I was
annoyed. “It’s almost nine.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Do you have a curfew or
something?”
“We have class tomorrow.”
He smiled. “Does that mean you turn into a
pumpkin at midnight?”
I looked at him blankly.
 “Vampire? Or, no, werewolf. Tonight’s supposed
to be a full moon. Can I come in?” He walked into the
apartment, not waiting for an answer, and looked around.
“Nice place.”
“I didn’t say you could come in,” I said.
He smiled. “You’re funny.”
“That wasn’t a joke.”
“No, I mean, you’re funny. Like, you were super-
hot in the parking lot and now you’re super-cold.” He
glanced at me. “I’m talking in degrees of emotional
warmth, not physical attractiveness. You’ve been
consistently hot throughout, in terms of attractiveness.”
“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
He chuckled. “Not really. Although, with most
girls, you can say pretty much whatever you want if you
conclude by saying they’re hot.”
“You must know some pretty dumb girls.”
“I do,” he said. “But, I know you now. That’s got
to cancel at least two dumb girls out.”
“It doesn’t work like that.”
“How do you know what it works like? Are you
the police of dumb girl cancellation?”
“No, but it doesn’t work like that. Nobody gets to
cancel anybody else out.”
“Maybe they do. Maybe every stupid person you
know cancels out every smart person you know and every
good person you know cancels out every evil person you
know.”
“That’s right. That’s probably why everyone forgot
about Jesus and Hitler, and just remembers their un-
cancelled out contemporaries Average Jane and Average
Joe,” I said.
He laughed. “I meant people I actually knew. Did
you actually know Hitler? Maybe you are going to turn
into a vampire at nine o’clock.”
I rolled my eyes.
“You want to do something. Not go on a date?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Let’s…” I looked around my
apartment. “Go do something.”
I grabbed my coat from my bedroom and came
back into the living room. Jack was studying a photograph
on the wall. It was a picture David had taken one early
spring morning when we’d gone walking by the lake. My
back was turned to David and you could only see part of
my face.
“Cool picture. That’s you, right?”
I nodded. “David took that.”
“David?”
“Roommate.”
“Ah.” He smiled and raised his eyebrows. “The
one who dared you to kiss a stranger?”
“Yes.”
“David sounds like the man. The last time I
encouraged girls to make out with strangers like me, I
almost got arrested.”
I smiled and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear.
“So, what exactly constitutes a not-date?” he
asked.
“I don’t know. Isn’t this your idea?”
“You don’t know?” he laughed. “How the hell am I
supposed to know if you don’t know?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. Going for a drive or
something.”
“A drive!” he laughed.
“What?”
He shook his head. “Nothing. Let’s go for a drive.”
He followed me out of the apartment and down the
stairwell to the parking lot.
I stole a look at Jack. He caught me staring and
smiled back.
“So,” he said, as I got into his car. “Where do you
want to drive to?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. Around. I could use ice
cream.”
He didn’t say anything about how cold it was or
how far we were from Ben & Jerry’s or how it was
probably too late to go anywhere. “I could do ice cream.”
There was a long awkwardly silent stretch of time,
after which I demanded, “So, why did you want to talk to
me anyways?”
“Why did you kiss me in the parking lot?” he asked
playfully.
“I told you. David dared me.”
“Right. But then you said you chose me. Why?”
“I was drunk.”
He laughed. “You weren’t that drunk.”
“Was that your only question?” I asked. “Because,
I can assure you that we have nothing in common. And I
can also assure you that whatever you’re looking for,
you’re not going to find it with me.”
“You don’t know what I’m looking for.”
“Not this.”
He stole a glance at me. “Okay, so, what is this?”
“It’s none of your business, really,” I said. I ran a
hand through my hair.
“So, first you’re annoyed I only have one
question, and now I’m not allowed to ask questions.”
“I’m not that uptight,” I said, although I was
certainly acting like it. “You’re allowed to ask questions.
Just not, okay, so what is this? Because I really don’t
know.”
He laughed. “Fair enough.” He looked over at me.
“Why don’t you ask me a question?”
“That’s okay.”
“Oh, come on. Surely, there’s something you want
to know. You’re a reporter.”
There were plenty of questions I wanted to ask.
But there were plenty of other things I could already tell
from looking at him. Only half of being a good reporter
was asking the right questions. The other half was noticing
details, so you wouldn’t have to ask them.
“Okay,” I said. “What’s your mother like?”
He looked over at me quickly. “Seriously?”
I shrugged. “You don’t have to answer it.” I turned
my head and watched the road through the window.
“No, um…” he thought for a moment and cleared
his throat. “She’s very warm. And….she worries a lot.
She’s very sweet about it. She seems vulnerable. She
worries so much about me that I start worrying about her.”
He smiled, a little bit sadly.
“Are you an only child?” I asked.
“No. I have a brother. He’s older. You?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I mean, I’m an only child.”
“What’s that like?” he asked.
“Not as bad as they told you.”
“So, you’re not a lonely narcissist who can’t get
along with anyone?”
“Oh, no, I’m definitely that,” I said. “I just don’t
fear independence.”
He laughed. “I can tell.”
“What’s your brother like?”
“Perfect,” he said. “Totally, completely, un-
fucking-believably perfect. It makes me nauseous. Really.”
He grinned at me. “He never even beat me up. Perfect.”
I laughed. “You must hate his guts.”
 “Nah.” He shook his head. “I don’t actually. Well,
in high school a little bit. But not anymore.”
I smiled.
“He’s…serious. You’d like him.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Well, you seem kind of serious,” he said. “He’s a
doctor for the Navy. He’s in Afghanistan now.” He rubbed
his chin.
“God. How long as he been there?”
“Not too long,” he said. “He went to the Naval
Academy and then to Harvard Medical School and now
he’s a trauma doctor over there. I think it’s been about a
year and a half now. He says it’s okay. He’s pretty safe,
because he’s a doctor. He’s not that close to combat.” He
smiled. “So, that’s what my mother is like. And my brother
—as a bonus. What else you got?” he asked.
I tilted my head sideways. “What do you fear?”
He laughed. “You’re not holding back. Let me see.
Eels. And jellyfish. Can’t stand ‘em. But I think I’m most
scared of never figuring it out.”
“What out?”
“Myself,” he said. “You know, never figuring out
what’ll make me really happy. That kind of thing. What are
you most afraid of?”
“Probably dependency.”
“Dependency on what?” he asked curiously. He
grinned. "Drugs?"
 “People.”
He let out a short bark of laughter. Then he looked
at me. “You’re serious?”
“Yeah.”
“Dependency on people is the thing you’re most
afraid of? You realize that dependence on other people is
like the way the world spins, don’t you? You didn’t build
your own car and write your own textbooks, did you?”
“I didn’t say it was rational. I said I was scared of
it.”
“That’s why you won’t go on a date with me?”
“No, I won’t go on a date with you because I don’t
want to go on a date with you,” I grumbled. Or anyone
else, ever.
“Alright. So, how does this work? Are you moving
towards going all Into the Wild post-graduation? Heading
out into the woods and living alone?”
“No,” I said. “I meant emotional dependence more
than anything else.” I shrugged. “It’s just my answer. I
know it doesn’t make sense.”
“You’d rather be alone forever than need anyone?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m good at being alone. I like
being alone.”
“Wow,” he said.
“Yeah.”
“That makes you happy? Being alone?”
“Yes, actually,” I said.
 “And what about sex?”
I could feel the flush creeping down my neck.
“Excuse me?”
“What about sex? People are sexual. They have
needs. You have needs.”
“Listen, I’ve had sex. And I wasn’t impressed.”
He shook his head, biting back a grin.
“What? I’m being serious.”
“He wasn’t doing it right then.”
“He did it just fine,” I said, thinking back to how I
lost my virginity in high school in Luke’s parents’ guest
house, and how it had been mostly awkward and painful
and way too bright in that room. It had gotten better,
somewhat, but it had never been amazing.
“No, he definitely did it wrong,” he said. “Which
is criminal. I could fix that though.”
“Excuse me?”
He looked at me. “I mean, if I were so lucky as to
have the chance to sleep with you, you would be, you
know, impressed.”
“You’re extremely arrogant.”
“Right back at you.”
“How am I arrogant?
“What kind of person gives sex one chance and
decides it’s not for them?”
“This kind.”
He smiled. “But, that’s a little arrogant.” He was
teasing, mostly. “I mean, you’re so sure of yourself, you
think sex is overrated.”
“I didn’t say it was overrated. I said I wasn’t
impressed. I’m just telling you what’s true. I had sex. I
wasn’t crazy about it.”
“When?”
“What’s it to you?”
“Tell me when.”
“That’s an extremely personal question.”
He cocked his head. “You don’t have to tell me,
then. I just think he was doing it wrong.”
I took a breath. “Junior year.”
“Was the last time you had sex?”
I flushed.
“Damn,” he said. He looked at me.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Make fun of me.”
“I’m not,” he said. He shook his head. “Honestly,
I’m not at all.” He met my eyes. “Did you have a bad
experience or something?”
I took a breath. “No. The sex was fine. But I broke
up with the boy and he told everyone I was easy.” I
shrugged. “I didn’t sleep with anyone else after that. I
didn’t want anyone to think he had a point.”
“I’m sorry. That’s bullshit,” he said.
“It’s really not a big deal. It’s ancient history,” I
said.
“Well, I could see why you might not want to date
people after that.”
“It’s got a lot less to do with him than you think,” I
said. “I don’t have the time, and monogamy doesn’t
exactly run in my family and—”
“You don’t want to depend on anyone?”
“Exactly,” I said.
He nodded seriously. “Yeah, see, the thing about
that though, is that people who don’t ever want to depend
on anyone, people who don’t ever want to be touched, they
don’t jump into a stranger’s arms in the rain. Even on a
dare.”
I met his warm, brown eyes. They searched me and
I looked away. “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but
sometimes they do.”
He jerked the wheel and pulled off the road.
“What are you doing?”
He put the car in park wordlessly.
“Excuse me?” I repeated, staring at him. “I barely
know you. Pulling over on the side of the road is a serial
killer move.”
“I’m not a serial killer.”
“What are you doing?”
He undid his seatbelt and leaned across the seat
and kissed me again. Without asking, without anything that
seemed like a warning.
 He kissed me deeply and instead of pushing him
away, I leaned in.
I was surprised at the whimper that escaped my
lips as he moved his mouth down my neck. I was surprised
at the way my spine arched towards him and the way I
wanted him to slide his warm hands farther down my ribs
to my hips. When his hand slipped under my shirt, cool
against my hip, I put my hand over it. “Wait, stop.”
He pulled his head back and looked into my eyes.
“You want me to stop?” He kept his hand there, spread on
my hip—not a particularly sexual or private place, but it
made me shiver.
I exhaled heavily and didn’t say anything.
“Do you want me to stop?” he repeated, more
seriously.
I shook my head slightly, wild-eyed and unsure of
everything except for a single fact: I liked being kissed by
him. Even when I was sober. Even when I knew he was in
a fraternity with a bunch of idiots. Even when I knew how
much most relationships messed up your life, I wanted him
to kiss me.
He pressed his lips to mine and undid my seatbelt.
“C’mere,” he whispered, pulling my wrist. He
coaxed me over to his side of the car, so that I was
straddling him. He kissed my neck, and I could feel my
pulse racing underneath his lips. He leaned back and
stared at me. He slid one hand under my loose, flannel
shirt and up my ribs. His other hand rubbed along the side
of my leg, through my jeans. The friction was gentle, but it
ran up and down my leg.
I pressed my hips more closely to his.
He unhooked my bra strap and kissed me again.
I shivered as he slipped the straps down my arms.
He nipped at my lip and at my neck while he unbuttoned
my shirt.
“This okay?” he whispered.
I nodded once.
He gently slipped the shirt down my arms.
My bra fell with it and I looked down at him, the
light catching in his eyes. He ran both of his hands up my
ribs, and cupped one breast gently. His thumb ghosted
across my nipple and I bit my lip, and his lips kissed their
way from my mouth to my neck. He continued rubbing his
thumb softly across my breast. Every brief movement
travelled like an electrical current up and down my spine.
I exhaled a shaky breath, pulsating with the
electricity of his touch everywhere.
“Christ, Jack…” I whispered. I closed my eyes
and dropped my head to his shoulder. He kissed my neck,
bitingly.
I hid my face in his neck, and laughed lightly, as
his hand stroked my shivering stomach. He kissed me
again, softly and then firmly, and then he broke the kiss
and smiled.
 “You’re something, you know that?”
“You said that,” I said, remembering tailgate.
“It’s true.” He dropped his hot, damp mouth to one
breast and I arched my back, pressing myself forward. I
could feel his arousal through his jeans as he gently
manipulated my breast with his tongue.
I grabbed fistfuls of his hair, arching my back.
“Wait,” I whispered.
He stopped, lifting his head, his hair sticking up
where I’d grasped it in my hands.
“Wait?” he repeated.
“This is…we’re on the side of a road. And it’s
fast. This is fast.”
He nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”
I suddenly felt embarrassed, sitting back and
looking away and holding my shirt in front of my breasts.
He put a hand to my chest, in between my breasts,
very close to my heart.
“What?”
“I like you,” he said. He smiled, his eyes
twinkling. “You’re the best person I’ve met all year.”
I met his eyes. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”
He chuckled. He handed me my bra.
My hands shook as I tried to clasp it with one
hand. I managed it on my second try, and pulled on my
shirt. He groaned as I lifted myself off his lap and scooted
back into the passenger’s seat.
 We were both quiet. He cleared his throat. “You
were saying something about not wanting to kiss me, I
think.”
“Actually, I was saying something about you being
a serial killer.”
He laughed. “And how you only kissed me because
you were drunk.”
“I could be a drunk right now. I could be an
alcoholic for all you know.”
He smirked. “Right.”
“Don’t gloat,” I said. “It’s unattractive.”
He pulled the car back onto the road, towards ice
cream. While we drove, I went from breathless and
turned-on to flat-out annoyed that I let a practical stranger
feel me up on the side of the road. “What was that?” I
demanded when we reached Ben & Jerry’s.
“What was what?”
“You pulling over like that.”
“I wanted to make sure I was right,” he said.
“About what?”
“About the fact that I really like kissing you. And
unless I’m very, very mistaken, you like it, too,” he said.
He had caught my gaze and I let myself stare for a second.
Then, I looked away.
“That’s not the point.”
“Look, you don’t want to date anyone. That’s fine.
But that doesn’t mean we can’t hang out,” he said.
 “And do what? Make out?” I demanded.
“There are other things we could do,” he said,
with a smile. “Look, I want to buy you dinner. I want to
take you on a date.”
“Yeah,” I said. “But—”
“But you’ve got a hang-up. I hear you.” He
nodded. “So, why don’t we not date?”
“And do what?”
“Hang out. Get ice cream. I don’t know.” He
smiled. “We can have fun without getting engaged, you
know? We can have fun without even dating. We can be
friends.”
“With benefits?”
He laughed at the suggestion. “I mean, sure. We
could be friends, too. Without benefits. Although we do
have good chemistry.”
“Chemistry?”
“Sexual chemistry.”
“We haven’t had sex.”
“I know, but if we did…” he shrugged. “It would
probably be mind-blowing. Because the way we kiss is
insane. Don’t you think?”
“I haven’t kissed enough people to know.”
“Well, I have. And it is,” Jack said matter-of-
factly.
I believed him. Not just that we could have mind-
blowing sex, but that we could be friends. That maybe I
could have a no-commitment fling with a handsome guy
who I actually really, really liked.
“Okay.”
“Okay what?”
“Let’s be friends with benefits.”
He laughed. “Wait, seriously?”
“Yeah. Wait, were you joking?"
“No. Not at all. Are you?"
We looked at each other. "I asked you first," I said.
"No, I wasn't joking."
"Fine," I said. "We should probably have some
rules.”
“Like what?”
“No presents. Definitely no flowers. I’m not doing
your laundry, making you cookies, or coming to your
formal. Don’t ask me to,” I said. I cocked my head. “No
dates. No romantic comedies. No sleepovers. No saying I
love you. No buying me drinks. No Valentine’s Day,
nicknames, baby talk, chocolate, or Taylor Swift
concerts.”
He looked at me closely. “You’re serious?”
“Yes,” I said. “Why?"
“This feels like a trap.”
“Why?”
“Because you just made it against the rules to do
any of the things that every guy doesn’t want to do with his
girlfriend.”
 “It’s not a trap. And either party can terminate
benefits without any drama. There will be no drama.”
“This is definitely a trap.”
“Do you have anything to add?” I
asked.
“Yeah. Don’t call me babe.”
“I won’t call you babe."
We walked into Ben & Jerry’s and I ordered a
vanilla ice cream with rainbow sprinkles. We sat in his
car with the heat turned on high while we ate.
He started laughing to himself when he’d finished
his.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing,” he smiled. “You are just way more
interesting than I could’ve ever predicted.”
“You can say crazy,” I said.
He nodded. "Yeah, I know. But I wouldn't mean it.
Interesting."
Chapter Thirteen
David was quiet the first week of classes. And I was
sending a boy flirtatious texts.
Neither of these things had happened before, so I
probably would’ve been worried about a coming
apocalypse if I hadn’t been so fixated on how to survive
Robert Riley’s graduate-level combat and conflict
journalism class.
I was thrilled about getting into the class. Riley
was a legend. He had won two Pulitzer Prizes when he
covered the conflict in Bosnia during the '90s.
But I was also afraid I wouldn’t meet his
notoriously high expectations. Gruff and tough, he was
rumored to fail students with a single grammatical error in
their final assignments. And the class was mostly
composed of graduate students. Andrew and I were the
only two undergraduates who had been given permission
to take it this year.
I slept fitfully the night before Riley’s class—
although that was partly due to the eight cappuccinos I’d
had while excising stylistic errors from the newspaper
before it went to press.
Still, I arrived early, like everyone else, and I sat
with Andrew while we waited for Riley to walk in.
He appeared in a half-zip sweater, with a limp
from the shrapnel that had been embedded in his leg when
he was caught in a roadside bombing early in his career.
 He tossed a folded copy of the New York Times
onto his desk. “First of all, welcome. Second of all, you
should know that I don’t tolerate lateness or unexcused
absences. You don’t show up, you better have a doctor’s
note, because you’re lucky to have a seat in my class.
You’re lucky to be studying journalism at all. And as soon
as you forget that reporting is a privilege that should be
afforded only to the most committed and well-disciplined
individuals, you are going to fuck up. And if you fuck up in
journalism, people get hurt. When you print lies in a
newspaper, you make them true. And if you get lazy, you
will end up printing lies, whether or not you’re aware of
it. That is why, in this class, I won’t stand for anyone
cutting corners, no matter how insignificant they may
seem.”
I exchanged glances with Andrew. Riley was
hardcore.
The door swung open and everyone turned to look
at the pour soul foolish enough to show up five minutes
late to Riley’s class. And then my heart jumped into my
throat, because it was none other than Jack Diamond,
lanky, lean, and impossibly handsome, with a slow
Cheshire cat’s smile that seemed to be just for me.
Professor Riley cleared his throat. “Jack! What a
nice surprise.”
I closed my dropped jaw and stared at him.
Jack nodded. “What’s up?” He waved at me—he
waved—and then he looked back at Riley.
“So, did you decide to audit?” Riley asked him.
Jack shrugged and flashed him a smile. “Still on
the fence about that one, Bobby.”
Bobby? Bobby. Did he just say that?
I waited for Robert Riley—Pulitzer laureate,
famous journalist, extraordinarily grumpy professor—to
vault over the dais and claw Jack Diamond’s eyes out. But
that didn’t happen.
“You’re welcome anytime, Jack,” Riley said
paternally.
Jack climbed to the very back row, where nobody
else was seated. It took me a moment to tear my eyes away
from him and look instead at Riley.
“Some of the most crucial moments in history are
recorded by combat journalists,” Riley was saying. “And
it takes more than damned good writing for those moments
to be recorded accurately. It takes discipline and patience
and extraordinarily difficult and dangerous work…”
I tried to focus on Professor Robert Riley. I let his
voice drown out the questions I wanted to ask Jack, until
I’d almost forgotten they had ever been there.
I didn’t notice when Jack slipped out of the class,
but he was gone when Riley dismissed us.
Chapter Fourteen
As Jack had promised, Xander emailed Justin to apologize
on behalf of the fraternity.
Justin found me after our staff meeting to express
his gratitude. “It means a lot,” he said sheepishly. “I mean,
just thank you.”
“Hey,” I said readily. “That’s my job. No need to
thank me.”
We left the office together after the meeting, and I
turned the issue over to Andrew for the night so I could
have my phone interview with USA Today.
“How are things otherwise?” I asked.
“Okay,” he said. He rubbed the back of his head.
“I mean, Organic Chemistry is killing me slowly, but other
than that, I’m good.”
I laughed. “Already?”
“It’s a monster,” he said. “My brain does not
understand.”
“You’ll get it.”
“Yeah. I might have to slow down on the paper,
though. Sorry. Next year should be easier. I know I haven’t
written that much.”
“I totally understand. Not a problem,” I said.
“Thanks, Hadley.”
We’d reached the end of the path where I turned
left towards the parking lot and he turned right towards his
dorm.
 “Have a good night, Jus. I’ll see you around.”
“Hey, um…” he shrugged. “You said David
cooked every Friday?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Oh, right. You should totally come
over this week!”
“Yeah?” he nodded. “Cool. I’d like that.”
“Awesome. David will be happy.”
“Yeah?” Justin asked hopefully.
“Definitely.” I thought the flirtation with Ben
would end soon. David had been moody and quiet. He’d
been avoiding his other friends when he left the apartment,
and impatiently waiting to hear from Ben most other
nights. I couldn’t imagine him putting up with it for much
longer. “It’ll be fun. I’m glad you’re coming. Have a good
night.”
“Thanks. Good luck with the interview,” he
shouted after me.

The interview was okay—a lot of informational questions.

Nothing that threw me off my game, but nothing I could hit
out of the park either. They told me they’d be in touch to
set up an in-person interview, which felt like a victory.
After I hung up the phone, David came
in.
I walked out of my room to see him. “Justin’s
coming over for dinner tomorrow. I think he likes you.”
“Who?”
 I raised my eyebrows. “Justin Shelter?”
“Oh,” he said. “Right.”
He looked thinner and tired. That couldn’t be right.
He couldn’t have lost weight in a week.
It was his clothing, I realized. He was drowning in
a baggy polo shirt and khakis. I had no idea where he’d
even gotten them, but it was so not his style.
“Are you okay?”
He shook his head, as if he were snapping out of a
trance. “Sorry.” He smiled more genuinely. “I’m good.
Tired. I spent the night at Ben’s.” He looked at me
dreamily. “He’s really great.”
“Yeah? When can I meet him?” I ventured
cautiously.
“I told you. You can’t. Not until he’s ready and
that’s not going to be for a really long time because of
football.”
I nodded my head once. “Well, is he your
boyfriend?”
“No. No. Definitely not,” he shrugged. “He’s not
ready for that. Which is fine. I can totally wait.”
I didn’t buy it. He sounded pretty sad.
“Well, do you have plans Friday? After dinner?”
“No, probably not. Ben has plans with his
teammates.”
And David wasn’t invited.
“Maybe we could go out after dinner,” I said.
“You, me and Justin.”
He smiled. “You want to go out?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I told Jack I’d think about it. And I
think you should introduce Justin to some people.”
“To people?”
“In the gay community,” I said. “He’s a freshman,
remember?”
“Oh, yeah,” David said noncommittally, “Look,
Ben asked me to sort of tone it down.”
“Tone what down?”
“You know, the whole thing,” he said very softly.
“What whole thing?”
“Just the off-the-walls gay thing.”
“I’m sorry. What?” I said incredulously. “Tell me
that’s a joke.”
“Hadley,” he said. “I know you don’t understand,
but I really like him. And he’s been really good to me,”
David said, almost pleadingly.
“By asking you to tone down your personality?”
“Not my personality,” he said. “I don’t have to be
so out there, you know?”
I looked at him, in utter shock. “Yeah, he sounds
really wonderful. I’d like to meet this kid.”
“Hadley.”
“No, I really do. I want to see who's put the crazy
idea in your head that your personality is something to be
ashamed of.”
 My phone rang on the counter. David looked at me.
“Are you going to get that?”
“This is more important right now.”
David got to his feet and shrugged. “I don’t see
why you’re making me feel bad about a relationship I’m
excited about.”
“I’m not trying to make you feel bad about your
relationship.”
“That’s what you’re doing, though,” David
responded coldly. “I’m going to bed.”
“David,” I called after him.
He closed the door softly. I knocked on it.
“Hadley, I want you to leave me alone,” he said. I
sighed deeply.
“David, come on. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he called back. “I’m tired.
I’m going to sleep.”

David made himself scarce Friday morning. I heard him

grab a cup of coffee and leave the apartment around 7.
And he didn’t respond to my text when I asked if we
needed anything for dinner while I was on my way home
that evening. I really hoped he’d be there to let in Justin. I
was starting to worry he was so angry with me that he
wouldn’t show up.
I reached the apartment, praying David would be
home. And he was. He was making fajitas, and he and
Justin were already drinking.
“Gorgeous, you’re here,” David said, slurring his
words. “Justin’s culinary skills have improved
tremendously. He did an amazing job with the margarita
mix.”
He sounded like his usual self and he was dressed
that way, too. He wore tight jeans on his pin-thin legs, a
bright pink shirt, and a fedora while he poured me a
margarita. He handed it to me with a broad, frankly
frightening grin.
“Are you wearing a shirt with those stockings?” I
asked with an arched eyebrow as Justin gave me a warm
hug and laughed.
I changed into tighter jeans and cuter boots, and a
black tank top David recommended.
Jack wanted to meet up tonight, and for the first
time that I could remember, I was excited to go out.
I sipped the lethally strong margarita that Justin
had thrust into my hand. I even did my makeup, tossing my
head to the music. It was fun. I was having fun, and that
wasn’t a bad thing. I’d survived not getting the New York
Times job. I had a friend with benefits. And the sky had
not fallen. It was mostly okay.
“You are definitely not washed-up yet,” David
said when I reentered the room. “Right, Justin?”
Justin nodded his assent and smiled at David.
 “Who said I was washed-up?”
David raised his hand. “Me. Like all first
semester.”
“Thanks a lot, pal.”
“I mean, you never looked that washed-up. You
just sort of dressed that way.”
“Oh, shut up,” I said. I ran my hand through my
hair. “Jack will be there.”
“Fabulous,” David said. He looked at Justin.
“Hadley is a committed spinster but she has a friend with
benefits, courtesy of me.”
I rolled my eyes.
David got up from his seat and caught his
reflection in the mirror. “Does this outfit look okay?”
I finished my margarita. “Of course.”
David fussed in front of the mirror. “I feel like Ben
wouldn’t like this.”
“Who’s Ben?” Justin asked.
David opened his mouth and then closed it. “Ben
Cho, the fashion designer, my icon.”
I raised my eyebrows. “What?”
“Hold on. I’m changing.”
He came out of his room half an hour later wearing
something decidedly un-David. Khakis and a blue polo
shirt. He ran a hand through his hair and turned to me.
“How do I look?”
“Like you’re from Nowhere, Nebraska?”
 David flinched slightly and Justin gave me a dirty
look. “I like it,” Justin said softly.
“Sorry. You look nice. Just—not very you.”
“I don’t want him to…I don’t want to scare him
off.”
“By being yourself?” I asked.
David looked at Justin and then at me. “Let’s not
talk about this right now.”
I met his eyes and inhaled deeply. “Alright.
Whatever you say.”
I stole a glance at David nervously pushing his hair
off his forehead and studying his reflection.
“You look good. You always look good,” I said,
seeing the apprehension on his face and hating that
someone had made him feel so uncomfortable in his own
skin.
“Oh my god, everything just got so serious,” David
said. He laughed. “I swear we’re not usually this
emotional, Justin.” He turned up the music. “Who wants
another margarita?”
Justin and I both accepted another drink. Pretty
soon we’d forgotten the weird moment and lost ourselves
in the musical genius that was Ke$ha.
David started bouncing on his toes and twisting his
hips and knees. I joined him. My heart pounded loudly in
my ears with the music, and my legs shook from jumping. I
collapsed on the floor, hair over my face. “David, I cannot
go anywhere. I need to stay here with the margaritas.”
“Oh my god. Time to go to the bar,” he said.
“Hadley, get up. You do not get to pass out.”
“I’m not passed out. I’m just out of shape.” I sat up
and shook out my hair. “Let’s go.”
We walked to the bar.
When I thought about seeing Jack there, my
stomach twisted slightly. In a good way. In the best way.
The Pub was the kind of bar that every college
town has. Sticky floors, stumbling freshmen, rocking, loud
pop music, condescending bartenders who really didn’t
like any of their customers, and pretty much everyone you
knew from campus.
The first person I saw was Andrew Brenner.
“Hey,” Andrew said, putting a hand on my back.
“Good to finally see you out.”
“Yeah. Thanks,” I smiled. “You know, I do go
out.”
“I know. I know. That’s not what I meant.” He
chuckled. “Can you believe the wind chill? The humidity
is out of control.”
I nodded. “Crazy stuff.”
Justin raised his eyebrows and bit back a laugh.
“You know each other right?” I said.
“Of course. Loved the article,” Andrew said,
shaking his hand. “Where’s your roommate?”
I looked around, but David had vanished into the
crowd. I saw Nigel in a corner and waved. He might
know.
“I have no idea,” I told Andrew. “We should find
him. We’ll be right back.”
David and I walked over to Nigel.
“Hads,” he said. He gave me a warm hug. “Justin.
Awesome to see you out. How’s it going?”
“Good.”
Nigel nodded at Trevor. “Justin, this is my friend
Trevor. Trev, Justin. Justin’s a freshman in GSA.”
“Awesome.”
“You guys seen David?”
Trevor made a fluttering gesture with one hand.
“Prince David is giving us the silent treatment. After all,
we aren’t on the football team.”
“And wearing something awful,” Nigel said. He
looked at me. “What’s with him?”
I shook my head. “Long story.”
“He’s over there,” Nigel said. He pointed him out
to him. “Pretending not to see us.”
He was standing alone, looking sort of sad and
uncomfortable, holding a beer near a pack of rowdy
football players. I saw Ben Mitchell, too, pointedly
ignoring him.
Bullshit.
This was stupid. And it made me furious.
“You want a drink?” Trevor asked me. “We’re
drinking and dancing.”
I shook my head, watching David, wishing I could
shake his shoulder and make him snap out of it. But I knew
it wouldn’t work.
“What about you, Justin? Drink?” Trevor asked.
“Yeah. Definitely! Hadley, do you mind?”
“No, no, go ahead,” I motioned at them.
“Meet us at the bar if you change your mind,”
Nigel called.
The three of them disappeared. I kept my eye on
David, glancing at my phone occasionally, wondering if he
would mind being seen with me, or if it was just his gay
friends that Ben had told him to avoid.
Ben was still ignoring him. I decided to go get him.
At least, he didn’t need to be alone while he was being
ignored.
I turned and I bumped directly into Jack at full
speed.
He was holding two beers and stepped back, only
barely sloshing them.
“Heyo,” Jack said. He smiled. “I was trying to get
your attention.”
He handed one of them to me and I looked at it,
wondering if I should point out that he wasn’t supposed to
buy me drinks.
“I feel like you’re accident prone,” he said. He
was wearing plaid. Navy with red. It looked good on him.
He looked like Jake Gyllenhaal. Too good for a college
bar. Too good for a college girl who hadn’t slept with
anyone since junior year…of high school.
“Sorry, what?” I said, pulling my eyes away from
his body, feeling like an idiot frat boy, caught objectifying
a hot girl in a Halloween costume.
“I said I feel like you might be accident prone.
That’s how we met. You falling?” he gave me a grin.
“You were in my way.”
He laughed. “I guess. My bad.” He smiled. “You
like beer? I got one for you, because I’m the kind of
person who makes assumptions.”
“Thanks.”
“So, what’s up?” he asked.
I looked up at him and lifted my shoulders. “Not
much. I was, um…” I glanced over at where David had
been standing. Ben was finally talking to him, although he
had his arm wrapped around some blond girl’s waist. “I
was about to get my roommate.”
“Roommates are awesome. Let’s find him.”
“How much have you had to drink tonight?” I
asked.
He laughed. “I don’t know if I should tell you that.
You might put it in your newspaper.”
“Trust me. You’re not that interesting and we’re
not that desperate yet,” I said.
“Yet?” He shook his head. “That’s not a very
strong sell. Well, the answer is not that much. It’s a
crowded bar. Somebody pushed me. And you make me
nervous.”
I smiled at that. “Bullshit.”
He tilted the neck of his beer bottle towards me. “I
bet you get that all the time.”
I shook my head. “No. I never get that.”
He laughed. “Well, maybe everyone’s too nervous
to say anything.”
I tried to think of something witty to say back, but I
was watching David downstairs at the bar, with his arms
crossed tightly over his stomach. He was alone, nobody
was talking to him. It broke my fucking heart.
I could see how Ben glanced over, occasionally,
and how each time David looked briefly hopeful and how
each time Ben averted his eyes.
“Seriously?” I muttered bitterly.
“Sorry,” Jack said. “Is that not allowed?”
“I’m sorry. What were you saying?” I asked him,
not taking my eyes off of David. I needed to go down
there.
“Ah, your week? I asked if you had a good week.”
“Yeah, it was fine.”
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” I said. “My roommate is being an idiot.”
“You want to go find him?” he said.
I nodded. I took a sip of the beer and made a face.
 He laughed. “You don’t like beer. Good to know.”
“You’re not supposed to buy me drinks.”
“You’re right,” he said. “Give it back.” He
reached out his hand for it.
I smiled, in spite of myself. “It has my germs on
it.”
“So, what’s up with the roommate?” he said.
“It’s a long story.”
I looked around for Ben and saw his back
retreating towards the door.
Bastard.
David was still cradling his phone. When it lit up,
so did his face. I leaned my arms on the railing to watch.
Jack’s voice was quiet in my ear. “That him?”
“Yeah.”
“You can tell me the story,” he said. “Even if it’s
long.”
“I told him I wouldn’t,” I sighed.
“Well, go talk to him if you need to. I’ll wait
here,” Jack said.
I nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. Thanks. Sorry.”
“No worries,” he said. He looked around. “I’ll
guard your railing.”
I smiled, wishing I could enjoy Jack instead of
worrying about David. I walked back downstairs past the
crowd in front of the bar and found him.
I tapped him on the shoulder. “Hey.”
 David whirled. “Hadley! Hey.”
I smiled. “You okay?”
He nodded and beamed. “Ben just texted me to
meet him. So I’m going to go.”
I nodded once. “Got it.”
He met my eyes. “Sorry.” He looked around. “Do
you want me to stay with you? Is Jack here yet…” He bit
his lip apologetically. “I know I told you I’d introduce
Justin to some people but Ben’s—”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “I’ll see you at
home.”
He nodded. “Have fun.” He hugged me. He didn’t
look back while I watched him leave.
Jack was waiting for me, as promised. He was the
kind of person who didn’t look uncomfortable alone. He
took up a lot of room, leaning over the railing, one beer
resting at his elbow, nursing another one at his lips.
“Everything cool?” he asked.
No, it wasn’t, but I nodded. “Yeah.” I smiled. “So,
I saw you this week.”
“You did. We made out in my car.” He smiled.
“You let me feel you up. Then you said I wasn’t allowed
to date you.”
“I remember,” I said. “I meant in Riley’s class.”
“Ah.”
“I think you called him Bobby.”
He nodded. “I wouldn’t recommend trying that.”
 “I wasn’t going to. He’s terrifying.”
“He’s harmless, really.”
“How do you know him?
“He’s my godfather,” Jack said. “We go way
back.”
“Oh, okay,” I said. “How’d that end up
happening?”
“Oh, you know,” Jack said. “I insisted on it as
soon as I was born.” He grinned. “Nah, my dad knew
him.”
I nodded. “Gotcha.”
“He thinks I want to be a photographer.”
“Do you?”
“No. I don’t want to be anything.” He smiled. “But
I like to humor him. It makes him feel like he’s doing a
good job as a godfather. You like the class?”
“Yeah, I do. He’s amazing. I grew up reading his
books and his articles and—”
“Of course. That’s why you’re Editor-in-Chief.”
“Yeah, that and a long masochistic streak,
apparently,” I said.
“Really?” Jack said wickedly. He smiled. “Tell
me more about your masochistic streak. Is that like a Fifty
Shades—”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. I meant it’s a lot of work and
it’s pretty thankless.”
“Alright,” he said. He laughed into his beer.
“Ah…” He looked back at me, chuckling. “Want to
dance?”
“Sorry?”
“Do you want to dance?” he nodded at the dance
floor. “You didn’t make a rule against that.”
I squinted at the dance floor. “I’m not a good
dancer.”
“You just haven’t had enough to drink. Everyone’s
a good dancer when they’re drunk.”
“Are you a good dancer?”
“Amazing,” he said. “C’mon.”
I followed him downstairs past the bar to the
dance floor. He grabbed my hips and I’d had just enough
to drink to not care who saw.
I wrapped my arms around his neck. He pulled me
close, and he moved against my hips.
Yeah, he was a good dancer.
I was not. And I don’t think there was enough
alcohol in the world to make me one. But, he didn’t seem
to mind, so I held onto his shoulders and moved when he
moved and spun when he spun me. And we laughed. Every
time I did something stupid, he started laughing and so did
I.
I kept spinning the wrong way. His feet kept
slipping and he kept grinning each time, gripping my
forearms, pressing his forehead to mine, his laughter low
and gravelly close to my ear.
 When a slow song came on, he shook his head.
“This against the rules?”
I shook my head. “This is the only kind of dancing
in which I don’t feel like a spaz.”
I felt small in his arms and I couldn’t remember
feeling small before, and warm. Too warm—really—but I
didn’t want to let go. I could feel every place where we
touched.
He grinned. “It’s too hot.”
“Yeah,” I agreed.
“We need drinks.”
“Yeah.”
He grabbed my wrist and pulled me towards the
bar. He got the bartender’s attention.
“Jack!” the bartender said. He grinned and they
shook hands and bumped shoulders.
"Xander, this is Hadley."
He nodded and grinned. "Right. Nice to meet you."
I shook his hand.
"You're the one who seems like a trap, right?"
Xander asked.
"Shut up," said Jack.
“I think so,” I said.
Xander laughed. "Do you like tequila?"
I shrugged. "I don't know. I like margaritas."
Xander nodded and poured four shots skillfully,
pushing them towards us. "On the house," he said, turning
to a girl shouting for his attention.
I looked at Jack. "I don't know about this."
Jack grinned and licked his hand, shaking salt
along his hand.
He reached for my wrist and pressed a damp kiss
beneath my pulse point. Without looking up at me, he
poured salt along the imprint of his mouth.
It stung slightly, the salt, where it clung to my skin.
He handed me a shot glass, tapped his against
mine, and licked the salt and downed his, biting down on a
lime last.
I spluttered with the mouthful of salt and alcohol.
"Bite it," he said, holding out a lime while my eyes
streamed. I did, turning away from him as the juice
dripped down my stinging hands. I winced.
"Blergh. Oh my god," I said. "I'm sorry, that was
incredibly inelegant."
He laughed. "Another?"
I shook my head. "I don't think so."
A slim, gorgeous redheaded girl who I knew was
the president of Kappa-something, slipped by us.
"Shots?" Jack asked her, offering our leftovers.
"Oh my god, love you," she said, taking them. She
grinned at me. "Hey! Are you rushing? How do you know
Jack?”
"Sorry?" I asked.
"Are you rushing? You are, right? I think I saw you
at our event today. I'm the president of Kappa Delta. Let
me know if you have any questions at all. We mix with
Jack's frat all the time."
"Oh, no,” I smiled. “I’m actually a senior.”
She frowned. "Oh my god! Sorry. I'm totally
mortified. I'm sorry."
"No worries," I said. "I'm Hadley."
"Reese."
"Nice to meet you," I said.
Jack laughed again. "See you around, Reese," he
said. He wrapped his arm around me. “It’s too fucking hot
in here,” he said, pulling at his thick flannel shirt. His hair
was damp with sweat. Mine was, too, but it was a good
look on Jack. It made him look strangely alive.
“Want to get back out there?” he nodded at the
dance floor. I pulled my hair into a high ponytail. The air
against my neck felt delightful.
“Sure,” I said.
The alcohol and the heat got to me quickly. Jack
got cuter and cuter. We danced and danced. My legs
ached. And every time he spun me, I started to laugh.
"You want to get out of here?" he asked, when we
were both breathlessly and giggling.
I looked at him. His sweat-soaked hair, his
rumpled plaid shirt. And I said exactly what I wanted to
say. “Yeah.”
He pulled me through the crowd and out the door
into the winter night. For five fleeting seconds, we both
stood in the chilled air without our coats.
“This feels so good,” he said holding out his arms
and walking up the sidewalk, in between two banks of
snow.
But we quickly started to shiver and I pulled on my
down coat and he slid on a Patagonia fleece and stuffed
his hands in his pockets.
“So, what’s your deal, Hadley Arrington?”
“No deal,” I said.
“Please. Everyone has a deal.”
“What’s your deal?”
“I’m an underachiever,” he said. He smiled. “Your
turn.”
I grimaced.
“I bet you’re an overachiever.”
“Not really,” I said.
He glanced at me. “Editor-in-Chief of the
newspaper?"
I shrugged. “I like it.”
“Because you’re a masochist?”
“Because—because I feel like I’m actually
creating something instead of just...flopping around
aimlessly.”
“See, I flop,” Jack said. “You should try it. It’s not
nearly as dreadful as you just made it sound. It has some
advantages.”
 “Like what?”
“Well, you’re never disappointed in yourself.
Flopping is easy.”
The frat house wasn’t far—four hundred or so
yards down the road. And we walked through the unlocked
front door to the sounds of video games and the smell of
pot. I crinkled my noise and he laughed. “Come on.”
His room was upstairs, down the hallway and in a
corner. It was small and cozy and absurdly clean. He had
countless books, lined on shelves. And an open
sketchbook on his desk. I walked over to glance at it, but
he closed it before I got there.
I didn’t know what to do with myself, where to sit,
what to say, or how to say it. I looked at him and tried to
sound cool. “So, what do you want to do?”
He closed the door and put his hands lightly on my
waist. His hands had rested there all night, but the dancing
had been more about fun than about sex. Now the light
hands made my heart beat quickly in anticipation. He
leaned forward and kissed me again, pushing me back onto
the bed.
"Jack..."
He stopped kissing me and frowned. “You okay?”
I rolled my eyes, took a breath, and disentangled
myself from his grip. "Fine. So, how do you know Reese?"
He grinned. "The most clueless girl on campus?
How could I not know her?" He raised his eyebrows. "I'm
guessing you never went in for the sorority thing."
"I went to rush," I said.
"Seriously?"
I nodded. "Yeah, I was trying to cut through the
student center to get to the library, went right through some
kind of cheer. Lots of clapping. Very weird."
"Ha. I thought so." He got up from the bed and took
off his shoes. He started unbuttoning his shirt. I watched
him pointedly.
He grinned, unabashed. "So, Hadley Arrington."
"Yes," I said.
"You're not a bad dancer."
"I'm not a good dancer either."
He smiled. "Don't be so hard on yourself."
"I don't get flowers and you don't get to lie to me,"
I said.
"Okay, you're not a good dancer," he said.
"I'm devastated," I said.
"I bet.” He pointed a finger at me. “You're an
overachiever."
"Completely devastated. There are almost no
serious journalists who can't dance."
He grinned, his eyes crinkled, and he tossed the
sweat-soaked shirt on top of his dresser. His wide
shoulders were smooth and brown, like he’d been in the
sun, despite the fact it was January in Illinois. A thin white
scar ran from his left rib to his right groin, diagonally
splitting his rippling muscles.
I met his eyes, feeling panicked. “How’d you get
that?”
“Slip and slide,” he said. “There was a sharp rock
underneath the slide. And I had to go down first. Of
course.”
I winced, imagining.
“Yeah,” he said. He smiled, eyes sparkling. “Don’t
try that one.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
"So, I have a question,” he said.
"Shoot," I said, trying to sound calm. I got to my
feet and took off my coat and draped it over the back of his
desk chair.
"Am I freaking you out?"
"No. Why?"
"You seem ready to bolt."
"I'm not going anywhere," I said. I sounded kind of
like a coke addict, though. I didn't even believe I wasn't
going anywhere. I cocked my head and he stepped towards
me.
“Relax,” Jack murmured. He pressed his lips
against my neck.
“I am relaxed.”
“Bullshit,” he whispered. A smile played at the
corners of his mouth when he kissed me. He spun me
around so I was facing him and walked me back to the
bed. I sat when we reached its edge.
He then leaned forward, pressing me back onto my
elbows. I thought he was going to kiss me, but he dropped
his head next to my ear and whispered, “We don’t have to
do anything if you don’t want to.”
“Says Jack as he pins me down.”
He laughed softly in my ear. The breath was warm
against my neck. He moved his mouth from my ear to my
mouth and kissed me.
“Maybe I'm nervous."
“You don’t get to be nervous. I’m nervous,” he
said. He kissed me again and I smiled, breaking the kiss.”
"But I'm an overachiever."
“You’re not going to underachieve in bed,” he
smiled. “Not with me anyways.”
I closed my eyes, lifting one hand up to his strong
jawbone, and kissed him. My fingers tangled in his soft,
still-damp hair. My heart started racing, like it was going
to explode. “Well, I could be rusty?”
“Shut up,” he whispered gently. He lifted me up
and slid me further back on the bed, so I was lying
underneath him. I could feel his heat, but he braced his
weight on his own hands. And he kissed me again.
I broke the kiss abruptly, pulling my head aside
and sitting up. He sat back on his heels.
“Okay?” he put his hand on my lower back.
I nodded.
 “Too fast?”
“Yeah.”
“What do you want?”
“This. Just. Not sex. Not tonight, I mean,” I
managed. I looked at him. “Sorry. I want to. Just not so
fast. And I wanted to say something before we got ahead
of ourselves.”
He nodded. “I never took that for granted.”
I nodded. “Good.”
He smiled and coaxed me onto his lap. I straddled
him and put my hands on his shoulders. They were warm.
His cool fingers ran up my ribcage, he dropped kisses
along my collarbone. He pulled me closer. I felt him
beneath me.
He reached for the hem of my shirt and pulled it
over my head. He unhooked my bra gently with one hand
and bit one strap and pulled it down my arm. His teeth
scraped ever so softly against the hairs on my arm.
I shivered as he thrust up slightly and dropped his
mouth gently to my breast.
I ran my hands through his hair.
“You taste like vanilla,” he said, lifting his mouth.
He stood up, lifting me with him and knelt onto the bed
and dropped me onto my back.
“You taste like beer and tequila,” I replied.
He smiled. “That’s what I brush my teeth with.”
“So, we’re just going to have a long make-out
session?”
“A shirtless make-out session,” he teased. “I think
the kids call it second base.”
I smiled. “Benefit of the friendship?”
He nodded. “Absolutely.”

We made out until our lips ached. And when we had

stopped, we lay silently against each other. I felt sleepy
and I laughed, reached for my shirt, and said I had to go.
He sat on the stoop and waited with me for the cab, both
of us shivering.
I leaned back on my hands, breathing in the cold
air. He was easy to be near, when he wasn’t making me
nervous, and after rolling around in his bed shirtless, I
wasn’t nearly as nervous.
“We should do something fun,” Jack said, when the
cab came. “Not a date,” he said when I gave him a look.
“Like some kind of friend thing. What do you do for fun?”
“The newspaper.”
“That’s fun?”
“Yeah,” I nodded. “It is, actually.” I meant it too. It
could be stressful, but it was voluntary. I liked it.
He smiled. “Well, we can read some
newspapers.”
“Maybe you should be in charge of fun.”
“And you can be in charge of achievement?”
“I’ll be in charge of rules.”
 He chuckled and walked me down the path
towards the car. “I’ll see you around, Hadley.”
“Later, pal.”
I heard him laugh as I got into the car. He watched
me leave. There was something about that that I liked. And
something else about that scared me a little.
Chapter Fifteen
By one o’clock, my hangover was starting to get the better
of me. I couldn’t remember comma rules, and I kept
missing split infinitives and all the other nasty grammar
mistakes that riddled freshmen’s articles.
When the door to the offices swung open and
Andrew appeared, I let out a sigh of relief. He held two
large Starbucks cups. He handed me one.
“I love you almost as much as I love coffee.”
He looked over my sweatpants and the empty
Pedialyte bottles on my desk. “Rough night?”
“Oh, not really.”
He laughed dubiously and nodded. “Right.”
“Hey, at least I showered this morning,” I said.
“This is why I don’t go out,” I informed him. “Socializing
melts my brain.”
“I think that’s probably just the alcohol,” he said.
“You’re awfully judgmental this morning,
Brenner.”
“Sorry.” He yawned. “Tired, I guess. Did you find
David last night?”
“Yeah, I did. Finally. He was wearing a polo shirt.
Confused the hell out of me."
He leaned over my shoulder to look at the article I
was reviewing. “Verb agreement, first paragraph.” He
tapped the screen.
“Shit. I should not be copyediting right now,” I
said. I fixed the mistake and reached for my coffee.
“So, I was talking to Juliet, and she thinks we
should do something big for Valentine’s Day.”
I gave him a look. “Like what? I’m not putting
Valentine’s day on the cover.”
“What about a special edition? Like a six-page,
Love at Northwestern thing.”
“That needs six pages? We gave Obama’s
reelection six paragraphs,” I said.
“Oh, don’t be such a Grinch. It would be great for
readership,” he said. “Like, we could do an article on
LGBT life, Greek life, and Juliet had this idea to do like a
Secret Admirers section for a week.”
“And where would we put the Secret Admirers?
Before the sports section or after the international
section?” I demanded sarcastically.
“Would you just think about it?” Andrew said.
“It’s not a bad idea. You could write an editorial on why
you’re opposed to Valentine’s Day.”
“I’m not opposed to Valentine’s Day. I’m just not
giving it six pages in my newspaper.”
“Your newspaper?” he repeated.
“You know what I mean. I’m the first girl to be
Editor-in-Chief in nine years. I’m not presiding over the
first Valentine’s Day Special.”
“You should consider it,” he said seriously. “I
think it’s sort of unfair that you’re shooting it down
because you don’t want people to think you’re too girly. If
I were the Editor-in-Chief, I’d do it.”
I sighed. “Can we just focus on this issue and
worry about Valentine’s Day closer to Valentine’s Day?”
“Fine,” he said. “But think about it. Seriously,
think about it. We could get people to write about their
love lives. It could be a mix of opinion pieces and news
stories. Look, we always talk about culture at
Northwestern, and love lives are a big part of culture.”
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. “Let’s talk about
it tomorrow. I just don’t have the energy right now.”
He smiled, albeit frostily. “Okay.”
Chapter Sixteen
“I’m in love,” David declared when I got back from the
newspaper around 11 on a Saturday morning.
"I don't have time for your love," I said. "I was
about to report you missing. I haven't seen you for a week.
You missed dinner on a Friday."
He smiled as he poured batter into a waffle iron.
"I've been here."
"When have you been here?"
"I was here Tuesday night."
I rolled my eyes.
"And you'd be too busy to notice otherwise," he
said. "I know when you stop making your bed."
When my schedule felt crazed, I stopped sleeping
underneath the covers so I didn’t have to make my bed in
the morning. I hated making my bed. It was wedged in a
corner, and I couldn't get the bedspread flat unless I
yanked the frame all the way out.
"Waffle?"
I nodded, grudgingly. "Please. So, I guess things
are going well with Ben?"
He beamed. "Yes. Plate."
I pulled a plate down from the cabinet over the
sink and handed it to him. "Well, I missed you," I
admitted.
He smiled. "I bet you were here for five minutes."
"Still," I said. “So tell me.”
 He sighed and fluttered his eyelashes dramatically.
"He's dreamy."
I dumped syrup on my waffles. "Actually, spare me
the details."
David laughed. "I'm kidding. It’s good though. I
really like him, Hadley."
“Are you going to need more polo shirts?”
“Maybe,” he said. “But who really cares?”
“You should,” I said. I took a bite of the waffle.
He shrugged sadly. “You don’t get it.”
“Sorry,” I muttered. “I just feel like…I don’t
know. I feel like you shouldn’t have to dress differently
for the guy you’re dating. I mean, if I ever started doing
that, you’d hit the fucking roof.”
“Yeah, that’s different.”
“How?” I asked.
“Because, you’re straight and everyone you date is
straight,” he said. “If some guy wanted you to change, it
would be controlling bullshit. Ben has to protect himself.”
“From people finding out who he is? Who you
are?” I shook my head. “David, that doesn't make any
sense."
“He’s on the football team.”
“The season is over and he’s a senior,” I pointed
out. "He really thinks people are so homophobic that he
can't be seen with you?"
“He wants to go pro.” David’s mouth hardened
into a thin line. “Look, you don’t understand it because
you’re not gay. He doesn’t want people to know. He’s
scared. It’s not about changing me. It’s about being scared.
And I’m willing to deal with it, alright?”
I stared at him.
"Or is that not alright with you?" David demanded.
"If you're comfortable, then alright. But you didn't
look comfortable last weekend when he was ignoring you.
I don't think it's healthy. I’m sorry. I know that’s not what
you want to hear and I know it’s your life and your
decision, but, there are a lot of guys out there who
wouldn’t ask you to change—”
“How would you know?” David asked angrily.
“David,” I said softly. “You’re like the most
lovable person—”
“I like Ben. I want to date Ben. And if this is what
I have to do, I’m going to do it. And I don’t need you to
judge me for it.”
“Alright. You’re right. I’m sorry,” I said. I took a
deep breath. "Sorry. That's not what I was trying to do." I
shook my head. "I don't know. It just makes me nervous.
But, I shouldn't be judgmental. Sorry."
I took another bite of the waffles. I'd drowned them
in syrup and they were sticky and oversweet. I went to the
refrigerator and poured a glass of milk and took a sip.
"The waffles are good," I said, just to clear the air
between us.
 “Thanks." He bit his lip. "Actually, I have a favor
to ask."
“Yeah, sure."
“I asked Ben over for dinner tonight and he won't
be comfortable if you're here." He looked worried. "I was
going to cook. Um, do you think you can find something to
do? Somewhere else?”
“Sure," I said, in a falsely high voice. "That's
great. I've got things to do. I'll stay out of your hair."
He broke into a smile. “Thanks. Seriously. Thank
you.”
“Yeah, no worries.”
Even though I'd apologized and even though David
seemed to be okay, something had exchanged between us
that made sitting quietly in the same room uncomfortable.
My phone vibrated. I had a text message from
Jack: What are you up to today?
I looked up at David. "What time is Ben coming
over?"
"Well, um, he said he'd help cook. So, if you'll tell
me when's good for you, then..."
"Anytime is fine," I said.
"Yeah? Well, maybe I'll tell him five-thirty?”
I nodded. "Cool." Free at 5, maybe a little bit
before.
Come over?
Sure.
“Boom,” Jack said when I walked in. He was lying in the
atrociously messy living room on his back, in yet another
plaid flannel shirt and arching his neck at the television
screen while he played Halo with the dark-haired
bartender from the week before.
“Yo, Xander, this is Arrington.”
“You’re calling me Arrington?”
“What? I like that name,” he said. "Hadley,
Xander. Xander, Hadley. You met at the bar, but you were
drunk."
"I remember," I said.
Xander glanced up from the violent game for a
split second. “Hey. Good to see you again."
"You, too."
“She’s the Editor-in-Chief.”
Xander jerked his head up and paused the game.
“Hey, what the fuck are you doing?” Jack asked
Xander, jerking his controller around. "You can't pause."
Xander looked at me and grinned. “You’re the
Editor-in-Chief?”
“That’s what I just said,” Jack said. “Why did you
pause the game, you asshole?”
“You didn’t say it was a girl.”
“Fuck you,” Jack said. “Unpause.”
Xander laughed and nodded at me. He kept
looking. “It all makes sense now.”
“Shut the fuck up, and finish the game,” Jack
insisted.
“What makes sense?” I asked.
“Make yourself a drink and join us,” Jack said.
"Kitchen's that way," Jack nodded at it with his chin. I
walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. With
the exception of a carton of orange juice, all they had was
alcohol and energy drinks.
Xander's voice carried into the kitchen and I
cocked my head to hear.
“It would have been a lot easier to get all of that
Justin Shelter stuff off the internet if you had just explained
you were trying to impress a hot girl…” I bit my lip.
I shouldn't like that. It was derogatory and
objectifying and it insulted my intellect and my position at
the paper. It was an outrage.
But I liked it. I'd never been the hot girl. I wasn't
the hot girl.
I grabbed a bottle of vodka and fished around in
their dishwasher for a clean glass.
“Fuck off,” Jack replied. “I’m not trying to impress
her.”
“Well, if you’re not trying to impress her, maybe I
will,” Xander said. The tile floor in the kitchen was
sticky.
“I'd like to see that,” Jack replied.
 "Yeah, I bet you would."
"No, really," Jack said. "Knock yourself out. Tell
me how it goes."
Xander's voice dropped. I couldn't make anything
out after that.
I poured a splash of vodka over ice, and filled the
glass with orange juice.
I walked back into the living room and sat down
next to where Jack was lying on the floor. I leaned against
the couch and held out my hand for a controller.
“You play Halo?”
I nodded gamely. I had no idea how to play
Halo.
Xander chuckled. “Well, everything really makes
sense now,” he repeated. "Hot girl plays Halo." He
nodded. "Whole thing makes sense."
“Xander, would you stop talking?" Jack asked.
“Know what you’re doing next year?” Xander
asked, ignoring him.
“Um, not exactly. No," I said. "I have an interview
with USA Today on Thursday." I shrugged. "Washington
bureau."
“Awesome,” Xander said. "So, policy
journalism?"
"Yeah."
"Is that the dream job?"
I shrugged. "It's a good job, but no. Not exactly. I
want to do combat journalism, I think."
“You do?” Jack asked. He tore his eyes from the
screen and gave me a quick searching glance.
“Yep," I said. I rubbed my chin. "Anyways, I doubt
that'll happen before I've been out of school for a while.
They want people with experience."
Xander watched Jack closely. Neither of them said
anything.
"Anyways, yeah. Newspapers," I said to fill the
silence.
"Combat journalism?" Jack repeated.
"Um, yeah. Eventually. But that's not what the
interview is for," I said.
"Well, that's good."
"Why is that good?" I asked.
“I don't think it's worth dying for bad news.”
I shook my head. "I think it's important. Maybe
even worth dying for. If journalists hadn’t gone over to
Vietnam, a lot more people would've died there. You need
war correspondents to enforce accountability."
“Well, if that’s…” he started, his voice almost
harsh. He let out a long breath and didn’t finish the
thought. “Yeah, I guess that’s important,” he said
tonelessly. He shrugged.
“What are you doing next year?” I asked Jack.
"I’m going to try to find a way not to work,” Jack
said. “Which I’m actually pretty good at, so I don’t foresee
any problems.”
“Nice.”
"Good plan,” Xander said sarcastically.
“I think it’s a great plan,” Jack said simply. "They
always tell you to do what you love. And I love not
working."
“Eventually, you are going to have to do something
with your life,” Xander said.
Jack shrugged. "We'll see."
“You have to do something," Xander repeated.
“Don’t argue with me about the meaning of life, my
friend. You may be a genius engineer, but I took Intro to
Philosophy and got a B+,” Jack said. “And I don’t see the
point in getting a job.”
Xander threw his head back, like he’d had this
same conversation with Jack a dozen times. “Enough. I
have things to do,” he scooped his backpack from the floor
and nodded at me. “Nice to meet you, again, Hadley.”
“You, too,” I said to Xander. I watched him go.
We both heard the door close behind him and then we
were on our own.
It was strangely electrifying to be alone in a room
with him. I could hear the fullness of the room’s silence:
the way the floorboards creaked when Jack moved, the
way my sleeves rustled when I brushed a stray piece of
hair behind my ear.
Jack finally sat up and looked at me. “Sup?”
 “Sup yourself?”
He smiled and reached for my drink. He took a sip.
“Who has a screwdriver for dinner?”
“You didn’t have any other mixers,” I said.
"Yes, we do."
"Well, they all have names like Heart Attack in a
Can and Lethal Dose of Caffeine."
He cocked his head and took another sip. “You
want to eat?”
"That's like rule number one."
"Ah, you're never available for dinner," he said.
"What about snacks?"
I threw him a look and he laughed. “Let’s go
upstairs.”
“I barely even know you," Jack said in mock
horror.
"That's why I'm not taking snacks from you."
I raised an eyebrow and he laughed. I finished the
rest of the drink in a long gulp. He pulled me to my feet by
the wrist and nodded at the kitchen.
“So, how’s the newspaper?” he asked, refilling my
drink and making it twice as strong.
“There's talk of a Valentine's Day issue," I said.
"You look horrified," he said. He added a few ice
cubes to my glass and took a second one out of the
dishwasher for himself. "I don't know how well you'd do
in combat if Valentine's Day makes you nauseous."
 I raised my eyebrows. "I just don't see the point."
“It’s this holiday where couples give each other
candy and presents and flowers and go to dinner,” he said.
“The colors are pink and red, also white. It’s named after
a guy who married a bunch of people or something. I think
he was a Saint. Saint Valentine.” He nodded, lifting his
glass and tipping it towards me, like a half-toast. He took
a sip and swallowed. "Yep. Also it’s a movie with Ashton
Kutcher. Probably not your kind of thing. I'm embarrassed
how much I know about this, actually."
"I know about the massacre."
"What massacre?"
"There was a massacre in Chicago in 1929." I
said. "Some gangster thing."
"Really?"
I nodded. I sipped my orange juice. "Al Capone
versus Bugsy Malone. Five members of the North Side
gang shot and killed."
He chuckled. "Well, that's fantastic. Thank you for
that. I'm talking about Ashton Kutcher and you're talking
about Al Capone."
“No problem,” I said.
He grinned and kissed me. And then he nipped at
my neck, sharply.
“Did you just bite me?”
“I don’t know, maybe. I was trying to kiss you and
it got a little weird. I’m starving, but you don’t have time
to have dinner with me.” He said all of this without batting
an eyelash.
I laughed all the way up to his room.
“You’re disturbingly organized,” I said.
He shrugged. “I just like to know where things
are.”
“So do I but this…”
He smirked at me. “Well, if you’re that disturbed
by it, wartime reporting is really going to knock your
socks off.”
“No, this is unnatural.”
He chuckled. “Okay. And warfare’s super-organic
or something?”
“Or something,” I said. I took a long sip of my
orange juice and vodka.
He took it from my hands and took a sip himself.
"I need that."
He shook his head. "No, you don't."
"I do. I decided to sleep with you and it's been
years. Actual years."
He didn't laugh, which I was expecting. He took
another sip. "I don't want you to be drunk."
He set my half-full glass down on the desk next to
his. I walked toward him. He sat at the edge of the bed
watching me warily, his rich brown eyes glimmering. He
reached for my wrists and pulled me to him and kissed me
hard.
 He fell back and took me with him. I closed my
eyes as he rolled over me, and dug his fingertips firmly
into my hips. “Why are you wearing so many clothes?” he
whispered, undoing the button on my jeans.
I could taste the vodka and orange juice on his
mouth. He smelled like fresh air and marijuana, and he had
the softest, most talented lips in the world. He pulled the
shirt over my head in one firm tug that made my hair static.
I shivered.
He sat back on his heels and looked at me.
“What?”
He smiled. “Take off your bra.”
I did. I shivered in the cool air in his room and he
didn’t move. I wanted him to do something, but he just
stared at me. For a brief moment, I worried that something
was wrong.
“You’re beautiful,” he said throatily.
“Shut up,” I whispered.
“No, really. You are.” He smiled and he leaned
forward and he kissed me. I pulled his shirt over his head
and ran my hands over his wide shoulders.
He stroked my ribs slowly and smoothly. His
hands felt warm and cold at once. I shivered, my skin
prickling wherever he touched me.
He slipped off my jeans, tugging at them easily
until they came off. He smiled at me.
I kissed him and he thumbed my breast.
 “I want to fuck you,” he whispered. The way he
said it sounded dirty and sweet at the same time. He
kissed me hard, but his hands were gentle as they pressed
down on my ribs. His callused fingers slid up and down
my spine lightly and I shivered and arched my back.
I wanted him to fuck me, too.
He reached for my waist and pulled me closer. I
felt the warmth of his body. His boxers rustled slightly as I
pressed against him, tangling my fingers in his soft hair,
which was just long enough for me to run my fingers
through.
He sat against the headboard, holding me against
him, grinding his hips slightly against mine and I felt a
spasm of desire shooting through me, down my legs to the
tips of my toes.
I bit his lip softly.
“Christ,” he murmured. He lifted me up, and
pushed me back slightly, so that I was lying on my back
beneath him, with my head near the foot of his bed and my
legs still clasped around his waist.
“Jesus, Hadley,” he said fiercely. He slid on top of
me, holding most of his weight on his legs and forearms.
He kissed me until I was breathless and aching.
I nodded. I didn’t know what he was saying
‘Jesus’ to, but I was there too. Out of breath and wild with
the sensation of being so close to him.
He hooked his fingers into my black underwear
and I let out a soft sound. I flushed when he slid them
down to my knees.
“Jesus, I want to fuck you,” he said.
“Yeah,” I said. “You should do that.”
“Yeah?” he asked.
“Yes.” My throat tensed. My body froze with
anticipation and anxiety. It had been a while.
I sat up and ran a hand through my hair. I was
nervous. But, God, I wanted to have sex with him.
He grabbed my chin and kissed me. “You sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
He laughed and with his lips still resting against
mine, I could feel the vibrations of his laughter. “Then,
relax. It’ll be fun. I’ll go slow,” he said, meeting my eyes
and seeing more hesitation than I was going to admit to.
He pressed me back to the bed. He kissed my
mouth and my neck, and he moved down my body,
dropping kisses on my breasts and my stomach, on the
sharp edge of my hipbone. When he reached the soft skin
of my inner thigh, I grabbed a handful of his hair.
He chuckled low and easy and I closed my eyes
and felt a jolt as he slipped two fingers in between my
legs.
“Relax,” he said again, moving back up my body to
kiss my neck. I curled my toes so hard they cracked and
his low laugh moved through his body.
“You okay?” he asked, only half-joking.
 “I’m…” he curled his fingers and I swore. He had
hit something that went through my body like a shudder,
only the shudder that ran up my spine and down my toes
was warm and white and somehow soft.
Whatever word I was trying to say came out much
closer to a moan.
He smiled.
“You’re a bastard,” I murmured, touching his face.
“I’m going to love watching you lose control,” he
teased. He slipped his fingers out of me in one smooth
motion and reached for a condom.
“This is good? You’re sure?” he asked.
“How many times are you going to make me say
yes?”
He grinned and nipped at my neck. “Until you’re
screaming it, sweetheart.”
“We’ll see about that.”
He cocked his head, slipped on the condom, and
kissed me again. He moved over me and ran one hand up
my leg. He hesitated when I closed my eyes.
“Hey, look at me,” he said.
I opened my eyes. “You’re awfully bossy.”
“I’m awfully bossy?” he said. He raised an
eyebrow.
“Yes.”
“You seem to be enjoying it.”
“Well, like I said, I really don’t know what I’m
doing,” I smiled, and took a breath, and he leaned down
and kissed me. This time, I kept my eyes open.
I watched the quiet intent in his eyes, as he moved
carefully and surely into me. I took a sharp breath, briefly
startled by the sensation.
I tensed reflexively. “Fuck,” I muttered.
“Relax. Just breathe deeply a few times, okay? If
you want me to stop, I’ll stop.”
“I don’t want you to stop.”
It took a second for the pain to dissipate and then
he moved in me, tentatively at first, just a slight rock
backwards.
I closed my eyes and gripped his shoulders.
“Christ, you’re tight,” he whispered shakily. I
tightened my legs around him.
I could tell he was being gentle, responding to my
hesitance. I could tell he was holding back.
But even though I knew that, I felt only him and I
felt on the absolute edge of control. I was barely hanging
onto my own reactions.
I could only register his presence above me and
the sea of pleasure as he moved in me. I acknowledged
briefly that my mind had gone absolutely blank, like the
single thing that existed in the world in that moment was
Jack Diamond’s body above me, the soft bed beneath me,
his tongue gentle on my lips, his eyelashes fluttering
against mind, the warm wave of a building orgasm.
 Through the perfect haze, a single coherent thought
registered: he was right about Luke doing it wrong.
I dug my teeth into his shoulder to keep from crying
out and Jack had taken over, smiling seriously, holding my
hip, and controlling every movement so nothing hurt.
“Jesus, Hadley,” he whispered roughly when he
finally came. “Jesus Christ.”
I felt like my spine had melted into a puddle. I
might have said something to that effect because he
laughed. I closed my eyes, breathing hard, thinking of the
other things I wanted to say like oh my god. I decided not
to say them.
But oh my god.
He pulled out gently, got rid of the condom and
came back to bed. He pulled my boneless body back
towards him.
“That was good,” I managed to say as he wrapped
an arm securely around my waist, and I turned against him,
so my head was buried underneath his chin. “You’re good
at that.”
He pressed a hard, lasting kiss to my shoulder. “I
got nothing on you, girl.”
I dropped my head against his shoulder knowing
that I would remember this better than my first time—the
dark, lazy Saturday evening when Jack Diamond made me
feel like nobody had ever made me feel before.
I somehow fell asleep. When I woke up, he was sitting at
his desk, half-dressed, with his feet kicked up on the
desktop, reading Absalom, Absalom by William Faulkner
in the low light.
He looked at me. “I swear I didn’t drug you. You
just passed out.”
I got up and ran a hand through my hair. “What
time is it?”
“Almost midnight,” he said. He nodded out the
window. “It’s snowing again. You should stay.”
“No, I should really get home,” I said. He glanced
at the window dubiously. I could see the thick flakes
dropping from the sky and covering the world again. All
winter it would be like this, days and days of snow.
He got to his feet, holding the worn paperback in
one hand. He walked to me and straddled me over the
covers, letting the book fall from his hand. “It’s
blizzarding.”
“I live two minutes away,” I countered.
“You were drinking,” he said, trying to press me
back to the bed.
“Hours ago,” I said. I pushed him back.
“It’s cold. And I’m warm.”
“I wake up early and I kick."
"I don't care."
I smiled, pushed him aside, and got out of bed,
trying to pretend he wasn’t watching me while I got
dressed. “Sorry about the whole nap thing…”
“Nah, it’s cool,” he said. “You work so hard, you
probably fall asleep whenever you lie down.”
“Pretty much,” I said.
He nodded. He smiled softly. “See ya around,
Hads.”
“See you around.”
I laughed softly on the stair landing. This was
exactly what I needed. Something fun. Something without
any expectations. Something with someone as cute as Jack
could be.
Chapter Seventeen
I whirled through the next two weeks, eating on the run,
and sneaking into the frat house after midnight to see Jack
whenever I could, which wasn't enough.
I flew to D.C. for the interview with USA Today ,
and was dumb enough to not check the shuttle bus schedule
when I landed back in Chicago late the same night, worn-
out and in the world's least comfortable shoes.
It was amazing anyone ever got anything done in
heels.
I called David from the terminal. And sent him half
a dozen texts. But he didn’t respond. And I knew that
meant he wasn’t near his phone. David never ignored me.
I sat down in the plastic chairs near baggage claim.
I had two people to choose from: Andrew and Jack. I
chose Jack.
"I'm stranded," I admitted. "At the airport."
"Are you asking me for a favor?"
"Completely," I said.
"I'm going to break the land speed record on my
way there just so I can gloat," he said.
He hadn't been lying. I'd only been waiting fifteen
minutes when he parked his Jeep out front.
"Where to, my lady?" he asked.
"The newspaper office, if you don't mind."
"I do, kind of. I was hoping to take you with me,"
he said.
 I smiled and rubbed my chin. "Yeah. I've got to go
though."
"You can't ever take a night off?"
"I can. Just not tonight."
When we reached the newspaper office, he gave
me a rueful look. "You want company?"
I smiled. "Yes, but I won't get anything done."
"Alright," he said.
"Thank you. So much," I said.
"My pleasure. That's what friends are for."
“I might have to stop sleeping with you so we can
stay friends,” I confessed.
“Actually, I'm a really shitty friend,” he replied.
“So, maybe you should just keep sleeping with me. I'm
going to send you a bill for the car ride."
Andrew was throwing a baseball against the wall
in my office, talking through the opinion pages with a few
of our columnists. "Hads, we've been lost without you," he
said, catching the ball. "How was your flight?"
"Fine."
"No delays?" he asked. "There's a nor'easter over
Ohio."
I raised my eyebrows. “Ah, no. No delays.”
"Amazing. Hey, so, did you think about the
Valentine's Day issue?" he asked. "Everyone likes the
idea. Right?"
The columnists all nodded.
 "Ah, I haven't really thought about it. A special
edition?" I asked. I sat down on the edge of my desk and
tried to give it some serious thought. "You don't think this
wouldn't be better for the magazine?"
"Did you read my email?" he asked. "We did a
whole section-by-section breakdown."
"No, I have to look at that," I said, rubbing the
back of my neck.
"Well, let's just talk about it," he said. "It's a good
concept. It's packaging for an article on sex and romance,
which are more than just buzzwords. The holiday provides
relevancy to tackle bigger issues, like access to birth
control, rates of sexual assault, all the stuff nobody talks
about because it's never newsworthy."
"I hear you," I said.
"Well, I don't think you can just say no."
"I'm not saying no. I'm just not deciding now.
Okay?"
"Well, when?" Andrew asked. "Come on. It's a
good idea. Juliet wants to give editing a try."
"I don't know. How about—”
"Tuesday," Andrew said. "How about dinner
Tuesday?"
"I'm on the schedule to copyedit Tuesday."
"I can take your shift," Shuchi, one of our cheery
sophomore columnists, offered with a smile.
I exhaled. "Oh. Well, okay then." I tried to smile
gamely at Andrew. “Thanks, Shuchi.”
"Perfect," Andrew said. "Thanks, guys. Great
meeting." He clapped his hands.
They gather their notebooks and left. "So, how was
D.C.?"
"Fine," I said. "I was there for like five minutes."
Andrew nodded slowly. "Well, I'll let you do your
work."
I nodded. "Thanks. Sorry to be so short. I’m just a
little overwhelmed."
"All good," Andrew said. "We'll talk Tuesday."
"Yeah. Yeah."
"I'll make a reservation somewhere."
"Yeah, anywhere is fine," I said. "We can go to
Chipotle or something. Thanks."
"Alright," he smiled. "It'll be good. Valentine's
Day."
I smiled. "You're killing me."
He laughed and whistled his way out of the office.
I stayed there until midnight and then went to the
library to finish up an Arabic essay. I fell asleep curled up
in a library chair and only made it home as the sun began
to rise.

I had one of those days where time moves fast and slow at
the same time—where you're so tired nothing really makes
that much sense.
 I was glad when it was over.
I texted David to see if he'd be coming back for
dinner. He hadn't cooked on Fridays in a few weeks.
He used to respond to my texts instantaneously, but
he'd only gotten back to me about needing a ride from the
airport the day after. With apologies and emojis and
something about being busy with Ben. But he didn’t write
back to my text about dinner. So, I went into my room to
write a thank you note to my interviewer, Cheryl.
I was worried about David.
Or maybe I just felt a little neglected. I chewed my
lip. Maybe I was being selfish.
He was head-over-heels in love with Ben. Ben
who had to keep his sexual orientation hidden. Ben who
couldn’t afford to have anyone know. Ben who still
hooked up with girls to keep up appearances. And David
believed it was all necessary.
I knew I shouldn't judge, but I found it hard not to.
Ben could give just a little. He could stop with the
girls, at least. If he was making David tone down his
whole personality in public, then Ben could stop sleeping
with girls.
After I’d written my thank you not, David finally
got back to me. Sorry, have plans with Ben.
Jack was busy, too, at a rush event for his
fraternity.
I ordered Chinese takeout, turned on reality TV,
and felt sorry for myself. I put a stamp on my thank you
note, and sighed.
The interview had gone well. They wanted a
recent graduate with editorial experience. But, I couldn't
get excited about it like I had about the Times job.
I reached for my laptop and impulsively fired off
an email to Suzanne at the Times.
Dear Suzanne,
I just wanted to touch base with you and see if
there were any other positions at the Times that might
be opening up in the near future.
I hope to hear from you soon.
My best,
Hadley
I sent it before I could talk myself out of it.
Yes, it was desperate. But I was desperate, too. I
knew what I wanted to do. I had spent almost every Friday
night in college like this—alone and exhausted—I
shouldn't give up just because I'd heard someone had said
“no” once.
I fell asleep on the couch, in the way you fall
asleep when you're exhausted, thickly, like dropping
heavily into a dreamless cocoon of darkness.
Chapter Eighteen
Cheryl offered me the job while I walked back to the
apartment on Saturday night. It was eight o'clock and I was
sure the unknown number belonged to a telemarketer. But,
it was her, working on a Saturday.
It made me think I really had no idea what I was
getting into.
"Can I have a few weeks to think about?" I asked,
fumbling with the keys. I was relieved. It was an option
and a good one, but I was still holding out hope that I
might get a job that I really wanted.
"Sure, take your time," Cheryl said. "We look
forward to hearing from you."
I had not heard back from Suzanne. I suppose that
was to be expected.
I unlocked the door, finally, and pushed into our
apartment. The light to David's room was on, for the first
time in days. Most of the time, when I came home, he'd
gone to sleep or he'd gone to Ben's.
"David!" I shouted.
When he didn't call back, I walked into his room
frowning. He must have left the lights on before he went
out. I sighed, disappointed, and flicked them off.
And then I heard a sound, like whimpering. I
turned the lights back on and crossed to his bathroom
door.
I hesitated. I didn’t want to barge into anything in
the shower, but it sounded like someone in pain. "Hey,
David?" I called softly.
I knocked. “David?”
“Hadley?” he called back shakily.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Yeah, f-fine,” he said.
“You want me to come in?"
He didn’t say anything so I pushed open the door.
He was hunched over the sink, pressing a blood-strained
cloth to his mouth.
I darted across the bathroom. I put my hands on his
back. “David,” I gasped.
One of his eyes was brimming with tears. The
other was badly hurt, already swollen shut, concealing the
robin’s egg blue of his iris that had startled me the first
time I met him. “David,” I repeated. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” he muttered.
“Honey…”
“Ben and I got into a fight.”
“He hit you?”
“We got into a fight,” David repeated, like this
was different. His lip was split and he was bleeding from
the gums.
“David,” I said. “You need to call the police.”
“I’m fine,” he said.
“Stay there. Here. Sit down," I said, kicking down
the toilet seat and pushing him by the shoulders so he was
sitting. "I'm going to call the cops. I'll be right back."
"Don't! Hadley, I’m serious. Stop. Please don’t,
Hadley. We got into a fight. It was mutual. I’m not a girl.”
“I never said you were.”
“Well, it’s different.”
“No, it’s not different.”
“It’s completely different.”
“Nobody’s boyfriend should hit them,” I yelled at
him, furious at the implication. “David! He beat the crap
out of you.”
He swallowed thickly. “I said I was fine.” His
voice broke as he said it and I instantly regretted raising
my voice. “Can you please just help me?”
I sighed. “Just give me a second."
"Don't call the police, Hadley. I'm begging you."
"Okay. I won’t. I’m getting you ice.” I tried to
collect my thoughts as I walked to the freezer. Don’t get
emotional. He’s been attacked by someone that he’s in
love with. Be logical and be firm and you can talk about
it in the morning.
It all sounded fine in my head, but as I reached for
a cloth to wrap the plastic bag of ice in, I wanted to stomp
Ben bloody.
“Motherfucker,” I muttered to the refrigerator.
“Stupid fucking asshole.”
I walked back to David’s room. He’d pulled off
his blood-spattered shirt and sat on the toilet, shivering. I
handed him the ice and went back into his room. I took his
fleece to him, and helped him ease his aching shoulders
into the sleeves.
“Thanks,” he whispered brokenly.
I clucked. I couldn’t help myself. “Come into the
living room,” I said, pulling him up. “I’ll make you tea.”
I helped him onto the couch and flipped through the
channels, looking for something that might make him smile.
That would be hard. But I found a rerun of Make it Or
Break It, a cheesy ABC Family show we’d been obsessed
with our freshman year, when we were both clueless
eighteen-year olds.
“Love this show,” he said softly.
I put on the kettle, drumming my fingers against the
countertop. The silence was fraught with his fear and
adrenaline. I wanted to take it away for him. I made a cup
of Chamomile with honey and brought it to him.
I sat down cross-legged next to him on our couch
and he leaned against me, cradling the cup in his hands.
“Thanks, Hadley.”
“Yeah, of course,” I said softly. I ran my fingers
through his short hair. He’d cut it for Ben.
“I feel like an idiot,” he murmured.
“You’re not an idiot.”
“We just got into an argument,” he said softly. “I
know what it looks like. But, it was just an argument.”
I swallowed. “What happened?” I asked as
neutrally as I could.
“He hooked up with this girl,” he said. “I asked
him—I asked him if he could stop doing that. He got
upset.”
“And he hit you?”
He shrugged. “No. I tried to leave, and he
wouldn’t let me. But I tried, physically, to go and he got
pissed off and…” He swallowed and closed his eyes
before he continued. “He tried to apologize. I wouldn’t let
him.” He bit his lip. “But, it was, you know, we were both
winding each other up. I just didn’t know he’d snap like
that.”
“Your boyfriend isn’t allowed to hit you,” I said as
firmly as I could. I thought he should know that already. I
thought everyone knew that intrinsically. But he was
insisting they’d had a fight, which was a totally different
situation. Even though I didn’t see it that way. And I could
already feel him tuning me out.
“David?”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. I’ll talk to him,” David said.
He shifted.
“Did you hit him back?” I asked.
“No, no,” he shook his head. He laughed softly and
sadly. “You know me. I’m only verbally confrontational.”
I swallowed and nodded. “Dave, I know this
seems like a fight to you. But you shouldn’t stay with
someone who hits you. No matter how crazy about them
you are.”
He didn’t say anything. He reached for his tea and
took a sip. “It wasn’t like that, Hadley.”
“You keep saying that, but he hit you.”
“I know, but it was different.”
I let out a frustrated sigh. “Let me see your eye.”
He dropped the ice from his eye and winced at me.
“How bad is it?” he asked in a small voice.
“It’ll be fine. Keep the ice on it.”
“He’s under a lot of pressure,” he continued. “And
he’s afraid about the whole thing and I just picked
something that bugged him to begin with. And, I don’t
know. I couldn’t let it go.”
“You really don't need to make excuses for him," I
said.
“No, I’m not saying he should have hit me. But we
just got into a fight. It’s like fighting my brother, you
know?” he said, like I’d understand.
I refused to accept that. But it wasn’t the time for
an argument. I bit my lip and we were quiet until the
credits rolled. David sat there quietly, as another
commercial played.
“I really like him,” he said after a moment. “I
know you think I’m being insane, but I really, really like
him. I need you to trust me on this. It was just a fight. He’s
not, you know, abusive.”
I inhaled sharply. “David, I can’t tell you that it’s
okay that he did that.”
“Fine. But please don’t try to talk me into breaking
up with him. Because I’m telling you right now that it’s not
going to happen. I’m not going to give up on it yet.”
“Making you hide who you are? Isolating you from
your friends? Hitting you? These are not the actions of
someone who loves you,” I said hoarsely. “I am not going
to sit around and tell you to put up with it.”
“I’m not an idiot, Hads,” he said, with a touch of
his former flair in his voice. “I wouldn’t stay with
someone who was dangerous. It looks bad, but it’s not
what you think. I need you to trust me. Okay?"
I met his eyes and I didn’t know what else to say. I
wanted to scream at myself as much as I wanted to scream
at him. It was definitely not okay for anyone to hit my best
friend. And it was especially not okay for his so-called
boyfriend to do it. And the least okay part about it was that
David was going to accept it.
"Okay," I said. I swallowed and he nodded
gratefully.
I was old enough to know that very few things in
life were as black and white as they seemed when you
were a kid. But this was one of them. This didn’t happen.
It shouldn’t. It was wrong.
But, I said okay when I knew I shouldn't have.
Chapter Nineteen
“Somewhere, somehow, I lost my backbone,” I told Jack,
lying on his bed, in his boxers and one of his flannel shirts.
I was totally starting to understand how someone could
wear them everyday.
Jack was quiet. “What happened?”
“I don’t know.” I was on my back looking up at the
cracked ceiling with my head in Jack’s lap, and I wanted
to stay here forever, which was probably against one of
our rules. “David’s boyfriend beat him up."
Jack was quiet for a brief second. “Well, who the
fuck is his boyfriend?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Well, I can’t kill him if you don’t tell me who he
is.”
I grinned briefly. “I told David I wouldn’t. He’s in
the closet and I guess he’s terrified of anyone finding out,”
I said. “But he, I mean, his eye is swollen shut. David said
it was a fight. And he did this whole long thing where he
was like I just need you to trust me on this. And I said
okay, of all the unbelievably stupid things to say, I was
just like, okay, David, that’s fine with me that your douche
bag boyfriend beat you up, and that you can’t see out of
one eye, and that you’re an emotional wreck. No worries.
Love is love.” I sighed. “I’m a fucking idiot.”
Jack made a noise in the back of his throat. “Well,
what else could you do?”
 “I don’t know. Get him to understand that’s it’s not
okay.”
“Well, I still think you have a backbone,” Jack
said softly. “And I can beat the shit out of his boyfriend.”
I gave him a look.
“Don’t look at me like that. I could get violent for
you.”
“For David,” I corrected.
“I could get violent for David, too. I have a car.”
I laughed. “What are you going to do with a car?”
“Run him over. Go bury him. Drop him in the lake.
I can do it, baby,” Jack whispered, pressing his lips to my
forehead. “Just tell me, baby.”
“Do not—”
“I’m allowed to call you ‘baby’ when I’m
pretending to be a criminal. That’s how criminals talk,”
Jack said. He smiled, but only briefly. He looked at me,
like he was thinking: “You want to report it?” he asked
after a moment.
“To who?”
“I don’t know. The police? Campus Health?
CAPS?” CAPS was the mental health crisis center on
campus. I hadn’t even thought about that. “I’m sure they
have some kind of process you can use.”
“David would kill me if I got this guy in trouble.”
Jack shrugged. “Yeah, maybe at first.”
I sighed. “I don’t know. He’s my best friend. I do
trust him.”
“Are you worried about David’s safety?”
“No. Well, maybe. I don’t know. Psychologically,
a little bit. I mean, David was—he was different before he
started seeing him. He was happy to be gay. Now, he feels
like he has to hide it.”
“But he said they got into a fight?”
“Yeah.”
“Maybe it was just a fight.”
“David didn’t hit him back.”
Jack frowned. “Maybe David needs to take some
boxing lessons.”
“Not a bad idea,” I said, frowning. "I'll run it by
him."
Jack rubbed his chin. "Have you talked to him
about it?"
"Not since Thursday."
"Well, talk to him. I mean the best thing would be
David deciding this guy was a problem."
"Yeah," I agreed. I shook my head. "I don't know.
Sorry to burden you. It's just disturbing. Aside from
newspaper people, David's my only friend. And I feel
like, I don't know, I should be doing a better job."
“Hads, you know you’re doing your best.”
“I don’t know.”
He ran his hand through my hair and leaned down
to kiss me. It was an affectionate kiss more than anything
else and I smiled up at him for a long minute.
“So, you still like Riley’s class?” Jack asked,
breaking the silence.
“Yeah,” I said.
“What does he have you report on?” Jack asked.
“Since you’re obviously not at war with anyone.”
“He tries to get us to write about things that are
chaotic,” I said. “Like, write an accurate account of a time
when you were totally wasted.”
Jack laughed. “How do you even remember enough
to do that?”
“Exactly. And how do you not make yourself sound
like a total asshole?”
Jack smiled. “I think I like you when you’re
drunk.”
“I don’t think you’ve ever seen me really drunk.”
“The night we first hooked up…?” He grinned.
“Oh, no. You’ve definitely never seen me really
drunk,” I said. “I’m not nice.”
He chuckled and shifted my head out of his lap. I
sat up as he got to his feet. “I’d like to see that, actually. It
could be fun.”
I watched him go to his desk and pull down a
book. His books—and he had over a hundred—were
neatly organized above his desk. And the ones that didn’t
fit there lined a bookcase by his bed. I hadn’t encountered
anyone with as many books as Jack. Most students only
bought books required for their classes. But Jack had more
books than any professor could assign, and all of them
looked like they had been read.
“I got something for you,” he muttered over his
shoulder, half-bashful. “I mean, I didn’t get it for you. I’ve
had it. But, I think you’d like it.” He moved a few books
around and found the one he was looking for. “Here,” he
said, handing me a worn out copy of The Bombs over
Bosnia, a collection of Robert Riley’s articles on Bosnia.
I took it, surprised and grateful. “Wow. How did
you get…” I cut myself off. “Godfather, right?”
“Yup. I have a couple copies. That's a first
edition," he said. He rubbed his chin and shrugged.
"Thought you might like it."
I had a copy of the paperback at home. I could've
said I already had it, but it wouldn't be true at all. This
copy was worn and read and possibly even loved, like the
best books should be. And it was Jack’s.
I thumbed through the pages. Someone had crinkled
them while they were reading. Maybe over and over
again. I saw Jack’s familiar handwriting in the margins
and ran my fingers across the words. When I looked up, he
was watching me.
“Thank you, Jack.”
“I don’t know if that’s against the rules or not,” he
said sheepishly.
“Books are cool,” I replied.
 “Okay,” he grinned. “Good.”
“Thank you.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I mean…I already had it. It’s
not like…” he lifted his shoulders and sat down at his
desk.
I laughed. “Alright.” I set it gently down next to my
bag and clothes and got out of bed.
“What are you doing tomorrow?” he asked.
“Newsp—”
“You know, I am really getting sick of that word.”
“Tell me about it,” I replied.
He smiled as I traded his clothes for my less
comfortable ones. “You know, you could sleep over.”
“Rules.”
“How is it that sleeping in the same bed means
more to you than sex?”
“It doesn’t mean more to me,” I told him, buttoning
my jeans and slipping my feet into my Converse sneakers.
“I mean, even you must have the time to sleep.”
I rolled my eyes. “Yes. In my own bed.” I kissed
him briefly and he reached for my wrist. I held the book
he’d given me in one hand and looked into his brown eyes.
And I leaned in for another kiss.
I loved the way he kissed me. But this felt more
serious, deeper and longer, and we held each other’s eyes
for a long moment before I cleared my throat and felt a
flush rushing to my face. I turned my head.
 “See you around, Hads.”
"See you around, Jack."
He smiled. "If you need anything, you know, just
pick up the phone."
I nodded and smiled back. “I will.”
Chapter Twenty
It would be my last winter of walking across the long,
cold campus from the parking lot to the newspaper office.
While there were things I would miss about Northwestern,
the weather wasn’t one of them. My phone vibrated in my
pocket, and I reached down, hoping to see Jack’s name
lighting up the screen. But it was just Andrew.
Does 8 still work for dinner tonight?
I made a frustrated noise in the back of my throat.
I'd forgotten. I typed out a response with my frozen
fingers: Maybe 8:15? Meet you at the newspaper in 5.
“Hey,” I said breathlessly when I reached my
office. Andrew was waiting patiently, thumbing through
the draft of tomorrow’s issue. "I just have to talk to Justin
for two seconds and then we can go."
“Sure, no worries."
He was in khakis and a button down. I was
actually wearing sweatpants. “You had somewhere nicer
in mind?”
He looked at my outfit hesitantly. “Yeah. I made
reservations at Mill House. Is that okay?"
One of the most elegant and expensive restaurants
in Evanston. I nodded once. “Sure. Um. Great. I’ll just…”
Mill House was the sort of place you went with your
parents. If your parents were super uptight.
As if to make a point, my phone vibrated and I
glanced at the screen.
 Jack.
Is skydiving against the rules?
I raised my eyebrows and began to type back.
“Change?” Andrew finished my sentence.
I looked up. "Right. Sorry. I'll change. I just, five
words with Justin, okay?"
"Yeah, sure. Take your time."
I crossed the office to Justin's computer.
“What’s up?” I asked. “Attribution issues?
"Yeah, sorry," he said. "So, I have this on-the-
record quote from an athletic coach who said I couldn't
identify him by name or by what sport he coached. He said
I could say he was a head coach of a varsity team, but no
other identifiers.”
"This is on the budget for 2014?" I asked. They'd
recently diverted several million dollars earmarked for
the football team to programs that would impact the
student body.
"Yeah," he said. "I think it's critical enough that
anonymity is okay here."
I read it over quickly:
"The administration is trying to send a message.
I'm not going to name names, but there've been repeated
attacks on our program from administrators across the
board—everyone from admissions officers to academic
deans. The university refuses to acknowledge how
important we are to alums. This happened before, in 2007,
and it damaged the football program and that, in turn,
damaged the endowment because alumni giving went
down in 2008. It's not good policy to use the athletic
budget for unfunded programs in the college."
I shook my head. "You can use everything but the
first two sentences. He’s telling us the administration is
trying to send a message, but if he won’t back it up with
anything specific and he won’t put his name behind it, we
can’t run it. He can’t just editorialize on the situation
anonymously.”
"Yeah. Okay," Justin said.
"And point out the fact that there was a financial
crisis in 2008," I added. "And that giving to universities
across the country went down."
"Yeah," Justin nodded. "Good point." He cut part
of the quote and we both scanned the article again to see if
it still made sense.
“I think that looks good,” I said. “I’ve got to run.
Text me if anything else comes up.”
“I will. Thanks, Hadley. Have fun.”
“Thanks!”
I hustled back to Andrew. "Sorry, ready?"
He nodded. “Let’s go.”
I followed him down the stairs and pulled out my
phone to text Jack: Skydiving is totally legal.
Excellent. You in? Saturday?
I bit my lip. Sure.
 I slipped my phone into my pocket and walked out
into the bitter chill to Andrew’s car. He drove a fancy,
new Range Rover. His dad was some kind of oil magnate
—something Andrew would never tell you, but Google
quickly would.
He turned on the heat and I shivered.
"I feel like I haven't seen as much of you lately,"
Andrew said, driving towards my apartment.
"Really?" I asked. “I’m at the newspaper office
like every day.”
"I know, but you used to come to the bar nights. I
don't think you've been to one all year."
I smiled. "I'll come to the next one."
He parked next to the apartment building. "You
should. They're fun."
"I'll come," I promised. I glanced at the time. "I'll
be quick. Promise."
Andrew nodded. "No rush."
I jogged upstairs quickly, trying to think of
something to wear to Mill House.
The lights were on in our apartment and I heard the
TV blaring as I kicked off my sneakers and walked in.
“David,” I shouted. “I need help.”
There was a loud crash as I tossed my keys on the
table and I shrieked in surprise. David was shirtless and
he looked petrified and I could see Ben Mitchell hiding
behind the couch. A movie was playing.
 I hope he hurt himself, I thought uncharitably. I
caught my breath. “Jesus, David, you scared me. What
should I wear to Mill House?”
“Hadley,” he said in a small voice. “Um, I thought
you were at the paper?"
I glanced at Ben. “There’s a person on the floor.”
Ben got to his feet. He glared at David. "You said
we'd be alone."
“She knows," David said, sounding tired.
“She knows?” Ben said explosively.
“I don’t care, I’m not going to say anything, and I’ll
sign a non-disclosure agreement if you’re going to get that
worked up about it,” I informed Ben icily. I turned my
attention to David who still looked completely startled.
“Mill House, David. Focus.”
“Black dress, leggings, boots. That knit dress.
With the bow. Long-sleeved. Are your parents in town?”
“No," I said.
“When did she find out?” Ben asked David. I
didn’t like his tone of voice. It was astoundingly
accusatory.
I really should have given Jack Ben’s name when
he offered to run him over.
"She won't say anything,” David said softly.
“She’d better not,” he muttered.
Was that a threat? “Trust me, I have better things
to do than talk about your sexuality, Ben,” I said.
 “Hadley!” David exclaimed.
I walked to my room. I put on the exact outfit
David had suggested: a long-sleeved knit dress, soft black
leggings and black boots. I looked in the mirror, put my
hair down, grimaced, and put my hair back up. There
wasn’t much I could do about my hair. It liked to lie limp,
and I didn’t have the patience to encourage it to behave in
any other way.
Ben and David were talking in low voices when I
emerged, twisting my hair into a low bun.
“I’m really sorry,” David was saying. “I swear.
She’s the only person who knows. Okay?”
I was really starting to despise this kid. I’d hated
him ever since he hit David, but now he was moving into
full-blown enemy combatant territory.
“Who is taking you to Mill House?” David asked
cheerily.
“Andrew.”
He smiled. “Aw, that’s awesome, Hadley.”
I looked at him curiously. “Yeah, it’ll be nice to
get out of the office for a while.”
"So, you're not seeing Jack anymore?"
"What?" I asked.
David raised his eyebrows. "You're going on a
date with Andrew Brenner, right?"
"It's not a date. We're talking about some special
issue in February." I exhaled. "For Valentine's Day."
 "Riight," David said. "At Mill House."
I looked at him. "No, no, no. You're...you're
confused. It's Andrew. It's for the newspaper.”
David chuckled. “You can’t be serious, Hadley.
He’s taking you to Mill House. That is a date.”
“It is not a date.”
"I bet you twenty dollars he tries to kiss you."
"I’m going. It’s not a date,” I said, opening the
door. “Goodbye.”
I took a deep breath in the hallway. I was going to
dinner with Andrew. A meal. Nothing more. Nothing less.
We would talk about the newspaper. That was it.
Definitely not a date.
The night winds off the lake blew ferociously as I
walked to the car. The hair I had pushed behind my ears
flew wildly. I felt Andrew watching me as I opened the
door and pulled it shut.
“Sorry,” I said.
“No worries. You were fast.” He smiled. "You
look really pretty."
Shit.

We were the youngest people at Mill House. By a decade.

At least.
A chic, dark-haired waitress scrutinized our
driver’s licenses when Andrew asked for the wine list.
Andrew ordered a bottle of wine expensive enough to
impress her. Or maybe it was to impress me. I couldn’t
think of one good reason why he should do either.
He’d seen me behave badly all year. He’d seen me
yell at copyeditors and nearly burst into tears when I
hadn’t slept enough. I didn’t need a $200 bottle of wine to
like Andrew. I’d liked him from the start. I just didn’t like
him like that.
David’s delusional , a part of my brain whispered
to me. But another part was putting together puzzle pieces
I had wondered about before. The way he was always
asking if I wanted to hang out or seeing if I wanted to have
lunch or coffee to talk about the paper.
When we'd kissed last year, I had said it was a
mistake. I had apologized. I had told him that I would
never do anything to threaten our friendship. He had just
nodded his head in agreement.
But, ultimately, he had agreed with me. He didn’t
have to agree.
So, it wasn’t a date.
"What do you like here?" I asked. "I haven't been
since parents' weekend freshman year."
He smiled. "Yeah, my parents love this place. Get
the truffle pasta."
I raised an eyebrow. “Where is that?”
“It’s one of their specials. It’s amazing. Just trust
me.”
I nodded and closed my menu. “Sure.” I took a sip
of the wine.
“How is it?”
I only knew enough about wine to know that I
didn't appreciate it. “It’s really great.”
He smiled. “I'm glad you like it. It's a white
burgundy. One of my mom's favorites."
"Very cool."
I looked around the restaurant uncomfortably. He
didn’t seem to have anything to say. I cleared my throat
awkwardly and fiddled with my place setting.
“So, what do you normally drink?" he asked.
"I don't know, honestly," I smiled. "Whatever's
available. So this is a real treat."
"I would've thought you knew more about wine."
"Really? Why?"
"You grew up so close to Napa."
I lifted my shoulders haplessly. "Yeah. I don't
know. I guess you'll just have to be the expert tonight."
He laughed. “Fine be me.”
"So." I cleared my throat. "Valentine's Day issue."
“It's a good idea. Juliet Robinson came up with it.
You know Juliet? She does the local news roundup and
campus crime report?"
I nodded. "Of course, she’s really good."
"Right?" Andrew said. "Anyways, people don't
read her articles. She did an article about sexual assault
on campus in September. It got like 22 hits on the
website."
I exhaled. "So, the alternative is writing about
Valentine's Day?"
"It’s just changing the packaging. Love, sex, and
relationships on campus. All the stuff that nobody talks
about after freshman orientation like date rape and safe
sex. We can make it personal. Juliet has spoken to a bunch
of different people who said they'd be willing to write
about their experiences."
I sighed.
"It's a good idea, Hadley. What’s your problem
with it?” he smiled.
"It’s a newspaper," I said. "Our job is to cover the
news. It's not to be advocates for social change or to
celebrate a holiday. I mean, Andrew, come on. It's like
doing an Easter issue to draw attention to the plight of
factory farm animals.”
He grinned. "Except for it’s a secular holiday and
the victims aren't factory farm animals but fellow students.
And Valentine’s Day is a relationship holiday. It’s not a
stretch to do an issue that deals with relationships.”
I opened my mouth and then closed it. I sipped my
wine. Andrew smirked and I sighed.
"Listen, I know you hate Valentine's Day," Andrew
said.
"I don't hate it. I think it's stupid," I said. "I also
think my mother's kitten Priscilla is stupid and I adore her.
And I'm not saying we should cover these issues. We
should. But we shouldn't use sex and the color pink to
package them."
"Valentine's Day is not just about sex."
"Yeah, it's also about pink. And flowers. And
chocolate. And teddy bears. None of which are
newsworthy.”
He laughed. “You’re such a cynic. You don't think
it's at least a little bit about relationships?" I took another
sip of wine and Andrew reached for the bottle. He refilled
my glass and then his.
I shook my head. "It's not at all about relationships.
It's about sex. You and I have a relationship. David and I
have a relationship. Juliet and I have a relationship. And
Valentine's Day isn't about any of those relationships. It's
about relationships between people having sex with each
other. Or between people who want to have sex with each
other.”
Andrew gave me a small smile. "You really think
that's the only difference?"
“Yeah. Otherwise people would marry their best
friends all the time,” I said.
"Some people do.”
"Do what?"
"Marry their best friends.”
I shook my head. “The whole thing is antiquated.
Marriage was a social construct to protect property and
ensure that women with children weren’t abandoned. It
doesn’t make biological sense. It made social sense before
the advent of birth control, but now it's basically a moot
point. It's on the decline: marriage, relationships, all that."
“God, you really are from San Francisco, aren’t
you?”
I grinned. “It can’t come as a shock to you that I’m
not a romantic.”
“Well…even unromantic people fall in love.”
“I loathe that phrase.”
“Seriously?” Andrew asked, with a smile.
“The idea that people fall in love,” I said. “It
sounds so sloppy. You just fell? Really?”
Andrew laughed at me.
“What? It’s ridiculous. Control your emotions. Can
you imagine if criminals went around saying they fell into
hatred or jealousy and that’s why they killed four people
or robbed the bank? We act like love is this uncontrollable
thing. But when it comes to anger and all of that ugly stuff,
we’re expected to control it. We’re supposed to handle
those emotions without hurting anyone. But throw out the
word ‘love’ and everyone thinks all of the rules should go
right out the window and who can help it if someone gets
hurt? It’s absurd and it’s degrading, honestly, that we
expect people to control themselves except for when it
comes to wanting to sleep with someone.”
“Oh, come on,” he said. “It’s about more than
sex.”
“I don’t think it is. It’s sex and not wanting to be
alone. Everyone is afraid to be alone.”
“Yeah, well,” Andrew shrugged. “Who wants to
end up alone?”
“I wouldn't mind," I said.
"Well, you're good company," he pointed out.
“So if it was just me, myself, and I until the end of
time, I’d probably be okay with that.”
Andrew bit his lip, withdrawing from the
argument. “Yeah, well.” He finished his wine and refilled
the glass.
The waitress set down our entrees.
“Yeah, well what?” I asked, amused at how
personally he was taking my refusal to believe in people
falling in love.
He looked away from me. He looked like he
suddenly thought dinner was a bad idea. “Not everyone
likes themselves that much.”
I caught the soft look in his eyes. "Sorry." I bit my
lip. "I mean, I like you a lot better than I like myself.”
He managed a weak laugh. “Thank you. That
makes one of us.” He cleared his throat. “I just think
people our age don’t want to put themselves out there
anymore. And so they don’t. And so nobody actually falls
in love. They play it safe. And that’s why everyone keeps
getting hurt. You’re supposed to fall in love. My parents
got married when they were twenty. And they’re still
married.”
I raised my eyebrows. “My parents got married
when they were twenty-one and they aren’t.”
“Well, that’s the thing, it’s a crapshoot. But you
have to play the game.”
“Why?”
He hesitated. “I don’t know. So you can have a
family and stability and someone…someone to come home
to.”
He had such an earnest look in his eyes just at that
moment. I wanted to promise him that he was going to fall
wildly in love and laugh so hard when he remembered
how he used to think he might end up alone. But who
really knew? We all worried sometimes. Even the ones of
us who were sure it would all work out had to remind
ourselves that we would be okay. We all have our own
doubts. We all have weaknesses. Even in our strong
places, we have weaknesses.

After we’d discussed separatists in Libya and gun control

in the Senate and whether the Northwestern basketball
team could possibly get any worse this year, we shared
dessert and Andrew got the bill. I was sure it was
exorbitant.
"We should split it," I said.
Andrew shook his head. "Please. I ordered the
wine."
"Well, I drank it," I insisted.
Andrew smiled and shook his head again. "No
way, Hadley."
He handed his card to the waitress and leaned
back.
"Well," I smiled. "You’ve convinced me on
Valentine's Day. We’ll do the issue. Juliet can run it."
He laughed. "Yeah? You sure.”
“Absolutely.”
“I really just wanted to take you to dinner. So,
don't feel obligated."
"Ah," I said awkwardly. “Well, I don’t feel
obligated. You made a good argument.”
He signed the credit card slip. "Ready to go?"
"Whenever you are."
I was slightly tipsy from the wine, and my boot
slipped on the carpet. I giggled nervously when Andrew
caught my hips.
"I haven't been this full since Thanksgiving," I told
Andrew. “It’s throwing off my center of balance.”
He laughed, leaving his hand on my lower back.
There just wasn’t a graceful way to pull away.
We turned towards the door. And that’s when I
saw a pair of dark eyes across the room. Dark and doe
like and briefly vulnerable. Bambi eyes. Jack’s eyes.
They flashed and looked away. I stopped,
wavering, and Andrew stopped, too.
“What’s up?” Andrew asked.
Jack was sitting across the table from Robert
Riley. He’d looked away from me already, though from a
distance I could see a tight ball of tension in his jaw. His
handsome face betrayed nothing else. I wondered what
they were talking about.
Riley was speaking intently and Jack was nodding.
He wasn’t wearing plaid, but a dark zip-up sweater. It
made him look just a few years older and a shade more
serious. It made him look good. Even better than usual. If
he knew I was staring, he gave me no sign. He obviously
had no intention of saying hello.
“Hadley?” Andrew repeated. “Everything okay?”
“Yes. Yeah. Sorry,” I said. I faked a yawn, turning
to smile uncertainly at Andrew. I told myself it didn’t
matter. That Jack surely was upset about something
unrelated to me. He wasn’t my boyfriend. Neither was
Andrew. I wasn’t on a date. It was for the newspaper.
That was the whole reason I’d said yes.
I managed to twist away from Andrew at the door,
wrapping my arms around my body and scurrying to the
car. I leaned my head against the cold car window when
we got in.
“Thanks for dinner,” I said, as he started the car
and blasted in the heat.
He smiled. “Yeah. That was fun. We should do
that again.”
“Mm,” I nodded noncommittally. The brief drive
to my apartment was quiet except for the sound of a late
night NPR host droning on about drones. I yawned again
when we reached my place.
“I’ll walk you up.”
“You don’t have to do that.” I smiled. “I’m good.
I’ve got mace and everything.”
Andrew bit his lip. “Well, we should do this
again.”
I rubbed my chin. “I don’t know if we should make
a habit of it.” I smiled. “You might go broke.”
He leaned towards me for a kiss. I ducked my
head, kissed his cheek, and unbuckled my seatbelt in one
motion. I opened the door and shivered in the cold air.
“Yeah. Well, have a good night,” Andrew said.
He was embarrassed and I felt a twinge of guilt.
“You too,” I said. “Seriously. Thanks, Andrew.”
He smiled tightly. “No problem.”
I closed the car door and jogged upstairs, shaking
out my hands, which had gone numb.
When I reached the second floor, I saw David and
Ben standing in the open doorway to our apartment.
Ben cradled David’s face in his hands and kissed
him tenderly. They both smiled at each other for a long
moment before Ben dropped his hands, kissed David’s
forehead, and turned to go.
 The door closed before either noticed me. Ben
turned towards the stairwell, his head down. When he
looked up, he saw me.
“Hey,” he said to me. “How was the date?”
I couldn’t believe he was trying to have a
conversation with me. “It wasn’t a date.”
Ben grinned. “Got it. You know, you sound like
me. I never think anything is a date either.”
I glared at him. I couldn’t help myself. “I am
nothing like you,” I said fiercely.
Ben jerked his head back. “Relax. It was a joke."
“Look, I don’t know who the fuck you think you
are.”
“I think I’m David’s boyfriend.”
“Is that what you think?” I asked.
Ben smirked. “Do you want to ask David?"
“If you ever hit him again, I’m calling the cops,” I
said. “And then I’ll ruin your life. I mean it. Ruin it.”
Ben looked taken aback. He shook his head.
“David wouldn’t want you to threaten me, Hadley. We got
into an argument. I told him I was sorry. But, you really
need to keep your mouth shut. Alright? You need to give
David a break.”
I shook my head. “I mean it. If you hit him again,
I’m calling the cops. That’s not okay.”
Ben shook his head. “It was a disagreement. You
wouldn’t understand.”
 He tried to step around me and I stopped him.
“No. I do understand,” I said. “I understand a lot
better than you because I was the one who took care of
him.”
Ben was quiet.
“He couldn’t even talk, he was so upset,” I said
icily. “His eye was swollen shut and he lost a tooth. Don’t
tell me I don’t understand.”
Ben was quiet. He licked his lips. “He didn't tell
me that. I didn’t know that. I didn’t mean to hit him that
hard.”
“What do you mean, you didn’t mean to hit him
that hard?”
“I just wanted him to shut up and listen,” he said.
He exhaled. “Listen, I screwed up. Alright? You don’t
need to tell me that. I snapped. You have no idea how
sorry I am. Ask David.”
“No. I don’t care,” I said. “I don’t care what
David says and I don’t care how bad you feel. If you hurt
him again, I’m calling the cops. David doesn’t have the
most normal idea of what a healthy relationship looks
like.”
Ben looked at me, bewildered. “We have a healthy
relationship. I’m not like his goddamn family. I care about
him.”
“Well, do a better job of showing it,” I said. “You
could start by acknowledging he exists when you ask him
to meet you at a fucking bar.”
Ben shook his head.
“Have a good night, Ben,” I said sarcastically,
stepping around him and walking to the apartment door.
I took a deep breath before I pushed it open,
making sure Ben had retreated down the hallway.
David was sprawled on the couch, swooning.
“Hey, girl.”
“Hey,” I replied. I smiled, trying not to shake from
my confrontation with Ben. David really would be furious
if he knew.
“How was your date?”
“Wasn’t a date?”
“Did he try to kiss you?”
I exhaled.
“You owe me twenty dollars.”
I rubbed my chin. “Jack was there.”
“Shit,” David said.
I nodded. “Yeah, that’s bad, right?”
David shrugged. “I mean, it wasn’t a date, right?”
"I think Andrew thought it was,” I said. “But, no, I
didn’t.” I glanced over to the counter. Flowers in a vase.
Gardenias. I hadn't noticed them before.
“Ben?” I asked.
David bit his lip. “Yeah. He came to apologize.”
I nodded once. “Figured.”
David was quiet. “It won’t happen again.”
 “You trust him?”
“I do.”
“Because I mean, if you want to report it. I can
corroborate everything.”
“Hadley. Would you please just drop it?”
I didn’t say anything for a moment. “Well, the
flowers are nice.”
He nodded and got up. “I should put them in
water.” He smiled. “You want tea?”
I shook my head, feeling profoundly sad all of a
sudden. “No. I’m just going to call it a night.”
He smiled. “Okay.” I watched him turn towards the
sink, humming underneath his breath, to fill the vase with
water, adjusting the stems so the flowers fanned in a wide
circle.
I turned and walked towards the bedroom, thinking
of Jack’s flash of sadness, and then anger, and then
indifference at the restaurant.
It was so easy to see so many things if you just
stopped for the briefest moment and watched closely
enough—Jack’s knotted jaw, David’s trembling lips,
Andrew’s flat, hurt eyes, even the way Ben wore his fear
of being found out in the deep furrow of his brown—all of
the pain they tried to bear in silence had signed its
signature so clearly across their half-broken faces.
Chapter Twenty-One
I didn't hear from Jack for three days.
It wasn't an intelligent thing to fixate on—not when
I needed to make a decision about USA Today , keep up
with Arabic homework, and avoid looking like an idiot in
Riley’s class.
But I was fixated.
So much so that I didn't hear the question Riley
asked me Friday afternoon.
"Anyone home?" Riley demanded.
I looked at him blankly. "I'm sorry. I wasn't paying
attention."
"What do we mean by conflict-sensitive
journalism?"
"Journalism that actively works to reduce conflict,
encourage resolution," I said.
He nodded. "Can that kind of journalism ever be
unbiased?"
I paused. "Well, according to Ross Howard, yes.
And it encompasses more than writing articles that will
encourage people to be nice to one another. Part of
conflict-sensitive journalism is just good journalism. Not
relying on the statements of spokesmen, looking to report
on, say the opinions of low-ranking members of the
military or unarmed civilians, acknowledging widespread
beliefs without necessarily validating them.”
Riley nodded. "Good. And why do journalists
have an obligation to follow Howard’s principles?"
"Because journalists are mediators. They make
choices on what to communicate and how to communicate
it. When you frame a conflict in Syria, for example, as
intractable, you also inform the opinion of someone
halfway around the world reading your paper. And that
has real-world effects.”
Riley nodded. He glanced at the clock. "Exactly.
We'll be concluding our ethical inquiry into reporting from
areas of conflict next week and moving onto specific
conflicts in our modern world. We will also be doing the
first round of profiles in courage," he said. "You'll each be
assigned a journalist who lost his or her life in combat.
Frame it as a short, retrospective magazine piece—who
she was, what he did, how she died, what he wrote that
we will remember, and what do we learn from it." He
looked around the classroom and nodded. "Be safe this
weekend, please."
The class cleared out quickly. On Mondays and
Wednesdays, people always hung back to talk to him, but
at four-thirty on a Friday afternoon, everyone sped out the
door.
I took my time deliberately, waiting so that the
room would be empty when I asked him for help.
When the door closed and it was just me and him, I
looked up. "Professor Riley?"
He nodded. "Yes."
 "I was wondering if maybe I could talk to you
about my career after college," I said.
He nodded, like he’d tolerate me for a few
seconds
“I have a job offer. I don’t know if I should take it.
"
"Yeah. Where at?"
"USA Today."
He nodded. "Not a bad paper."
"Yeah. The position is at the D.C. bureau. Politics.
And I'm not that interested in policy. And I d—”
"Turn it down," he said flatly.
"Well, I don't have another offer."
"Well, get another offer."
I smiled weakly. "Right."
"Listen. You're a smart kid. And you're tough." He
paused. "You're the Editor-in-Chief of the undergrad
paper, yeah?"
"Yeah.”
"Scrap a little bit," he said. "They tell you a lot of
things about job interviews, but it's not a tea party."
"Yeah, okay."
"Where else have you interviewed?"
"Just The New York Times ," I said. "For the Africa
bureau. I didn't get it."
He nodded. "They say why?"
I nodded. "Not enough experience."
 “You sure you don’t want to do policy?”
“I want to do conflict and combat in the Middle
East,” I said. “Maybe I could like policy, but—”
"Don't take it if you already know it’s not what you
want," he said. "Nobody likes a journalist who doesn't
seem committed. When you tell them in two years you
want something different, they're not necessarily going to
give it to you then either. You speak Arabic, right, kid?”
I nodded. "Yeah.”
He nodded once, reaching into his pocket for a
cigarette. “I might have something from you.”
“Really?”
“Don’t get excited,” he said. “I’ll make a phone
call.” He opened the door, letting me out before him and I
grinned broadly.
“Professor Riley, thank you.”
He nodded once. “A word of advice, Arrington?
You’re going to have to get into the habit of telling people
what you want if you’re going to have a fighting chance at
it.” He gave me a knowing look.
I bit my lip, thinking about Jack rather than
journalism when he said that. I want to talk to you, Jack.
I nodded. “Right.”
“I mean it,” he said. “You’re too talented to fuck
around.”
I grinned. “Thanks.”
He nodded, dismissing me, and I walked away,
knowing I should talk to Jack, knowing I should tell him
that it seemed like he was ignoring me and I wanted to
know why. Maybe it was all about seeing me with
Andrew, but I felt sure I had told him Andrew was just a
friend.

I texted him as I walked to the parking lot.

Are you free?
Yeah.
I waited long enough to be sure he wasn't going to
ask me to come over. Keeping Riley’s advice in mind, I
texted him: Do you want to come over?
Nothing. I reached my car and made a face.
Or I can come there?
He wrote back right away: Yeah, if you want.
If you want. Meaning he didn’t really care. Well, I
did care. I wanted to see him and ask him why he'd been
acting weird.
Which he totally had been.
So I drove to the frat house, parked my car, walked
past a snowman-building contest deteriorating into a
drunken snowball fight in the front yard, and up the stairs.
I stepped into the house without knocking.
Jack sat slumped down on a couch in the living
room, texting on his phone with one thumb, and sipping a
beer. He sat in between Xander and a kid named Nate,
both of them too riveted by a basketball game to notice
me. Jack did though. He looked
surprised.
"Hey," I said softly.
“Hey,” he said. He leaned forward, resting his
forearms on his knees, and turned his attention fully to the
basketball game on the screen. "What do you want?" he
asked coolly.
"What's your problem?" Nate asked him,
chuckling.
Jack shrugged.
I leaned my head towards the door. "Should I go?"
He looked at me shamelessly, like he could see
right through the jacket I was wearing. He took a long sip
of his beer, without breaking eye contact.
“Christ, Diamond," Xander muttered. "Stop
eyefucking each other and go to your room.”
Jack turned and looked at him. He stood up.
“Hey,” he said to Xander. He was pissed off.
Xander smiled casually. “You know I’m joking."
He looked at me, saying it mainly for my benefit.
“It’s not funny.” Jack said shortly. He nodded at
me. “Upstairs?"
I shrugged. "Sure."
"Xander's fucking stupid," he muttered as we left
the living room and walked up the stairs, towards his
room. He closed the door behind me and took off his shirt
roughly.
 Well that was direct. He thought I was just here for
sex.
I cocked my head at him. “Jack?"
“What?” he asked roughly.
“What are you doing?”
He smiled sarcastically. “I thought we weren’t
going to ask each other personal questions,” he said.
Maybe he saw the hurt in my eyes. He looked away.
"You’re mad about dinner.”
"You lied.”
I exhaled. "How exactly did I lie?"
"I thought you didn't date anyone," he said. He had
stopped smiling. "You told me that, right?"
"It's complicated, but—”
"Complicated? You go to dinner with Andrew
Brenner and you fuck me? No, that's not complicated," he
smiled bitterly. "I mean this is fun and all, Hadley. This is
really fucking great. But, don’t tell me you don't date
people when all you really mean is you don't take me
seriously. And don't tell me something is complicated
when it's actually really simple."
"Andrew is the managing editor of the paper," I
said. "He wanted to discuss a Valentine's Day issue."
"He took you to dinner to talk about Valentine's
Day?"
“The Valentine’s Day issue of the newspaper." I
ran my hand through my hair. "And let me finish. I already
told you it wasn't a date. I’m not lying to you—”
“You—”
“Would you let me finish?”
He looked at me. “Fine, finish."
“I didn't have time to talk about the issue last week
and I said we'd talk over dinner to get him off my back," I
said. "I thought we'd go to Chipotle or something. I didn't
even remember I'd agreed to dinner until five minutes
before and he had to drive me home to change because
he'd made a reservation at Mill House."
He laughed bitterly. "Right."
"That's what happened!"
"I know you," he said. "You wouldn't have gone if
you didn't want to. You say 'no' like nobody's business."
“It’s different.”
“How is it different?”
“Because he’s not like you,” I snapped.
Jack stepped back, hurt. "Right. Well, good to
know where I stand."
“You don’t know where you stand. Obviously. We
wouldn't be having this stupid argument if you did.
He’s...he’s nothing like you. He doesn’t….he doesn’t
scare me like you do.” I took a breath. “I don’t think you
understand how much you scare me, Jack.”
He was quiet for a second. He took half a step
towards me. He spoke softly. “Hadley, how the hell do I
scare you?”
 I looked at him and whispered, “You just do.”
“Why?”
“Because I like you. You're my friend and I'm
sleeping with you and I just like you. I like having you
around and I'm not used to that."
Oh," he said. "Well, I like you, too."
"Right," I smiled sarcastically. "You've been dying
to see me."
He took a step towards me and he reached for my
wrists. He pulled me to him. His eyes were deep. “I’m
sorry,” he said. “I just thought…”
“I’m not dating him,” I said softly.
“Okay,” he said. He pressed his forehead to mine.
He undressed me slowly, kissing me everywhere.
He took his time. Something deeper that words passed
between us when we had sex. He said things without
speaking and I understood without hearing. I understood
that he was a little lost and confused. He understood that I
was stressed out and afraid that everyone would find out
how much I was faking it. He could taste that I was afraid
of so many things. Even him. Especially him.
His mouth and his muscles and his hands knew me
well. They loved me well.
I caught my breath curled against his shoulder.
“That was good,” I whispered and he laughed gently.
He kissed my stomach right above my hipbone.
“You excited to skydive?”
 “Can’t wait.”
He smiled. “Good.”
I sat up and he ran his hands up my body once
more. “I should go,” I said.
He dropped a kiss on my neck. “Hads?”
“Yeah.”
“You don’t have anything to be afraid of,” he
whispered into my ear. “I promise.”

When I finally left the frat house, I checked my email and

found a short note from a New York Times editor.
Hi Hadley,
Rob Riley suggested you might be a good fit for a
position in the Middle East this summer. I know you've
interviewed for the Cairo bureau. Could you fly out for
an interview next week?
Dale Broussards
I wrote back immediately, agreeing. I decided Jack
might be good luck.
Chapter Twenty-two
"I have an interview," I told Jack, when I arrived at the
frat house early Saturday morning, thinking about anything
other than jumping out of a plane.
"Where?"
"The New York Times ," I said. I exhaled. "Your
godfather actually helped me out."
"I'll have to tell him to stop doing that," he said.
We took Xander’s old Jeep south of the city. Jack
and I got the back seats. Xander and Nate took the front.
“I want everyone to know that this is a bad idea,”
Xander said. “And it's all Jack's fault."
“It’s not a bad idea,” Jack said. He leaned his head
against the cold window and I leaned my back against the
door and put my feet in his lap. Whenever I looked over at
him, he caught me staring and smirked.
“You’ve done this before?” I asked him.
“Yep,” he said. “Couple of times.”
“Jack’s skydiving solo,” Xander told me, meeting
my eyes in the rearview mirror. "Everyone else is getting
tied to a professional."
“Seriously? Have you done that before? By
yourself?”
He nodded. "Yeah."
"You've made this a hobby?"
"Yeah."
"Why?"
 He smiled. “Why not?”
“Seems a bit extreme.”
“We can’t all be Editors-in-Chiefs in our free
time.”
"Well, how'd you get into that?"
“Um, in Costa Rica, actually. When I was
fourteen,” he said. “I did this outward bound type of thing
after I got kicked out of boarding school.”
I raised my eyebrows incredulously. "What?
Why?"
"I don't know. It was Costa Rica."
"I meant boarding school."
“I didn’t do anything evil,” he assured me.
“Marijuana. Very old-fashioned place. Not everyone is
from San Francisco, you know. They probably taught you a
class on how to roll a joint.”
“Not quite,” I said dryly.
He smiled. “I got kicked out of a few boarding
schools actually.”
“What for?”
“Kid stuff,” he said. “Alcohol, breaking curfew,
marijuana. I’m not great with rules.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“Your rules are okay,” he smiled. “Anyone who
bans flowers I’m willing to listen to.”
I smiled and looked at him. “They’re just
guidelines.”
 “Really? So, you will go to dinner with me?”
I laughed.
He chuckled back. “I’m seriously starting to hate
this Brenner kid.”
“Why?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I’m just outraged you had the time
for dinner with him.” He grinned at me goofily. “So, when
will you find out if you get the Times job?"
“I don’t know. Like a week after my interview
probably,” I said.
"You should practice." He lifted his chin. “What’s
your greatest strength?”
“What?”
“Let’s practice for your interview.”
“No,” I said, embarrassed. I wrinkled my nose at
the idea of Xander and Nate and Jack hearing the answers
to my interview questions.
“Come on."
"No," I said.
"What? You're suddenly shy?”
"It's just a personal question," I said.
"Is that what you're going to tell the guy who
interviews you?"
"I'm going to tell the guy who interviews me that
my greatest strength as a journalist is precision."
Jack grinned. “What’s your greatest weakness?”
I grinned. “I have trust issues and watch reality
TV. What's yours?"
He gave me a once-over. “Brunette reporters.”
I laughed and my dark hair fell in front of my face.
“This is probably true,” Nate chimed in. “Jack
doesn’t even know how to attend a meeting and he
managed to organize a mandatory meeting on your behalf.”
"It wasn't on my behalf," I said.
"Yes, it was," Nate said. "He's the laziest person
in the world. If you hadn't been the one asking, nothing
would have happened."
Xander and Jack chuckled.
I looked at Jack and shook my head. "I don't think
that's true."
"No, really. He's profoundly lazy," Nate insisted.
"I am," Jack told me.
I shrugged. I still think he’d have listened.
"Seriously," Jack persisted. "Not into meetings at
all. And I didn't think it would work, to be honest."
"Why?"
"Because the guys are immature and they thought it
was funny," Jack said. He shrugged. "It's not like we have
any real authority."
"Yeah," Nate said. "It's a fraternity."
"I know that," I said.
"Being drunk and kind of homophobic is par for
the course," Nate said.
"Hadley's a little confused about Greek life. She
thought we were a pillar of responsibility.”
Nate nodded knowingly. "It's more like a club that
supports underage drinking and loose morals."
Jack laughed.
"I don't think it's funny," I admitted quietly. "And it
worked out. Everyone left him alone." I shrugged. "Maybe
I'm naïve and idealistic, but sometimes you have to be.”
Jack met my eyes and smiled. “I never thought it
was funny. I thought you were a little bit funny.”
We pulled up to the skydiving facility and for the
first time all day, I acknowledged that I had agreed to
jump out of a plane. Jump. Out. Of. A. Plane.
In February.
Fuck.
“Don’t freak out,” Jack said unhelpfully.
"That's great advice."
I wondered when he started being able to read me
like that. I smiled at him, looking down the simple, paved
runway. And I opened the car door. It was bitingly cold
and it would be even colder when we jumped.
Jack had signed the release forms before, and
watched the safety videos. I watched them, too. Death,
serious injury, all that jazz.
I signed the form with a shaky hand.
“Just pretend you're writing a newspaper article in
Egypt,” Jack teased.
“I am absolutely going to kill you,” I said.
 Jack laughed. “Trust me.”
“I do trust you. It’s the parachutes that I’m
suspicious of,” I hissed.
He laughed and kissed me lightly on the cheek.
PDA. We hadn’t talked about that. It should
probably be against the rules, but I liked the way it felt, so
I just leaned against him. You’re starting to be my good
friend, Jack. Don’t fuck this up.
He nuzzled me under his chin and spoke softly.
“Look, you don’t have to jump if you’re really freaked
out.”
I shook my head. “Oh, screw you. I drove all the
way out here. I’m jumping out of a goddamned plane.”
He laughed and slipped his hands around my waist
and he leaned into my ear and spoke very, very softly. “I
didn’t think anything could feel as amazing as skydiving
until I slept with you.”
I arched my head back. “Oh, yeah? So, what’s
this? Double-checking?”
He laughed, shaking his head. “No, I’m sure. This
is just to keep things interesting.”
A man named Jonesy buckled me into a harness
while the plane idled nearby. Xander, Patrick, and I were
all jumping tandem, while Jack was flying solo. He’d
done this before, I told myself. There was no reason to
worry.
The plane was noisy and I sat back on a bench, in
Jonesy’s lap, across from Jack, who grinned at me.
“Cozy?” he asked.
I made a made a face. I didn’t think it was possible
to have this many butterflies in your stomach. The plane
taxied down the runway and surged through its take off.
My chest tightened and my stomach went wild, as the earth
shrunk below us. The engines roared in my ears. I could
hardly hear the instructor who I was strapped to shouting
in my ear.
“Alright, sweetheart,” he said. “We’re going to
open the door in just a minute and then we’re going to
jump. Okay?”
Not okay. Not okay. So not okay.
I shut my eyes until I heard them open the door.
“Alright, here we go,” he said. “Let’s start
moving.”
“Okay,” I breathed. We stood up and awkwardly
moved to the door. The air was frigid. Actually,
breathtakingly cold.
“Pull your goggles on,” Jonesy shouted over the
rattling engines. He walked me right to the edge of the
plane. All I could hear now was the wind and the noise. I
turned my head, panicked, and I looked at Jack. He’d risen
to his feet to watch me go. And when I caught his eyes, I
felt safe.
And then we were standing outside the plane.
The earth was spread out beneath us, flat, like an
unfurled map. Everything was white and gray for miles. I
felt my toes just over the edge of the doorway. I felt my
heart riot in my chest. My brain went clear. All I could see
was the earth. All I could remember was that we were
jumping.
He pushed me out and we tumbled, the air was the
sweet Jesus kind of cold, filling my mouth, rushing through
my nose, stripping the warmth from my body and the air
from my lungs. We flipped once, twice, three times and the
dark line of the horizon spun in my eyes like a spinnaker.
My neck strained against the pressure and then it
didn’t feel like we were falling at all. We were still
dropping fast, but we were no longer accelerating. I was
pressed tightly against Jonesy’s chest, with my arms up
against his like a gliding bird.
He opened the parachute and I felt tightness around
my chest and arms as we came out of the freefall. We
slowed and then we were just drifting over the earth.
“Oh my god,” I murmured as I was flooded with
endorphins. I felt like I was on drugs. I felt perfect. Like
all of the things I ever worried about would never return.
I never wanted to land. Even though my teeth
chattered, I wanted to drift forever.
“Lift your feet up and then try to stand,” Jonesy
told me as we approached the ground. And that’s just what
I did. We landed gently. But my legs shook as we stood.
He lightly touched my waist and unstrapped me and I sat
down.
“Holy shit,” I said as I watched Jack dropping in
alone. He came in faster, whipping through the wind. And
he landed at a half-run, taking a few big steps forward and
then jogging over to me, shucking off the harness.
“Holy shit,” I repeated to him.
He laughed and pulled me to my feet. I looked up
at the sky. In the distance, we could see the other two
parachutes opening and Nate and Xander drifting back to
earth.
“Can we do that again?” I asked breathlessly.
He smiled and dropped his head. Standing in an
open field, with a parachute still strapped to his shoulders,
he kissed me deeper than anyone has ever kissed me
before.
And my knees buckled. They actually buckled. And
the thing about your knees buckling that they never tell you
in the movies is that usually you’re never expecting it and
usually neither is he.
So he didn’t catch me. The bastard.
I caught myself on my hands, but not without
feeling a sharp shooting pain in my knee, which twisted
underneath me.
“Shit. Ow. Shit,” I said, grabbing at the horrible
stabbing in my left knee.
“Jesus. Are you okay? Did you—what just
happened?” Jack asked. He helped me sit up.
 “I have a Charlie horse in my knee.”
“That’s not possible.”
“Oh my god, shut the fuck up, I’m dying,” I said.
"Are you seriously hurt?"
"Yes."
"What happened?"
"Me knees went out."
"I made you weak at the knees?"
"I'm serious. It hurts," I growled.
“Alright, alright, alright,” he said. “Hey!” He
shouted to one of the instructors. “She hurt her leg. Can
you…” They started running over and he looked back
down at me. “Babe, can you stand up?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “It really fucking hurts.”
And it did. It was like a stabbing pain, deep and
penetrating and awful.
I lay on the cold ground, breathing hard. Anyone
who tells you that you should wait for that guy who makes
you weak at the knees should be shot.

Three hours later, I had crutches, Percocet, and a brace for

my sprained knee. Sweetly, Nate and Xander had stuck out
the whole ordeal in the waiting room while Jack tried not
to laugh when I told the doctor that my knee just collapsed
after he’d kissed me.
“I hate you,” I grumbled as he pushed the
wheelchair to the doors. “Actual, real hatred.”
 “That’s against the rules,” he said.
“Says who?”
“I’m making a rule. No hatred.”
“Okay, flower child.”
Xander dropped me and Jack off at my apartment.
He took my tote bag over his shoulder, giving me a look
like he dared me to make fun of him, and helped me to the
door.
“You need to take the elevator,” he said.
“There is no elevator,” I said, testing out my
crutches on the staircase.
Jack looked at me skeptically. “You are going to
die on these stairs.”
“Don’t be such an alarmist.” I stumbled and he
steadied me.
“No, no, no. I’m not taking you back to the hospital
tonight.” He picked me up abruptly, like I was an infant
and began walking up the stairs.
I lolled in his arms. I’d normally put up a fight, but
I was sleepy and who the fuck wanted to walk up stairs
when they were on painkillers and someone would carry
them.
“I don’t want to hear a goddamned word about
how much I weigh.”
“No more than eleven pounds,” he said.
“Good answer,” I replied dryly. We reached the
stop of the stairs and he set me down.
 “What? No door-to-door service?” I asked, putting
down my crutches in the hallway and beginning the
awkward jaunt to my apartment door.
“Fuck no,” he muttered breathlessly. He took my
keys and opened the door. David and Ben sat on the couch,
smiling at each other, and both of them freaked out when
they saw Jack.
“Seriously, Hadley?” David said, annoyed. I had
forgotten. I had completely forgotten that he planned on
having Ben over.
“Shit,” I muttered.
“Oh my God,” David said in an entirely different
tone when he realized I was on crutches. “What happened
to your leg? Did your parachute not open or something?”
“I would be dead if my parachute didn’t open,” I
said.
“She tripped,” Jack said awkwardly.
Jack looked at Ben, then at David, then back to
Ben. “David, right? I don’t think we’ve officially met.” He
stepped towards him and shook his hand. He nodded at
Ben. “What’s up, Mitchell?”
So they knew each other. Great. I snuck a look at
David. He was going to kill me.
"Hey, Jack," Ben said, standing up. "How's it
going? We were doing a chemistry project. You guys went
skydiving? That's awesome. I'd love to try that some time.
You know, when I don't have to meet with my assigned
partner for a mandatory project." He grinned nervously. At
least he had the dignity to flush as he tried to disown
David, tried to act like the only reason he'd ever spend
time with him was because he'd been assigned.
Jack's eyes flashed with what I was starting to
recognize as his trademark look of silent fury. I was pretty
sure he had put two and two together. He knew Ben was
the kid who attacked David. "Yeah?" he said shortly.
"Good luck with that." He turned back to me. "Come on.
You need to lie down."
"What's wrong with your leg?" David asked.
"I sprained my knee."
“Let me. Do you need ice?” David asked. “I know
—hold on. I know we have ice. How did you sprain your
knee, girl?” He scrambled into the kitchen.
Ben cringed when David called me girl. David
caught it, too, biting his lip, embarrassed. And I glared at
Ben angrily.
“I make her week at the knees,” Jack joked.
“Um, well, I should go,” Ben said. “Look, I think
you can take the rest of the project from here, right,
Danny?”
David’s eyes flashed. Not with anger. With
staggeringly insane heartbreaking hurt. Like he’d been
slapped across the face. Ben was pretending not to know
him. Ben was pretending that he didn’t remember his
name.
 “His name is David,” Jack said as I tensed.
Ben flushed again and Jack turned his head to look
uncritically at David.
“Oh, oh, sorry, we—we just met for the first time.
We’re lab partners,” Ben offered lamely.
"Don't apologize to me," Jack said.
"Right."
He turned to go.
"You should apologize to David," Jack said.
Ben stopped and looked at Jack and then at David.
"Right, sorry."
"Don't worry about it," David said, barely above a
whisper.
Ben was halfway out the door already though. He
pulled the door shut so hard that the doorframe rattled.
“Here’s ice,” David murmured. His voice
wavered. “W-would you excuse me?” He walked to his
room quickly.
"David, wait," I called after him. "David, come
on."
"Just let him. You need to lie down," Jack said.
"Then we can get David."
“I’m not as neat as you, so don’t have a panic
attack,” I warned him when we reached my bedroom.
I crawled into my bed. I heard David’s bathroom
door close softly.
“So, Ben Mitchell’s gay?” Jack asked, crawling
next to me on the bed.
“Don’t tell anyone,” I mumbled.
“That’s just—wow.”
“Don’t…”
“I’m not going to. It’s just ironic,” Jack said. “He
uses the word ‘faggot’ more than any straight guy I know.”
“Don’t tell me this shit,” I said. “I can barely hear
David say his name without wanting to hunt him down and
David feels like I'm attacking him when I point out what a
shit boyfriend he is."
“He’s the one who beat David up, yeah?”
I nodded.
Jack ran a hand through my hair. “Well, it’s
certainly not your fault.”
“I know that.”
He sighed.
“Hey, get David for me,” I asked.
He nodded but didn't move. “Yo, David,” he
shouted. “David, come in here.”
“I meant get up and ask nicely.”
“The walls are thin,” Jack responded.
I pushed him. "You are lazy."
Jack didn't move. "He might want to be alone."
"Please."
Jack sighed, got to his feet and knocked on David's
bedroom door. "Hey, man, whenever you get a second,
Hadley wants to talk you."
 "Yeah," David called back shakily. "Just a
minute."
Jack returned to my bedroom and lay down next to
me. "Get under the covers."
"No."
"It's cold in here."
He yanked at the sheets.
"Do not do that."
He gave me a perplexed look.
"I don't like making my bed."
"So don't make it," he said.
"But I hate when it looks messy."
He yanked at the covers, pulled them under and
then over me. "Too late."
"Asshole."
David appeared, slightly red-eyed, a few minutes
later. “Hey,” he said. “How are you feeling?”
“Loopy as fuck,” I said. “Get in here.”
David glanced warily at Jack and sat on the edge
of my bed.
"Hey, can I say something?" Jack asked.
David looked at him twice as warily. "Ah, yeah."
“Was that your boyfriend?” Jack asked.
David shot me a look of betrayal.
“I didn’t say anything,” I insisted.
“He’s closeted. You can’t tell anyone," David
said.
 "So, he's your boyfriend," Jack said.
"Yes," David said.
“He's being a douche bag," Jack stated flatly.
“And then next time he hits you, hit him back.”
“Hadley,” David said, horrified.
“I—I had to talk about it with someone.”
“Then talk about it with me.”
I looked at him pleadingly. “You said to let it be.
And so I did, but I had to tell someone.”
David crossed his arms and shook his head. “Just
butt out, okay? It seems like you have enough drama in
your own personal life, as it is.”
Jack raised his eyebrows.
“Yeah, well…”
“No, I’m fine. Ben and I are fine. I know what the
deal is—”
“He’s going to pretend to forget your name in front
o f Jack? Someone he barely even knows? He’d rather
have Jack think he doesn’t know you than have Jack
possibly suspect that he might be friends with someone
who is gay? Seriously?”
“Hadley, I don’t give a fuck. Don’t you get that? I
love him,” David said.
“Well, I’m really sorry, because the way things are
going, it’s not going to end well.”
Jack glanced at me. “Maybe you two should have
this fight when you’re both not so emotional.”
 “Oh, shut up,” David and I both yelled at him at
the exact same time and in the exact same tone of voice.
Jack looked at David and then at me. I saw him
fighting a smile.
"Right. Sorry," he exhaled.
I threw my head back. “David, I love you. I just
think your boyfriend’s an asshole. Okay?”
I closed my eyes and waited to hear his voice.
“Fine,” he said it tersely. “Just, you know, try to stay out
of it.”
I took in a deep breath and nodded. “Yeah. Okay, I
will.”
“You’re my best friend,” he said softly. “Feel
better.” He closed the door softly behind him.
Jack was quiet next to me.
“How you feeling?” he asked, kissing my temple
lightly.
“Ugh.”
“Here. Why don’t you take your painkillers and try
to fall asleep?” he asked. “Do you want the TV on?”
“Yeah.”
He flipped through the channels.
“What do you want?”
“The news.”
He looked at me. “You fall asleep to the news?”
“I like to think I can hear it when I’m sleeping.”
“You are a psycho,” he said. He left the room and
came back with a glass of water. He helped me sit up and
take the pills. And then he set the crutches next to my bed,
where they’d be easily to reach.
He lay down next to me on the bed and we
watched the headlines.
“This is what you fall asleep to?” he smiled. “You
ever heard of lullabies? Or Planet Earth?”
“Yes. But this is what I like,” I said, curling into
the covers.
“Violent demonstrations in Egypt?”
“Yes.”
The tension in my knee had been so great, that I
didn’t truly begin to notice it until it had begun to
dissipate.
“Disturbing,” Jack teased.
I felt Jack’s hand in my hair, and I felt his lips
brush the top of my head. “Alright, just call me if you need
anything, kid,” he said.
“Hey?” I reached for his wrist. In the darkened
room, the word that broke our rules was easy to say:
“Stay.”
He hesitated. "Are you sure?"
I nodded. "Yeah, I want you to stay."
He kicked off his shoes and settled beside me and I
drifted to sleep easily.
Chapter Twenty-three
I woke up groggily and in pain again. I swore as I sat up.
And then I swore again when I saw Jack curled next to me.
We were both fully clothed. We had been cuddling.
“Shit,” I muttered. I reached for the crutches and
the orange bottle of Percocet and choked another pill
down.
Jack stirred. He blinked open his eyes and sat up
suddenly. He looked at me and then at the TV screen.
“Hey, CNN is really like a lullaby,” he murmured, as the
morning headlines rolled across the screen.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, just a little sore,” I said, leaning forward in
the bed for my phone. My knee was a problem, but it felt
like a small problem compared to Jack sleeping over.
I scrolled through my texts—nothing important or
interesting. And then I checked my email.
Andrew’s new memo to staff writers on fact-
checking.
Justin’s article, which he was having trouble
sourcing.
An email from Dale Broussards confirming my
interview on Thursday. It was hard not to be happy about
that. I grinned broadly.
"What?" Jack asked.
"Nothing," I said.
"You're smiling like an idiot."
 "It’s nothing," I said. "Just the job I'm interviewing
for. I’m excited.”
Jack held out his hand for my phone. "Let me see."
I handed my phone over. He scanned the email
quickly and handed the phone back to me with a
noncommittal nod of his head. "Neat."
I guess I should've known he wouldn't be too
excited about jobs, given his aversion to them.
I yawned. "David's cooking," I said, hearing the
sound of him in the kitchen.
"I was going to say it smells amazing. When can I
move in?”
I gave him a look and got to my feet shakily.
"Easy, tiger," he said, springing out of bed. "Where
you going?"
"To brush my teeth."
"Let me help you."
"Brush my teeth?"
“I bet you don’t have an extra toothbrush.”
“You can use mine,” I offered.
He made a face.
“Your mouth has had worse.”
He chuckled at me as I limped to the bathroom. I
looked in the mirror as I brushed my teeth, slumped
against my crutches. I couldn’t believe I had sprained my
knee. I had an interview for a job in Syria, reporting on
massive upheaval and unrest. What was I going to tell the
New York Times when they asked how I sprained my
knee? Some boy made me weak in the knees? That I
couldn’t handle a kiss?
If I had ever felt less cut out for serious
journalism, I couldn’t remember it. I spat and washed out
my mouth. And Jack and I had moved to sharing
toothbrushes. Fabulous, I thought sarcastically.
I crutched out to the kitchen where David was
working seriously on blueberry pancakes.
“Hey,” he said with a smile as I sat down. “Just in
time.” He handed me a plate with two pancakes.
“Ah, you’re the best. Seriously, the best,” I said. I
smiled and took a bite. Jack came up behind me and kissed
my neck, surprising me. I ducked away from the kiss,
laughing.
“So, I have another interview with the Times,” I
told David.
"Seriously? That's so amazing." David handed
Jack a plate.
I nodded. "Just have to come up with a good story
for the crutches. I mean, I probably won’t get it, but—”
“Oh, please,” David said. “You’ll get it.”
I looked over at Jack, who was working on a large
mouthful of blueberry pancakes. “Okay, now I get why you
don’t want to have sleepovers,” Jack said once he
swallowed. “I don’t have a David and you don’t want to
share his breakfast.”
 David grinned. “You don’t need to share. There
are enough carbohydrates for an army here.”
“I am an army,” Jack replied. He gave me a sharky
look and I took a bite of pancakes, rolling my eyes.
“Hadley, what do you contribute to this
operation?” Jack asked.
“She makes the coffee. When she’s not wounded,”
David explained.
“Oh, that must be tough, pressing a button.”
“Mm-hmm,” I said. “You’re an asshole. Maybe
that’s why I don’t have you sleep over.”
“So, how d i d that happen?” David asked. He
smiled. "I don't think I got the story last night. Jack said
something about weak knees."
“I told you,” Jack said. “I kissed her. She fell.”
“I had just jumped out of a plane,” I said. "And I'd
skipped breakfast. So, I'd say low blood sugar."
David smiled. "So, wait, tell me about the
interview. What's the job exactly?"
"It's for a job that's split between New York and
the Middle East. Responding to crises as needed,
basically."
"That's perfect for you."
Jack nodded once. He stared at his pancakes.
“What do you mean by crises?”
“Like, violent conflict, mainly,” I said. “At least,
in the Middle East. But, really, probably any major news
in the region. I’d probably be focused in Syria, but it all
depends on what needs to be covered.”
“You really want to do that?”
“Well, yeah.”
“I mean, have you thought about it?”
“Sorry?”
“I mean, have you—have you really thought about
what working in a violent, misogynistic region of the
world could be like on a day-to-day basis?” he asked.
"Are your parents okay with that?"
"Obviously, I’ve thought about it. It’s my dream
job. And I'm an adult. Though, I doubt my parents care."
He sipped his orange juice. “I bet they care.”
“Why?”
"Why?" he repeated. "Because you're their kid and
you're talking about going into an actual war zone. With a
notepad instead of a gun.”
I raised my eyebrows. "Are you serious right
now?"
"My mother would absolutely kill me if I told her I
was going to be a reporter in Middle Eastern conflict
zones. That’s all.”
David met my eyes. “Will your parents care?”
“Only if they notice,” I said. My father would
probably care. But, I’d have to get the job first and then
he’d have to decide to check up on me or my mom. I’d
probably be in the Middle East by the time he figured it.
 “How are they not going to notice that you're
working in like, Afghanistan or Syria or whatever?" Jack
asked.
“Look. I haven't even interviewed yet," I said.
"And I have no idea what will happen if I do get the job.
And my parents aren't going to notice because my parents
are super self-absorbed. And it doesn’t matter. They don't
want me to be any kind of journalist. So, if I end up doing
it in the Middle East, it won't make any difference."
“Why don’t they want you to be a journalist?” Jack
asked.
“They think it’s stupid. They think I won’t get paid
anything and that it’s a huge fucking waste of my time and
energy.” I snapped at Jack. “These, by the way, just so you
have a little background, are two people who couldn’t
stand to be on the same continent as one another, but on
this, they agree. It’s a dying industry, it’s low-paying, and
nobody gives a shit. Point taken. I still want to do it.”
Jack shook his head. “That’s not what I said.”
“Well.”
“That’s not what I said,” he repeated stubbornly.
“What you're trying to do is dangerous. That’s all. I didn’t
mean you shouldn’t be a journalist.”
I exhaled. “Oh.”
He smiled. “So, you can relax.” He took another
bite of his blueberry pancakes. I watched the lines of his
shoulder. The way he moved his fork. Something about
that made me fall a little in love. Or lust.
He caught me looking at him and smiled. “You’re
not getting any of my pancakes,” he said, glancing at my
empty plate. “These are mine.”
I laughed and for a moment, the tension diffused.
But there were still so many unresolved things. The fact he
slept over. The way I just freaked out at him over my
parents. David’s boyfriend. The whole goddamned
newspaper resting squarely on my shoulders.
Chapter Twenty-Four
“What would happen?” I asked Andrew. “If we just didn’t
put a paper out.”
He gave me a look. He had been none too
impressed with my I-sprained-my-knee-while-skydiving
story and he seemed further annoyed by my suggestion that
Northwestern could survive a day without us. Added to
the fact that I told him he needed to act as Editor-in-Chief
when I left for New York for my interview, I was pretty
sure Andrew had had enough.
“If you need a break, I can do it today.”
“I don’t need a break,” I said. “I’m just wondering
what would happen.”
“I don’t know, Hadley,” he said wearily. “I’d
rather not think about it.”
I chewed on my lip. I’d gone over my résumé two
dozen times. I’d practiced answers to every interview
question I’d ever heard. And I’d researched my
interviewer fanatically. All that was left to do was to
perform flawlessly in the interview.
I drove over to Jack’s after I’d wrapped up all of
the final details for the next day’s issue. He was lying on
his bed, reading. He barely heard me clatter in on my
crutches.
“Mmm. Hey. You’re getting good at that,” he said
with a grin.
“Thank you, sir.” I tried to curtsey on the crutches
and nearly wiped out.
He nodded. “I have something for you.”
I smiled. “Yeah?”
He tossed me a New York Knicks sweatshirt. “For
the plane. So you don’t look like a helpless Midwestern
tourist.”
I rolled my eyes. “I don’t look like…”
“Sh…” he said.
“I’m from California.”
“Helpless California girls and tourists from the
Midwest are all the same to New Yorkers.”
I rolled my eyes and pulled on the sweatshirt,
balancing on one leg. He kissed me deeply. He pushed a
strand of hair behind my ear. “Maybe we should have put
the sweatshirt on after we fucked,” he murmured.
“Mm,” I said, kissing him back. “You might have a
point.”
“Because I sort of like all of the stuff under the
sweatshirt. I’ve really gotten in my own way here.”
I chuckled as he kissed my neck even more gently
than usual. He shuffled me to the edge of the bed and
pulled the sweatshirt over my head. He pulled my t-shirt
over with it. And then he undressed himself.
“Can you do this?” he asked, gesturing at my knee.
I nodded.
“You sure?”
“Positive.”
 He smiled. “Good.”
He was feather light with his touches. It was
difficult for me to move, but he was perfect. He cradled
one knee in his arm, barely allowing it to sway, and he
was so sweet and he was so gentle that it felt like even
more than just good sex. It started to feel a lot like a crush.
Or maybe, if I let my guard down for half a second, a little
bit more than even a crush.
Chapter Twenty-Five
I was just in New York for a single day. A single
chaotic day that started at O’Hare airport and ended back
there the same night. The interview process had been
grueling, six hours of rapid-fire questions.
I had taken a class once on the criminal justice
system. I’d learned how aggressive investigators would
ask the same questions over and over so the suspect would
start to forget what he had said and would start to question
what he remembered. I felt a bit like that by the time I was
handed off to an editorial assistant who walked me out of
the labyrinthine office complex.
“We’ll call you,” she told me.
“Great, thank you,” I replied. And then I crutched
down 8th Avenue, hailed a cab, zipped through Kennedy
airport, and got on a plane back to Chicago. I wearily
passed out leaning against the window.
I couldn’t believe all of that had happened in the
space of one day. The way we travel now makes
everything go so fast, it’s like it hardly happened at all.
Chapter Twenty-Six
“I feel like you’re not eating,” Jack said. “So, I need to
take you out for dinner.”
Half of the fraternity was over for a pledge class
celebration, and it was dinnertime. We were holed up in
Jack’s room and I was not prepared to crash an all-male
fraternity dinner.
I gave Jack a suspicious look. “That’s against the
rules.”
“You broke the sleepover rule,” he pointed out.
“That was your fault. I was drugged.”
“I was ready to go. But you were all like stay,” he
whispered in breathy imitation of me.
I laughed. “I was not.”
“It was like when the Titanic was sinking and the
redhead was all like, oh my god, I’m so cold, let’s hold
hands.”
“It was not like that.”
“Jack, never let go. I mean, what was I supposed
to do?”
“You weren’t on drugs,” I said, flushing.
“Never let go, Jack,” he whispered. “Never let
go.”
“That is the worst imitation of Kate Winslet ever.”
“I’m not doing Kate Winslet. I’m doing Hadley
Arrington,” he grinned. “And I’m buying you fucking
dinner. If you’re that worried about the rules, we can go to
McDonalds. They don’t serve food. It’s all plastic
products that happen to be edible. So, we don’t even have
to call it dinner.”
“Ugh—I’d rather have dinner.”
“There you go again. Breaking rules.” He smiled.
We walked down the stairs. Well, he walked. I
crutched. I was getting good at crutching.
I got into his car and put my feet up on the
dashboard. He grinned at me. “So, when do you find out
about the job?”
“Oh, I don’t want to think about it,” I told him. I
looked out the window. Jack still didn’t really know what
he wanted to do. “What about you? You ever think about
next year?”
He laughed. “Fair enough.”
“No, seriously. I’m not asking to be a bitch. What
about you?” I asked.
He made a helpless noise. “I—I feel like you don’t
believe me when I say I don’t know. I just...I don’t know.”
“What about skydiving?” I asked.
He laughed bitterly.
“What?” I asked. “You said you loved that. You
could be an instructor.”
“With a Northwestern degree?
“Who cares? Do what makes you happy.”
“That’s the thing, Hadley. I just...I don’t care about
anything enough,” he shrugged.
 “You love to read. You love to skydive. You love
your friends,” I said. “You care about a lot of shit.”
“Point taken. Look, I’m sorry I asked. Can we drop
it?”
“What are you going to do if you don’t find a job?”
He shrugged. “Might stay in Chicago actually.”
“Really?” I looked at him.
“Yeah. Bobby’s working on a book. He said I
could be his research assistant.” He shrugged. “So, that’s
an idea.”
“That’s a great idea,” I said.
He looked at me. I flinched at the look, which was
one of sheer annoyance. “I’m not a pet project, Hadley.
It’s not that I can’t get a job. I’m not looking for a reason.”
“Well, what’s the reason?”
“Everyone's always looking for something else to
make them happy. New apartment. New girlfriend. New
dog. New job. None of it every makes anyone happy. The
looking just distracts the hell out of you from what’s
actually going on, which is your life.”
“Okay.” I closed my eyes briefly. “But even if
doing something won’t make you happy, it could still be
worth doing. And having worth…”
“Hadley,” he said shortly. “You don’t even want to
be my girlfriend. Why do you care if I have a job or not?”
Well, that was a bit harsh. I looked at him while he
drove. “I don’t want to be anyone's girlfriend right now."
 “Right.”
“I don’t.”
“Got it,” he said.
“I don’t think it usually works out. Everyone
breaks up. Or else they get married. Or they get married
and then divorced. Or they cheat.” I looked at him. “Or
they turn out to be a liar. Or—and this is what really
scares me—one person gives up everything they actually
want for a few years of love and lust and they find out it
wasn't worth it. But you don’t know. You can never really
know what’s going on in someone else’s head. No matter
how much time you spend with them or how much sex you
have or anything. You don’t know.”
He sighed.
“And the point isn’t that I don’t want you to be my
boyfriend. The point is that I don’t want anyone to be my
boyfriend. Nobody."
He breathed. “Christ. Forget it. Okay?”
“I’m not ashamed of you,” I added, for emphasis.
“I don’t care if you don’t get a job. You just talk about not
having one an awful lot for someone who supposedly
doesn’t give a shit. And we’re supposed to be friends.”
“I didn’t mean it like that. I just—this is a stupid
conversation. Sorry I brought it up.”
I took a deep breath. We had reached a Mexican
restaurant that I liked. It was popular with almost
everyone who ever ate there. The quesadillas were
always piping hot, buttery, and mouthwateringly cheesy
and the guacamole tasted like it was imported from Mount
Olympus. Plus, I’ve always been a sucker for margaritas.
Jack opened my door, which was not just
gentlemanly but actually necessary, with the crutches. He
smiled when he took my hand and helped me out. “Sorry,”
he said, sincerely. “My mom keeps asking me a lot of the
same questions. It’s been bugging me a bit. And Xander
thinks he should be on my case about it. And then, you
know, after him, you’re like…basically my best friend.”
That meant so much to me. “You’re basically my
best friend too.”
“After David?”
“Well, I haven’t quite ranked everyone yet.” He
laughed when I said that. “But you’re up there, kid. Don’t
worry.”
We sat in a corner booth and ordered margaritas
and guacamole. I sat with my legs stretched out and Jack
smiled at me when I knocked a whole margarita back in
one long gulp.
“Bad girl. I have to drive.”
I grinned and ordered a second. “I don’t. And you
said you wanted to see me really drunk.”
He smiled. “As long as you stay conscious.”
“Oh, I’m not going to fall asleep. I promise.”
“You better not.” He dipped a chip into the
guacamole and popped it in his mouth with a crunch.
 Maybe it was the sprained knee or the sleep debt
or the interview. Maybe I just wanted to have fun. I don’t
know, but I got drunk. Somewhere, in between the
quesadillas and Jack’s joke about a set of triplets in Delta
Delta Delta, I ended up really, really drunk and laughing
really, really hard.
And somehow so did Jack.
“Fuck, I can hardly read this receipt,” he said
squinting at him. “Call Z. Tell him we need a ride.”
I took his phone giggling and called Xander. “Sup,
Diamond?” he said.
“Hey,” I said.
“Who is this?”
“Hadley Arrington,” I said.
“Oh. Jack gave you his phone? You guys are
getting serious, huh?”
“We need a ride.”
“Tell him to call one of the pledges.”
“He said call…”
“No, tell him to come,” Jack said, pointing a finger
at me and squinting one eye. “Tell him it’s an emergency.”
“He said no.”
“Mergency,” Jack repeated.
“Put him on the phone.” Xander said.
“He’s too drunk to drive,” I said.
“Is he too drunk to talk on the phone, too?”
“Um. Yes.”
 Xander sighed heavily. “Where are you?”
“Mexico.”
Jack burst into laughter and grabbed the phone.
“We’re at Pedro’s.” He laughed at whatever Xander said
to him. “Yeah, well, I knew you’d say yes to her. See you
in a few, buddy.” He put away his phone and looked up at
me. “Got us a ride.”
“I procured the ride.”
“You didn’t procure shit. That’s my friend.”
“Yeah, but I got him to come to Mexico for us.”
When Xander called us to tell us to come outside, I
moved as fast as I could on crutches. And Jack helped me
into the front seat and jumped in the back.
“You two are irresponsible,” Xander said.
“We called you,” Jack giggled.
“What the hell did you do to him?”
“I gave him some margaritas,” I said indignantly.
“Why aren’t you more concerned about me?”
“Because he’s giggling.”
“I’m not giggling,” Jack insisted. He kicked the
back of Xander’s seat.
“Hey,” Xander said.
“Are we there yet?” Jack demanded.
“Don’t make me come back there,” Xander
scowled.
We pulled up to the frat house and Jack jumped out
of the car. He pulled me out. “Come on, you cripple.”
 I laughed. He cupped my face in his hands. “You
got me drunk,” he said.
We got upstairs as fast as we could. He turned off
all the lights and we went wild. Sometimes, when you’re
drunk, you miss the best parts about sex. Sometimes,
though, when you’re drunk, it feels as good as it looks in
the movies. Too intoxicated to care about the clothes or
the lights or what to do when he dipped his head like that.
I came before he did, in a long, hard wave that
blew black through my mind. There was nothing but Jack.
I tried to catch my breath. I clung to his broad back
for support. His hard muscles rippled under my hands as
he came. Through the haze of the alcohol and the soft
kisses and the intense high, he said very clearly and very
possessively: “I love you.”
He collapsed next to me, breathing hard. And the
shockwaves running through my body ran cold. I love you.
Isn’t that what every girl wants to hear?
From the guy she’s sleeping with on a casual basis.
Because she doesn’t have time for a relationship.
Which is just the thing that she says to people
because she’s actually so fucking terrified of getting her
heart broken that she can’t imagine risking it, not for a
second.
I breathed shallowly next to him as he curled me
into his arms. He didn’t seem to care that I hadn’t said
anything back. Or that I had tensed up next to him.
 And he held me there, but I couldn’t relax, and I
couldn’t fall asleep. And after a long time, I got up from
the bed, put on my clothes and left.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
He didn’t call me the next morning. And I didn’t call him
either. I sat on the couch with David, paralyzed by three
little words that scared me. Three little words I didn’t
fully believe.
“It doesn’t count if you say it during sex,” David
said. “Don’t freak out.”
I nodded. “Right.”
“Maybe he just meant it like—you know, I love
you right now?” he said.
“Right.”
“Either way, don’t freak out.”
“Right.” I took a breath. “I just don’t want to let
myself go like that.”
“Do you love him?” David asked.
I shook my head. “I can’t do this, David.”
“Why not?” He looked at me. “Hadley, you're not
your parents. That cannot be an excuse for not going after
something that could be really good."
“It’s not an excuse. It’s a reason. A good reason.
And I'm trying to get this job. I'm trying to make sure the
paper stays in good shape. I barely have time for classes."
“Well, what's the problem? If he loves you, what's
so wrong about that? Why can't you go to class and love
him?”
“The problem is that he makes my head spin,” I
said, exasperated. “We established the terms of the
relationship. We made rules.”
“Which is what you wanted. But what if you want
to change the terms? Would that really be the end of the
world?”
I sighed. “I don’t want to change the terms”
“Then, just, I don’t know...tell him to hook up with
someone else for awhile.”
I made a face. "I'm not telling him to hook up with
someone else."
“Why not?”
“Because it could ruin things. I like things the way
they are. I don’t want them to change.”
“So, tell him that,” David said. He was wearing
Ben’s sweatshirt, which was big and loose on his skinny
frame.
“How’s Ben?” I asked. I had no idea how to tell
Jack I didn’t want anything to change. What was I
supposed to say? Hey, can we talk about the fact that you
said ‘I love you’ last night? It sounded stupid. Even in my
head it sounded stupid. He was drunk. It probably didn’t
mean anything. He might not even remember.
David shrugged. “He’s fine. They have a formal
next weekend. He’s going with some girl.”
“He should go alone if he’s not going to take you.”
“He thinks people suspect. He was mad Jack found
out.” He shrugged. “He doesn’t want us to be exclusive
anyways. Anyways, I asked this guy out. If he's going to
see other people then so can I."
I squealed. “Who?’
He smiled. “Friend of Nigel’s.” He shrugged. “His
name is Sam.”
"Sam sounds great," I said enthusiastically.
David nodded. He shrugged. “Yeah. I would rather
be exclusive with Ben. But I don’t want it to be just me
always waiting around for him while he puts on this big
show. I mean, he doesn't let his guard down around
anyone.”
“You should absolutely see other people if he
wants to see other people,” I said. “That’ll be fun. What
are you doing?”
“Dinner, movie, drinks.” He shrugged. He sounded
less than thrilled, but I was happy. Anyone who was
actually out of the closet would be an improvement.
"That will be great."
"I don't know about that, but it can't hurt."
“Give it a chance. If he’s not your boyfriend—”
“ B e n is my boyfriend,” David said, sounding
suddenly heartbroken. “He is. He just…” His voice
caught. “Fuck.” He pressed the heels of his hands to his
eyes. “This is pretty stupid, huh? You’re upset because he
said ‘I love you’ and I’m upset because Ben never will.”
He laughed bitterly, shaking his head. “That’s what you
get. Whenever you have expectations, that’s what you get.
The exact opposite.” He got to his feet. “You want tea?”
 “Sure,” I said softly. The pain on his face was
unbearable.
He put the kettle on, composing himself. “I’m just
pissed off. I mean…I’ve done everything he’s asked.
Everything. I got a new haircut, because my last haircut
was too gay. I don’t dress like I want to. I don’t ever make
any plans, because the plans I’d make would be at places
he’d never go to. All of my friends aside from you are just
like, not even in the picture anymore.”
I rubbed my chin. “Have you told him that?”
“No, because he’s under so much pressure just
seeing me,” David said. “I’m the first guy he’s ever been
with for more than a night. He keeps telling me how big of
a risk he’s taking. But…” He shook his head. “I want it to
be real.”
“Tell him that. Tell him all that. What you just told
me. You deserve real.”
“I just—I know he’ll break up with me.”
“That’s his loss though, David. If he breaks up
with you, then good riddance. You deserve those things.
You deserve to see your friends and to wear your hair
however you want to wear your hair. It’s your goddamned
hair.”
He smiled.
“It’s not his hair. Your hair.”
He laughed. “Yeah. Yeah. I know. But it’s hard.”
“It is hard,” I admitted. “Why is it so hard to talk
to people? Like, that’s the main thing we do with each
other. We talk.”
“Technology.”
“I don’t think it’s that simple.”
“I do.” He lifted his shoulders. “Think about it.
You can basically figure out what someone is doing and
thinking without asking them now. Facebook, Twitter,
whatever. And if you have a question, you can text it. And
that’s like it never even happened. Talking. Talking is
hard.” He nodded.
“Well,” I said. “Fuck talking. I think we should do
something fun. Just you and me. Like old times.”
He laughed. “What do you want to do?”
“Practically anything.”
“Let’s go into Chicago.”
“Yes. Let’s go into Chicago.”
“Let’s go to the museum.”
I smiled. “Let’s.”
“This is a fabulous plan,” David said. He smiled.
“Do you still want some fucking tea?”
“I do want some fucking tea,” I said. “We ditch
everything Friday. No paper, no classes, it will be
glorious. Make arrangements, David.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Juliet had done an incredible job on the proposal for the
Valentine’s Day issue, which was just around the corner. I
sat down with her to discuss it and was blown away.
“Juliet, this is unbelievable,” I said, looking at the
layout and at the outreach she had already done.
“Right?” she smiled. “So, we have 450 admirer
tweets. Which is going to be crazy. We’ll do them all from
the Daily Social Twitter feed.”
I nodded.
“And then we’re going to print them in small print
on a foldout,” she said. “So that people can read them in
the paper too.”
“The tweets?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay,” I said. I smiled. “This sounds awesome,
Juliet. Seriously.”
“Thank you!” she smiled broadly. “So, um, when
do you hear about the Times?”
I shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t think my interview
went that well.”
“But, when do you hear?”
“By the end of the week,” I smiled. “We’ll see.”
“And when do you get off those stupid crutches?”
“Ugh. Soon,” I said. “Another week or two.” My
knee felt fine when I just put my weight on it. But walking
still hurt. “I can’t wait.”
 My phone buzzed on the table. It was a phone call.
Jack.
“Can you hold on a second?” I asked Juliet.
“Well, I’m actually—that’s about everything. So, I
can just go.”
“Thanks. It looks really, really great. Let me know
if you need help with anything.”
Juliet shuffled her papers together and closed the
door to my office behind her.
I picked up the phone. “Hey.”
“Can you talk?” Jack asked.
“I’m at…”
“The newspaper, I know. I mean. Can you get
away for an hour?”
“Why?” I asked cautiously.
“I just…I’d really like to see you,” he said softly.
“I’m sorry if…Saturday freaked you out.”
I took a sharp breath. “No, it’s...it’s really fine.”
“Come over?”
I took a breath. “Jack, I have like all of ten
minutes.”
“That’s fine. That’s—I really just want to talk to
you.”
I chewed my lip. “Alright. I’ll be right there.”
I hadn’t been nervous to see him for weeks. But I
was nervous when I parked and when I opened the door.
He was standing in the living room, absently watching the
TV.
“Hey,” he smiled and nodded and I walked up with
him to his room and sat down on the floor with my back to
a wall, my feet stretched out before me
He gave me a wry grin. “I told you I love you.”
I cringed. “Yeah.”
“You’re freaking out.”
I swallowed. “A little bit.”
“Why?” he asked.
“Well, did you mean it?”
He threw his head back. “Jesus.”
“What?”
“Tell me what to say,” Jack said. “If you want me
to say I don’t love you, I don’t love you. Is that what you
want?”
“Do you love me?” I asked cautiously.
He took a breath in. “You’re like my favorite
person.”
I smiled at that.
“I’m not going to propose. I’m not going to buy a
ring or buy you flowers or force you to date me or issue an
ultimatum,” he said quickly. “It just, I don’t know. I’m not
going to say I don’t care about you.”
But are you in love with me?
“Could you say something?” he asked. “Because
I’m freaking out.”
“Why?” I asked.
 “I’m freaking out because I think you’re going to
walk away because I said something stupid.”
“I’m not going to walk away,” I said. I shrugged. "I
think it made me worry that you might want something I
can't give you right now. But, I don’t want to walk away. I
won’t walk away. Okay?”
He let out a loud, enormous sigh and he paired it
with a toothy smile. “Okay.”
“I have to go back to the paper,” I told him matter-
of-factly. I hesitated at the door. “And, you know, for what
it’s worth, I care about you, too. A lot. Like, in a way that
makes me afraid we'll screw something up and stop
talking."
He smiled. "We won't."
I nodded. "I think it's easier than you think."
"No, I swear to God. I'll never say anything stupid
again in my life." He gave me a goofy grin and I smiled
back at him.
"Okay. I really have to go."
He nodded and kissed me.
Still, I couldn’t help but feel like something had
changed as I walked down the stairs. I didn’t know if it
was for the better of for the worse. I just knew something
was different.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
I came home to see David looking like David. It was an
extraordinary change. He was wearing pants he liked and
a tight t-shirt and staring at his reflection in the mirror.
“Hi,” I said, almost shocked. I smiled at him. “You
look good.”
He shot me a bitchy glare. “Oh, shut up. I look
totally average.” He rearranged his hair, fussing with the
haircut in the mirror. “Why did you let me do this to my
hair?
I smiled broadly. “Oh, I so did not let you do that.”
“I’m done, by the way.”
“What?”
“With Ben,” he said flatly. “I’m done. That girl
he’s bringing to his semi-formal? He slept with her.” He
took a breath and failed to maintain the campy air of total
assurance. His voice shook as he explained. “I mean, I
didn’t think he would ask me. I mean, let’s be real, I never
expected him to ask me. I knew he was bringing this girl.
But a girl he slept with? And why does he even have to
go? He could have made any excuse. Any. But I did
everything he asked. I practically stopped talking to you,
because he thought you were trying to break us up.”
Well, that explained so much.
“I’m sorry,” I said softly. And I genuinely was
sorry to see him so upset. But I was relieved that he had
realized he deserved to be treated better. I sat down on the
couch next to him and curled underneath his arm.
“You can say it.”
“Say what?”
“That you told me so.”
“I’m not going to say that to you,” I murmured.
He exhaled. “I hate that I care about him.”
I smiled at him weakly. “Yeah. I know.”
“I absolutely hate it. Will you get drunk with me?”
“Abso-fucking-lutely,” I said. I laced my fingers
with his. “You’ll be okay. You won’t care forever.”
“I know. I’ll be better.” He shook his head. “I just
feel like an idiot.”
“You’re not one,” I smiled. “I would never live
with an idiot.”
He was already pouring the tequila shots. I raised
an eyebrow. This was going to get messy.

“OH WHOA WE’RE HALFWAY THERE! OH WHOA

LIVIN’ ON A PRAYER! TAKE MY HAND AND WE’LL
MAKE IT I SWEAR!”
It was hard to tell who was screaming louder in
the mostly deserted bar that Thursday evening, but David
and I were making enough noise to clear the place out.
When we both staggered out the door, I glanced at
David and burst into laughter.
“Oh my god, I hate him,” David said. “I absolutely
fucking hate him. He is the goddamn worst. Fuck you, Ben
Mitchell.”
I sighed heavily. “I know.”
“Now what?” he asked.
I shrugged. “Call a cab?”
He nodded. “Right. Cab. Right.” But I didn’t call a
cab. I reached into my bag and I called Jack.
Drunk and happy, I called him baby.
“What have you done with Hadley?”
“I got her very, very drunk,” I said. “Come get me,
please.”

The demon sun crawled through the blinds and declared

war on my eyes and my head. I rolled over and crashed
into Jack’s body. He grunted.
“I think I died,” I croaked.
He laughed happily. “Nah, I wouldn’t let that
happen.”
“I am never drinking again. Ever. I am fucking
allergic.”
“Okay.”
“I never want to hear last night mentioned,” I said.
“There are massive blanks in my memory. And I do not
want them filled.”
Jack smiled wryly at me. “You threw up.”
“Stop.”
“And you said I was adorable.”
“Stop. Cease and desist.”
 He laughed and reached for a glass of water on the
bedside table. He handed it to me. “And then David
accused me of killing you, but he was wasted, too.”
“I remember none of this.”
“You looked kind of dead.”
“Stop.”
“This was before you also took off your clothes
and did the Macarena.”
“I did not do the Macarena naked.”
“That might not actually have happened.” He
kissed my cheek. “You did throw up, though.”
“Bastard.” I looked down at the glass of water he
had given me and then I looked up into his kind face. I took
a sip. “You’re too nice to me.”
“No,” he said simply. “I’m not.”
“You are,” I said seriously. “I was very
responsible when I didn’t expect anyone to be nice to me.
This is your fault.”
He laughed. “I was nowhere near you. I found you
in this condition,” he said. He rolled his eyes. “Clearly,
you should not ever go to bars with David. Also, I heard
some stories about tequila. That should be against the
rules.”
I made a face, remembering tequila. I really
couldn’t disagree.
I peeled myself out of my bed and pressed my hand
to my forehead. “Fuck.”
 “Advil. You need Advil, coffee, and a liver
transplant.”
“I don’t know anybody who’d give me their liver.”
“I’d tell you that I would, but then you’d freak out
again,” he said softly.
I smiled at him. “And you slept over. Again.” We
hadn’t talked further about the ‘I love you’ thing. But it had
to be a good sign that he was joking about it.”
“You made me.”
“I don’t remember that.”
“Well,” he said. “You don’t remember very much.
Do you? Jack, I’ll never let go,” he mimicked.
“Oh god.”
“Never let go.”
“I don’t believe you,” I said, even though I totally
believed him.
“Jack!” he mimicked.
“My voice does not sound like that.” I got out of
bed. His laughter followed me down the hall and into the
bathroom, where I turned on the shower and stepped under
the water. I was washing my hair when I heard the door
open and close.
Jack stepped into the shower behind me. He
smiled when he felt the water. “You would like it
boiling.”
I kissed him and he gently eased me toward the
wall. He pressed his hands against the tiles, close to my
head, while he kissed my lips bitingly. He ducked his head
and brushed his lips against my neck, his wet hair tickled
my chin and the muscles in his shoulders rippled as he
bent and kissed the flat ridge of my breast bone. I took a
breath and felt his mouth against my fluttering heart.
He dropped to his knees and kissed me lower. My
hipbone and my groin and then just a bit lower. His tongue
was soft and warm and when I felt it in me, I rose up onto
my toes.
I heard his hitching breath, the pleasant gurgle of
water running down the drain, the quiet roar of the shower.
He sat back on his heels, his hands on my hips, his
tongue driving me crazy, and I nearly lost my balance.
“Jesus, Jack.”
He laughed and the muffled vibration ran through
me. I grabbed his wet hair and bit my lip to keep from
crying out as he skillfully took me higher and higher.
I lifted my arm to my mouth, and bit into my wrist
when I came. “Oh my god, oh my god,” I murmured when
he was done.
“Hey, girl,” he said softly. He pulled me down, so
we were both sitting in the shower and he washed the
shampoo out of my hair as I leaned my forehead against
his shoulder.
“Where’d you learn that?”
“Took a seminar,” he whispered.
Afterwards, I lay on my bed breathing deeply while he sat
on the edge of my bed getting dressed. He was staring at a
framed photograph of my father.
“So, what’s your deal with your dad?”
“No deal, really,” I said. I looked up at the ceiling.
“Wasn’t around much for there to be a deal.” I took a
breath in.
“Hm,” he said.
“What’s your family like?” I asked. I only knew
the basics. His mom and his older brother. That his father
had died when he was a kid and he didn’t ever talk about
it.
He exhaled. “Soldiers and do-gooders, the lot of
them.” He smiled.
“Really?” I asked.
“Yeah, I don’t know where I came from either,” he
joked.
“I didn’t say that,” I said.
He dropped the aloof grin. "“My grandfather was
an Admiral in the Navy. Old-school.” He finished
buttoning his soft flannel shirt and smiled. “My older
brother idolized him.”
“Are you still close?”
“He died,” he said softly. “Five years ago. Heart
attack.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. He was old.” Jack cleared his throat.
“He’d be really proud of Alex.”
“I’m sure he’d be really proud of you too.”
“Yeah, maybe,” he smiled. “I didn’t really mean it
like that. Just that Alex is so much like him.”
I nodded. “It must be hard for you knowing he’s in
Afghanistan.”
“My mom worries,” he said, deflecting the
question. “But doctors usually stay pretty safe.”
“You told me he was perfect, right?” I asked,
remembering our first conversation in the car.
“Yeah,” he rubbed his chin. “Alex is perfect. He
had to grow up kind of quick. He was always trying to get
me in line.”
“How’s it been for you? Knowing he’s over
there?” I asked softly, pushing a little bit.
“It sucks,” he said. He exhaled heavily. “It sucks
like you wouldn’t believe.” He smiled and picked up a
picture of me and my mother. “Is this your mom?”
I nodded. I didn’t know why I kept that picture on
my dresser. It mostly made me sad about how I felt like I
hardly knew her.
“God, she’s beautiful.”
“Mm,” I said. I’d heard that so many times. “Yeah,
she is.”
“She looks just like you.”
“Not really.”
He smiled. “Just like you. Your smile is different,
though.”
“How?”
He shook his head studying it. “I don’t know…
when you really smile? It’s warmer. Are you close?”
I shook my head. “No.”
“Why not?”
“She never lets her guard down,” I said. I shook
my head. “Not with anyone. Not even with me.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Well, that explains a lot.”
He set the photograph back down on the dresser
and then climbed onto the bed.
“I let my guard down with you.” I looked at him.
“More than I probably should have.”
“Yeah, after I put up a fight,” he kissed my
forehead. “So, you have no deal with your dad. And your
mom doesn’t let her guard down. Divorced?”
I nodded.
“Remarried?”
“Oh, more times than I’d care to count. Both of
them. My dad’s single again, but my mom’s on her sixth
husband. I went home for Christmas. And I went to my
house, and there was someone else living there.” I
laughed. “She didn’t even tell me she had moved. Or that
she had gotten remarried.”
“Seriously?”
I laughed. “Yeah.”
He let out a low whistle. “Did you say sixth
husband?”
“I said sixth husband,” I said. “Are you close to
your mother?”
He shrugged. “I was a handful in junior high and
high school. Just an angry kid. Got kicked out of a couple
schools. I told you that, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Anyways, the third time it happened she sent me
up here to live with Bobby. Which helped.” He cocked his
head. “Some.”
“I didn’t know you lived with him.”
He nodded. “Yeah. Senior year. I’d have never
gotten into Northwestern if he didn’t teach here.”
I looked at the mix of vulnerability and regret on
his face. “Did you get less angry?”
He smiled. “I got in a few fights freshman year.”
“Really?”
“That’s how I met Xander. He kicked my ass,” he
said. I rolled my eyes and he laughed at me. “Nah, I’m not
angry anymore. Maybe I never actually was angry. I just
think I missed my dad a lot.”
“So you fought people?”
He nodded. “When you lose someone important,
not everything makes sense. Being angry was easier than
being hurt. Being alone was easier than letting people get
too close. I feel like you know something about that.”
“Yeah,” I said softly.
 “Because of your parents?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. I could never really
count on them. They were always making promises they
could never keep,” I breathed. “But then I met David. And
he’s always been there.” I bit my lip.
“David’s a good kid,” Jack said decisively. He
rolled onto his back.
“He broke up with Ben.”
“That’s good,” he said. He smiled. “That’s really
good.”
“Yeah,” I said through a yawn. “I’m relieved.” I
stretched my back “God, I’m so hung-over.”
He got up.
“Where are you going?”
“Gimme a sec.”
He came back with a Gatorade, kicking the door
shut behind him.
“Oh, you are a good, good man.”
He smiled, handing it to me. “Wait until you hear
my demands.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“We have our parents' weekend semi-formal,” he
cleared his throat. “In two weeks. I’ve never gone
before,” he confessed. “But I kind of want to this year.
Alex is on leave and my mom and Bobby will come.
Anyways, I thought we could go together.” He shrugged.
“Only if you want.”
 I was startled, really, by the invitation to meet his
family, more than to his formal. “Yeah,” I said.
“Definitely.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Of course.”
He nodded. “Good.” He grinned. “I was kind of
worried you’d say no. It’s like so against the rules it’s not
even funny.”
I smiled. “Well. I have to say, Jack Diamond,
you’ve demonstrated a deplorable lack of respect for all
of my rules.”
He chuckled. “Never met a rule I couldn’t break.”
“Mm-hmm,” I said. “At least you deliver
Gatorade.” He got back under the covers and kissed my
damp hair.
“I’m disappointed my shower performance was
less impressive than sugar water delivery,” Jack said.

After we had breakfast on Sunday, we scarcely had a

moment that wasn’t spent together. Maybe it was the
hangover, but I couldn’t get enough of him.
“So, this is the library, huh?” Jack said, as we
approached the building so I could work on a paper for my
Arabic class. “You realize I am a library virgin, right?”
I opened the door. “You need to be quiet.”
“Thank you for that valuable bit of information,
Hadley Arrington. I will treasure it all my life.”
 I rolled my eyes. “Did you actually bring any work
to do?”
“No, you said you were going to the library. And
that means the only place I could possibly have sex with
anyone is in the library.”
He said this last sentence as we stepped into the
eerily quiet library. And half-a-dozen heads whipped
around to look at us. He smiled and waved. I gripped his
forearm tightly.
“It’s like a cave.” He announced loudly. He
glanced around. “Actually, a tomb.”
“Shut up,” I whispered.
He rolled his eyes at me. “What now?” he asked in
an exaggerated whisper. He followed me to the second
floor, to one of the tables by the windows overlooking the
lake. He smiled as I sat down.
“You do this a lot, don’t you?”
“Go to the library?”
“Yes.”
“Yeah, I go to the library a lot, Jack.”
He laughed and sat down across from me. He kept
his backpack on, clearly having no intention of doing
anything productive, as I started up my computer and got
out my notebook and Arabic textbook.
“You’re the real deal, huh?” Jack asked.
I looked up. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, with the Arabic stuff. You really just want
to be a war correspondent?”
I nodded. “Yeah. I guess so.”
“Why?” he asked.
I shrugged. “It’s just what I want to do.”
He smiled. “Not good enough.”
“What?”
“You’re the most deliberate person I know. Why
war journalism?” he asked. “I mean, what made you want
to do that? Did you see a movie? Read a book? Have a
friend?”
I rubbed my chin and thought back to the moment I
first realized it. “I think it started with Nancy Drew.”
He smiled.
“She was a detective, but it’s kind of similar work.
You ask a lot of questions and figure out who’s lying and
who’s telling the truth and all that jazz,” I said.
He smiled. “Okay. So, this is Nancy Drew:
Mysteries of the Middle East.”
I laughed. “No,” I said. “Then, you know, I read
another book.”
He nodded.
“Um, about the holocaust. Number the Stars.” I
rubbed my chin. “And it just seemed like the older I got
the more I realized how many terrible things had happened
that nobody had bothered to notice until the destruction
was basically complete.” I paused. “It’s so easy to focus
on our own lives, and it’s so terrible, and…my parents
focused on their own lives. It didn’t make them any
happier. My dad made a lot of money, but my mom just
kept looking for someone else for herself. And I thought,
you know, if I was doing this kind of work, writing about
what was going on so that people couldn’t ignore it, then
that would be enough.” I shrugged. “It would be enough to
know I was doing good work, important work. And right
now, the place where people need to know what’s going
on is mostly the Middle East.” I flushed. Long, earnest
speech. Not my style.
He smiled.
“What?”
“I like that,” he said.
“You like what?”
“I like that your reasons for being a journalist are
totally naïve and idealistic,” He grinned.
I rolled my eyes. “I didn’t say it was profound.”
“No, it is kind of.” He smiled. “And it’s good to
know you’re not a complete cynic.”
I focused on not blushing.
“So, maybe you’ll come around on the dating
thing.”
“I won’t,” I said.
He shrugged.
“I’m serious,” I said, slightly annoyed.
He chuckled. “Don’t get mad.”
“I’m not mad. But, I am serious that I just want to
get the job at the Times and focus on that. I don’t want
there to be any confusion.”
He nodded. “No, I know.”
I flipped the page of my book, feeling him
watching me.
“You mind if I go?”
I shook my head. “No. Not if you want.”
He paused, seeming to reconsider for a moment.
“Sorry, just…claustrophobic, you know?”
I nodded, although I didn’t know at all. And I
watched him go. I watched the other girls watch him go,
too. He really was handsome. And he was popular. And
for a second, I wondered if he had just realized that I
wasn’t that popular or that pretty and that he really didn’t
need to be sitting in the library with me.
Chapter Thirty
As we’d planned, David and I wandered throughout the
Chicago Institute of Art. “This is boring,” I said, much to
his chagrin. I’d been going along with David’s flurry of
plans, all of which I knew were, in part, to help him get
over Ben, who just wouldn’t stop calling him.
David hadn’t called him back, and I trusted that he
wouldn’t. But, whenever he said he needed to get off-
campus, I went with him.
“Seriously,” I said. “I’m bored now.” I looked at
the painting David was gazing at, trying to determine
exactly what was keeping him transfixed.
“How did a San Francisco heiress end up less
cultured than a South Dakota farm boy?”
“You were not a farm boy and I’m not an heiress.
And I don’t live in San Francisco anymore. Remember?”
“Whatever. Look at the artwork. Stop acting like a
Neanderthal.”
I yawned. “I’m not acting like a Neanderthal. I’m
acting like I need a nap,” I insisted. “Which I do, because
this is boring.
He snorted. “Don’t worry. We’ll go buy your prom
dress next.”
“It is not a prom,” I said furiously.
“I can’t believe you’re going to a parents’
weekend formal,” he said.
“Oh, shut up.”
 “Are you going to get a corsage?”
“Look, I just need to find a dress. And shoes,” I
said.
“You know who you should call?”
“No.”
“Your fabulous mother.” He stopped in front of the
Claude Monet wheatstacks and studied them.
“She makes everything more complicated.”
“That may be true,” he said. “But she is incredibly
stylish.”
I chewed my lip. The logical thing to do would be
to ask her. And it might be the easier thing, too. I wouldn’t
have to go shopping. But it just seemed like I was asking
for help.

We went to lunch afterwards. “I need a rebound,” David

said.
“Yes,” I agreed.
“What about Justin?”
I raised my eyebrows. “Much as I love you,
darling, I am not letting you use Justin as your rebound.”
He grumbled. “Well, that’s a shame.”
“Don’t even think about it.”
“Why not?”
“He’s a freshman.”
“I’d be nice to him.”
I raised my eyebrows.
 “Okay, fine,” he said. “I won’t ask you to help.”
“Do not pursue him if you don’t like him.”
“I don’t know if I like him yet, Hadley,” David
said.
I made a face. “What happened to Nigel’s friend?
Sam?”
David shrugged. “No.”
“What do you mean ‘no?’”
“Just no,” David said. “Everything was no.”
“Okay then,” I said sarcastically, “That makes a lot
of sense.”
“So, is Jack, like, your boyfriend?” he asked,
changing the subject.
“Not technically,” I said.
“You’re still friends with benefits?”
“I guess.”
He rolled his eyes. “Well, as long as he knows that
no matter what kind of benefits he gets, I’m still the best
friend, that’s fine.”
“You have nothing to worry about.”
“So, are you going to call your mother or am I
going to have to deal with the horror of shopping with you
in addition to the horror of breaking up with my secret ex-
boyfriend?”
“I might call my mother.”
He smiled. “I think that could be a really good
idea.”
 My phone buzzed at the table. It was an unknown
number, so I ignored the call. When it buzzed again, David
gave me a look.
“Answer it, if you’re so popular.”
“Hello?” I said, with a little more attitude than I
normally would have.
“Hadley Arrington?”
“Yeah, speaking.”
“This is Dale Broussards from The New York
Times.”
I coughed on air. What?
“How are you?”
“I’m…great,” I said idiotically, trying not to
choke.
“So, listen, we’re going to offer you the job. We’ll
need you to start right after graduation and you’ll probably
be based in Syria from day one. If that still sounds good,
we need to know fairly quickly, because we’d like to start
getting you up to speed while you wrap up schoolwork
and everything.”
No. Fucking. Way.
After that, I didn’t register much of anything that he
said. All I heard was the offer. My dream job. This
intangible thing that I had worked and worked and worked
for. It had happened.
“So, if you’ll let us know in the next three days if
you can accept th—”
 “I accept,” I said automatically.
He laughed. “Alright, then.”
When I hung up, I looked at the huge smile on
David’s face and laughed.
“You got it?”
I nodded. “Yeah. He said I’d probably be in Syria.
I mean, things can change, but—”
He chuckled. “Girl, congrats. We have to
celebrate.”
I laughed again. Pure glee. I really couldn’t
believe it.
Outside the restaurant, I reached for my phone and
texted my mother. I could only hope she’d be happy for me
and that she wouldn’t say anything to my dad. And then I
called Jack. He didn’t pick up the call and his voicemail
had been full since the day I’d met him.
So I texted him.
Got the job! A few of us are going to The Pub to
celebrate. Wanna come?
I stared at the screen for a freakishly long period
of time, before I rolled my eyes and set it away.
“Tell Justin, and I’ll get everyone else you care
about to come.”
I raised my eyebrows at David. “You are not
rebounding with Justin.”
“I seriously think he’s cute.”
I gave him a death glare and he just laughed.
When we pulled up to the bar, I could already tell it was
going to be busy.
Justin and the rest of the newspaper crew had
beaten us there.
“A toast to Hadley,” David called, gathering
everyone around and handing out beers. I clinked my glass
against David’s and met his eyes. I saw nothing but
affection. I swallowed thickly and smiled, surprised that
such a simple gesture would make me so emotional. David
was my best friend. And he’d be so far away this time next
year.
“Congratulations,” Justin said, giving me a warm
hug.
“Thank you,” I said.
“Hey, Justin,” David said. “It’s been too long.”
Justin lifted his head and looked at him. “David,
what’s up?” he had a wide smile on his face.
“I know Hadley promised you I’d introduce you to
some people back in January,” he said, with a winning
smile. “You’ll have to let me do that now.”
I rolled my eyes at David and stepped away to
check my phone. Jack still hadn’t written me back.
Annoying.
When I looked up, Ben Mitchell was staggering
towards David at the bar. Fuck.
Where had he come from?
 David had his back to Ben, so I stepped over.
“Maybe we should go somewhere else,” I said softly.
Justin laughed at me. “Like where?”
David turned his head and his face darkened. I
knew Ben had a dangerous side when he drank, but I
didn’t expect to see a flash of fear across David’s face.
“Yeah, let’s go,” he murmured.
“Where? Why?” Justin asked.
“I don’t want him to cause a scene,” David
mumbled.
It was too late for that, though. Ben was making his
way over and I left David’s side to intercept him.
“Hadley,” he slurred. “Where’s Diamond?”
I realized I was the one, insufficient buffer
between David and Ben, and took a step in between them.
Ben was a jerk, but even I didn’t think he’d be stupid
enough to hit a girl in public.
“Look, I don’t think David wants to talk right
now,” I said.
“Hey,” Ben said, raising his voice and calling
loudly over my shoulder. David met his eyes. “You two
freaks, this isn’t a gay bar.”
“Fuck off, Ben,” I said.
He laughed and looked down at me. “Seriously,
you need a girl to defend you?”
“Fuck off, Ben,” I repeated.
He laughed. “Faggots,” he spat in David’s general
direction.
“Hey,” Justin said forcefully, stepping forward.
David caught his wrist.
“Don’t bother,” I heard David tell him. “It’s not
worth getting arrested over.”
He pulled Justin by the hand and they left the bar.
When I was sure they were gone, I turned my attention
back to Ben. I seethed where I stood. “You do realize,
Mitchell, that you are the only fucking person in this whole
bar who has a problem with them?”
Ben just looked at me glassy-eyed. “He left me.”
“Well, what did you expect?” I asked
incredulously. “You can’t treat someone like that and
expect them to stick around for it.”
“I love him,” Ben slurred, ridiculously.
“Really? So, you made him change everything
about himself and you beat him up and you decided your
reputation was more important than his feelings? What the
fuck is wrong with you that you think that constitutes
love?”
“Nobody could know,” he said.
“I don’t care what you think your reasons are. You
have no right to come over here and call him a faggot.” I
shook my head. “You need serious help.” I walked away
from him, ready to leave by myself since Jack obviously
wasn’t coming in time.
Chapter Thirty-One
David and Justin hit it off right away. Three days later,
they were seemingly inseparable.
“Hey, chica,” David called when I walked in.
They were making lobster risotto, which was ridiculous,
but knowing David, it would be amazing.
I was glad to see them both. Jack had started to
freak me out a little bit. He finally texted me Congrats, but
he hadn’t wanted to see me for the past two days, and I
started wondering if he was regretting asking me to his
formal this weekend.
It didn’t help that he chose to go missing the week
that my father started calling me religiously. My mother
had told him about the job. So obviously he wanted to talk
about it.
He largely wanted to persuade me from going to
Syria. There was no chance of that working, but my dad
was persistent and he seemed to think I owed him not one
but twenty-two conversations on that matter.
I’d mostly kept my phone shut off, trying to avoid
his unwanted calls, and every time I checked it, my heart
plunged a little bit deeper seeing that Jack hadn’t bothered
to call me or text me.
“You look tired.”
“I am tired,” I said.
“Sit down and have some bruschetta.”
I smiled at David.
 “It will solve almost all of your problems,” David
promised. “How many times did your father call today?”
“Seven.”
“Ah, I’m seeing a downwards trend there,” David
said. “Tomorrow, he will only call six times. At this rate,
by next week, you won’t hear from him at all.”
I rolled my eyes at David. That was very like my
father—brief periods of intense attempts at discussion,
followed by long interludes of complete silence.
“How many voicemails?”
“Three.”
“Are we listening or deleting?”
“We are deleting,” I said, going to my voicemail
box and deleting them without giving them a chance.
“Give me that,” David said, holding out his hand.
I handed him the phone. He put it in the
refrigerator.
“What?”
“Go over there. You don’t need this thing torturing
you.”
“So you’re going to chill it?”
David shrugged. “Seems like a good strategy to
me.” He looked over at Justin. “Give her some scallions
to chop or something.”
Justin smiled shyly at me as I stood next to him. “I
can’t believe he’s letting you cook with him. He only lets
me do this when I’m in the midst of a crisis.”
 “Actually, I don’t know if I trust her with the
scallions, Justin,” David decided. “She can wash the
tomatoes.”
Justin made a face and handed me the scallions
anyways.
“Good call,” I told him.
He nodded. “You’re still my mentor.”
“Not in the kitchen,” David groused.
I retired to the couch when I’d finished with the
scallions and sat watching reruns of Keeping Up with the
Kardashians.
“How long does risotto take? I’m starved,” I
complained. “Can I order pizza?”
“Sure, if you don’t value your life,” David
snapped.
“Do I have time to take a shower?” I asked.
“Oh, you have time to take a half-hour bath if you
want.”
“This better be amazing.”
I hummed in the shower, fantasizing about pizza,
and about my bed. And, if I was being really honest, I
fantasized about Jack calling me back and apologizing for
putting me on edge. He had invited me to his formal. He
had invited me to meet his family. And then he’d
disappeared.
It made no sense. I felt like one of those stupid
girls in a bad movie who had missed an obvious sign, but I
couldn’t figure out what the sign was.
I came out of the shower and ran a towel through
my hair and walked into my room to get dressed. I turned
on the lights and screeched when I saw a man sitting on my
bed.
“Calm down,” Jack said. “It’s just—”
“Jack, what the fuck?”
He shrugged. “Your roommate’s cooking dinner
for his boyfriend, I didn’t want to intrude.”
“Where the hell have you been all week?” I asked,
catching my breath. “And why wouldn’t you turn on the
lights?”
He smiled mischievously. “Well, I thought it
would be sort of funny to scare you, actually.”
“Well, I need to get dressed,” I said.
“Also, your dad’s in the living room,” Jack added.
“Which is—”
“What?” I whirled to him. “How is that not the
first thing you tell me?”
He held up his hands. “I’m sorry. I assumed you
knew.”
“Shit. This is not good.” I sighed. “Would you give
me a second? I need to get dressed.”
I pulled on jeans and a sweater and walked out
into the living room. What the hell was my father doing
here?
“Dad, what’s going on?” I asked, walking out to
the kitchen. He was sitting on the couch, studying his
Blackberry, and David was smiling bitchily at him while
Justin was unnecessarily cleaning the counter, looking
very nervous.
“Hadley,” he said, getting to his feet. “Your mother
has been worried.”
My father always assigns emotions to some third
party whenever he does something that requires an
explanation.
Your mother was worried. The doctor was
hysterical. The speed limit was being completely
melodramatic about safety.
“Well, there’s nothing to worry about.”
“What’s this whole business with Syria? And why
haven’t you returned our phone calls?”
“This whole business with Syria is that I’m
moving there because I have a job there. It’s pretty cut-
and-dry, actually.” I smiled. “And I did return your phone
call. And I think I told you what I just said. And it was
weird, because I got like so many voicemails asking the
same question I’d already answered.
“Well, why don’t we talk about that?” he said.
“Darling, let me buy you a nice dinner. You look—”
“Don’t call me darling,” I snapped. I’d heard him
call way too many girlfriends darling. I wasn’t sure what
had become of most of them, but I was his daughter. I, at
least, should be distinguished from all of the other women
in his life. “And we have already talked about it. We
disagree.” David chuckled, grabbed Justin’s wrist and
pulled him out of our living room and into his bedroom.
“Look, Hadley,” he said in his I’m a serious
international businessman voice. He looked at me
appealingly. “I’m not going to tell you what to do with
your life. But, I would really like to talk to you.” He
hesitated. “And why doesn’t your boyfriend—what’s your
name?”
“I’m Jack,” Jack volunteered.
“Please, shut up,” I said to him pleadingly. “I just
—”
“Your boyfriend Jack can come, too.”
“He is not my boyfriend.”
“I can come,” Jack said boldly. He smiled. “Hads,
why don’t you get dressed?”
I turned and tried to burn Jack with my eyes. He
just smirked, refusing to take the hint. I stormed into my
room. I could lock the door. I considered that for about
five minutes while I got dressed. The plan didn’t get much
further than locking the door. And if my father flew all the
way here from London to see me, then he probably
wouldn’t object to taking the door off of its hinges. David
had been through enough dysfunction for one semester, I
thought nobly, as I resigned myself to dinner.
“Syria is not up for discussion,” I said when I
emerged from my room.
 “You look pretty,” Jack said sweetly.
“Don’t talk to me.”
Jack laughed.
“Charming, isn’t she?” my dad said to Jack.
“Completely,” Jack replied.
“What? Are you two idiots friends now?” I asked
sourly. “Come on. Let’s get this over with.”
They both laughed.
My dad had taken a chauffeured Lincoln car, which
may have seemed sleek and luxurious when there was just
one person in the back seat. With three of us, squished
together, it was decidedly inelegant.
We arrived at the restaurant, in rumpled clothes
and awkward silence. A table for three was arranged.
Jack leaned in and whispered into my ear. “Swanky
place.”
“Shut up,” I hissed. Jack laughed, obviously
pleased with my discomfort.
As soon as the waitress handed us our menus and
disappeared, I met my father’s icy blue eyes. “You better
be ordering something strong.”
He laughed. “Relax, Hadley.”
“No. I’m not going to relax, although I really do
appreciate the suggestion. But I would like some wine.
Please.”
He chuckled and Jack smiled.
“I’m glad you think the disaster that is called my
life is funny,” I said, more to Jack than to my father. My
father had always regarded the disaster that is called my
life as a moderately amusing hobby that he took up again
every few months.
He called over the waitress and ordered wine.
And then, obnoxiously, he ordered filet mignon for
everyone at the table.
“Jack’s a vegetarian,” I said.
My father looked at Jack like he had rabies.
“I am not a vegetarian,” Jack said calmly.
My father exhaled as the sommelier poured the
wine. He took a sip. “Excellent, thank you.”
I downed my glass in one gulp.
“You’re really not supposed to drink it like that.”
“It’s really unappealing, you know, showing up
unannounced and telling other people how to drink their
wine and live their lives,” I said. “Giving Jack a hard time
for being a vegan.”
“I am not a vegan.”
“Well, you should be a vegan,” I said harshly.
“You should be something. I mean, what’s the point, Jack?
You’re just so bored by absolutely everything in your
existence that you don’t want to do anything?”
“Let’s not get personal. You had a bad day,” Jack
said
“Kids,” my dad said. “Hadley. Let’s talk about this
Syria nonsense.”
 “There is no nonsense. I got a job. A very good
job. Practically my dream job,” I said.
“It’s not safe.”
“Lots of things aren’t safe,” I snapped. “Driving a
car isn’t safe. Going outside in a thunderstorm isn’t safe.
Crossing the street isn’t safe. But sometimes you have to
go across the goddamn street. So you ignore the fact that
someone could hit you. And you carry on.”
“Those are not fair comparisons. There’s no
reason to go to Syria,” my dad said. “You can be a
reporter from practically anywhere in the world. I mean,
look, Hadley, it’s a dying field. And there is no good
reason that you should die for it in a place like Syria.”
“It’s what I want to do.”
“It’s not smart,” my dad said. “I want you to
reconsider.”
“I’m not going to,” I said. I glanced at Jack, who
was watching my father closely.
He probably was freaking out. When I told him my
family was kind of messed up, he probably never
imagined he’d have to deal with the mess. I couldn’t tell
what the emotion in his eyes was, though. It seemed like
understanding, although I couldn’t tell if the person he
understood was my father or me.
“Do you know what happened to Lara Logan in
Egypt?” Jack asked softly.
I turned to look at him. I knew exactly what had
happened to Lara Logan in Egypt. She’d been sexually
assaulted by a pack of rioting men in Tahir Square. Most
people who followed the news knew that.
But that’s not what stunned me.
It’s that Jack said it.
At dinner with my father, which I was making no
effort to be civil at.
“Excuse me?” I said to Jack, who barely met my
eyes.
“Exactly,” my father said. “Thank you, James.”
Neither of us corrected my dad. I stared at Jack in
shocked betrayal. He looked down at his food and looked
back up to find me still staring. “I mean—Hadley, stop
looking at me like that.”
“No.”
He took a deep breath. “She was surrounded by
cameramen. She’s someone who travels with security. I
mean, she’s on TV. The Times can’t protect you over
there. I don’t think you have any idea what you’re signing
up for,” Jack continued, trying to explain why he’d just
taken my father’s side.
“Exactly,” my father repeated.
I reached blindly for my water. “I don’t think it’s
any of your business.”
“What?” he asked. “You getting hurt?” I met his
eyes for a long time before he looked away. “Seriously?”
He shook his head.
 “After graduation? Why does it matter if I’m in
Syria in six months? You’re not going to see me after
that.” I spat it out exclusively for the purposes of hurting
him. And I saw it work. I saw him recoil.
He let out a short, shallow laugh. “Right. Right. No
strings. I got it.” He held his hands out helplessly. “This is
all just a game. This is all about the rules and—”
“You have no right,” I hissed. “You have no right
to interrupt something you know nothing about and—”
He nodded. “You know what? We’re not supposed
to have dinner together.” He pushed out his chair. “That
was a good rule. I forgot about that one. I’m going to go.”
He was walking out the door before I could
register that he might be mad at me. Or hurt. Or something.
I watched his shoulders. His bowed head. I wondered if
he thought it was funny, or if he was serious. He didn’t
take anything seriously. I couldn’t imagine why he’d be
such an alarmist about Egypt.
“Hadley, he was only trying to help,” my dad
offered.
“He was trying to help you,” I snapped. “That’s
not help.”
He exhaled. “I don’t condone this. And I won’t
support it.”
“I’m not asking you to,” I said. “Please. You really
think I’d count on you for anything at this point?”
After that, there wasn’t much left to say. He paid
for dinner and he dropped me back at my apartment. He
went straight to the airport. And even though I’d been
doing it for years, I couldn’t totally suppress the twinge of
guilt in my stomach, which had a lot more to do with
scaring away Jack than it had to do with disappointing my
father.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Needless to say, Jack and I didn’t speak for days after that.
And as much as I missed him, I was angrier than I was
sorry. Whenever I reached for my phone to apologize, I
remembered how he’d blindsided me and I set it back
down. And Jack didn’t make an effort either.
Riley presided over class more quietly than he
usually did. Which is to say that he didn’t call anyone ‘a
fucking useless imbecile.’ We listened to him discuss
hostage situations. We learned about when keeping quiet
was more important than speaking up.
Sometimes, I felt like his eyes were hovering on
me a second longer than they were hovering on anyone
else in the class. I wonder how much Jack talked to him. I
wonder if he knew that we’d fought.
At the end of class, he cleared his throat. “We’ll
be assigning you to your career profile of a deceased
journalist on Monday. If you’re interested in someone in
particular, let me know by tomorrow and we’ll see if you
can be assigned to that person”

Valentine’s Day dawned bitterly cold, and stupid, like

every day in February and like every Valentine’s Day
before it.
“Oh my god!” David screamed.
I followed the high-pitched screech into the living
room where David stood in his bunny slippers, wielding a
heart-shaped crepe pan. Someone had sent him roses.
“Guess what day is today?”
“The day the world vomited up pink and PDA?” I
asked. “Haven’t heard from Jack in Three Days Day And
Am Supposed to Be Meeting his Family on Friday Day?”
“Don’t be such a Grinch.”
“That’s exclusive to Christmas.”
“Well, don’t be a Vrinch.”
“I don’t have the stomach for romance,” I said.
David looked at me.
“Justin sent you flowers?”
David nodded. “I would guess so.” He reached for
the card. “I mean, it’s not like—” He stopped suddenly
when he read the note.
“What?”
He exhaled. “Shit.”
“What?”
I grabbed the card from him. I miss you. Please
call me. Love, Ben.
“You are not getting involved with him again.”
“I know, Hadley. I’m not stupid,” David snapped.
I bit my lip.
There was a rap on the door. “I am so not getting
that,” David said.
I swung open the door and saw Ben standing in the
hallway. “Oh, fuck no,” I said, trying to close the door
again.
 “What?” David asked alarmed. He walked to the
door to see Ben. He took a step back. “Ben?”
“David, I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Just, I know I
was horrible. I know, but I think it’s because I’m in love
with you.”
“You need to leave,” I said to him.
David caught my arms and pulled me kicking back
to my room. “Ben, come in. It’s fine. I just need to corral
her.”
“ Yo u cannot date him. He is a homophobic
psychopath.”
“Hadley.”
“David Michael McPhee.”
“Trust me.”
“It’s not you I’m worried about.”
“I’m not going to let him hurt me again,” David
said in an even, low voice. “I promise. I know better. You
have to trust me.”
I took a deep breath. “Fine. But if he fucks with
your head again, I’m going to shoot him. I really will. So,
make sure he’s aware.”
David smiled at me. “Hadley, you know I can
handle this.”
“I know,” I said. “I just wish you didn’t have to.”
“It’ll be fine. Go to class.”
I left them quietly talking in David’s room. I
swallowed thickly, hesitating at the door. I didn’t want to
have to rely on trust to know David was safe. I wanted to
just know. And I wanted Ben to just leave.
I waited at the doorway for the longest time,
wondering what I’d lose if I just emailed my professors
and said that I was sick, and stayed home to make sure
David was okay. But I couldn’t do that—not to David, not
to the people counting on me. So I left, stomach in knots,
wishing I hadn’t been so mean to Jack at dinner, wishing I
had his arms to collapse into.

After class, I went to the library. I texted David to make

sure everything was okay.
How did things with Ben go?
He wrote back immediately. They’re fine. He left.
Someone cleared his throat and I glanced up. Jack
Diamond was holding a single white rose. He was
wearing a red plaid shirt, which was loose on him, and his
hair was pushed back off of his forehead. He looked a
little bashful, like he couldn’t believe he was doing this
either.
He held it out to me with a wry little grin on his
face.
“Are you serious?” I asked.
“Sh…” He said. “You’re supposed to be quiet in
the library.”
We weren’t alone in the library. Two girls
watched with interest across the table while I accepted the
flower at an arm’s length.
“I thought,” he said very softly. “Since we had
started breaking the rules.”
I looked at him.
“That maybe I should apologize,” he whispered.
He sat down next to me and leaned over my notebook and
spoke in my ear. “You had a shit day and I made it worse.
I shouldn’t have jumped into that conversation with your
dad either. I suck. I’m sorry.”
I smiled in spite of myself.
“It’s okay,” I said softly. “I was a bitch at dinner.”
“And, I thought, if we were really going to break
the rules…” he leaned forward and kissed my cheek. “You
maybe would come to the aquarium with me tonight? I
know we said no dinners. But I think we can look at fish
together. Even if it is Valentine’s Day.”
I don’t know if it was the warmth of his lips on my
skin, or the way he smelled, or the fact that even thought I
hated Valentine’s Day, I loved white roses. Or maybe it
was because just because I wanted. “Yes,” I whispered.
“It’s a date.”
“Well, now you’re getting awfully dramatic,” he
said, leaning back, satisfied. “A date? We’re just going to
look at some fish.”
And he made me laugh. For the thousandth time
since I’d met him, he made me laugh.
I looked at him. “Are we still on for Friday?”
 He smiled. “Yes. If you want to be.”
I nodded. “I do.”

Late that afternoon, we drove towards the aquarium,

listening to the National.
I watched the flat, dusky world from my window.
“Have you been before?” he asked.
I shook my head. “No.”
He smiled. “I think you’ll like it.”
Jack obviously had been. He knew every single
tank, every hidden exhibition. He took me through the
crowded ones first. He caught my hand in a darkened room
before a shark tank. Alone, we kissed in front of the cool
blue waters.
Before the dolphins, Jack stood behind me. His
body was warm, his hand rested on my hip and he kissed
my jaw.
But it was before the jellyfish, where nobody was
watching, that I stopped to stare. The ancient giants pulsed
like beating hearts.
“They say they might live forever,” Jack
whispered in my ear. “Some of them are hundreds of
thousands of years old.”
I leaned heavily against him. “Can you imagine the
things they’ve lived through?” I thought of crashing
meteorites and quaking seas. And then this—being taken
from the open water and placed in the middle of an ocean
of people. “Do you think they know they’re being
watched?”
He smiled and nipped my ear. “I think everyone
knows when they’re being watched.”
He laughed at me when I jumped back from the
eels. He stood close to the tank and watched carefully.
“Do you come here a lot?”
“Not a lot. I’ve been before. I used to go to the
aquarium in Connecticut.” He glanced at me. “When I was
a kid.” He paused. “With my dad. He traveled a lot for
work.” He shrugged. “After he died, it was the only place
that felt okay. Everywhere else seemed awful.” He rubbed
my shoulders. “I think it was the only place I let myself
feel sad. I didn’t remember him at school or the house we
moved to after he died. But, I remember him at
aquariums.”
He smiled. “Anyways, I always felt kind of weird
at school because of that. Like everyone was actually
there, in the classroom or gym class, thinking about being
in the classroom or gym class and I wasn’t there at all. I
was pretending I was at the aquarium.”
“I used to go to the library and I’d read books,” I
confessed. “Pretend I was someone else for a while. After
a while, I got sick of the fiction. Because I knew it would
never happen. So I read the newspapers. And I knew there
was life after middle school. Outside of where I grew up.”
He nodded. “Yeah.” He smiled. “Always felt like I
had more in common with a bunch of fish than with people
when I was a kid.” He chuckled. “I’m a disaster, though.”
“That doesn’t make you a disaster.”
He wasn’t wearing plaid today. I stepped forward
until we were inches apart. Our foreheads touched.
“I’m a little bit of a disaster, Hadley.”
“Then, you’re my favorite disaster, Jack.”
He brushed his lips against mine and lifted me off
the ground. And on the Valentine’s Day that I would
always remember as the day that we broke all the rules, I
let a boy literally sweep me off my feet.
“Your place?” he asked.
I laughed and nodded. We drove home quickly.
He walked me from the car, where he parked
upstairs. “I could get used to this,” he confessed.
I paused and leaned against him. I didn’t say
anything and he chuckled to himself and didn’t bring it up
as we walked upstairs.
“We might be walking into a gay fiesta, just FYI,”
I said as we reached the hallway.
“That’s fine,” he said. “As long as they don’t
expect us to participate.”
“You wouldn’t do that for me?” I asked, in mock
indignation.
I heard a scream and a shout. I pulled away from
his kiss, at the same time as he lunged toward my door.
“Did you hear that?” Jack asked, grabbing my arm.
He pushed me away from the door. “Do you know who is
in there?”
“David! That sounded like David!”
“Get back, Hadley!” Jack barked and I moved
away from the door as he pushed it open.
The banging was coming from David’s room. Jack
pushed past me towards his bedroom and I followed close
behind.
“David,” Jack yelled. “David, are you alright?”
He shoved the door open and moved ahead of me. I
wanted to run to him, but I didn’t. I pressed my hands to
my mouth uselessly and stared.
David was bloodied and bruised, on his knees,
barely struggling against Ben. Ben’s hands were locked
around David’s neck.
David choked out a plea, or a cry for help, his
hands on Ben’s trying to tear them away. His eyes were
wet and he was desperate for air. The way he cried out
sounded horrible, deeply painful, and Ben kicked David
harshly in the ribs, without releasing his stranglehold on
him.
Jack moved before I could scream. Jack moved so
quickly that Ben was grasping his bloodied nose, with his
back against the wall in the time it took me to reach David.
And David spluttered, and choked and fell from his knees
to his stomach, and took these ragged, shuddering breaths
that sounded like nothing but pain.
 His broken figure lay on the floor, underneath my
shaking, useless hands.
“David,” I whispered through tears. “David, come
on.” I turned him over. His eyes were open and he was
breathing shallowly.
Ben struggled against Jack and Jack hit him again
and he slumped, dejectedly against the wall.
“Get the fuck off of me,” Ben shouted.
“Hads?” David whispered.
“I’m here, baby,” I said. “We’re here.”
“Hadley,” he whispered hoarsely.
“If you touch him again I will fucking bury you,
Mitchell,” Jack roared. “Do you understand me?” He
slammed Ben’s body against the wall so hard that the
picture frames rattled. “Get the fuck out.”
As soon as Jack released him, Ben fled.
I tried to help David up, but he curled away from
me. “Go away,” he said, as the door slammed. “Go away,
please.”
“I’m calling the police,” Jack said. “He’s in
shock.”
“No,” David whimpered.
“He needs ice,” Jack said, not listening to David
and grabbing his phone.
“No,” David said softly. “Stop. Hadley…I’m
fine.”
I heard Jack on his cell phone walking down to the
kitchen.
“I’m calling to report a crime,” Jack said
deliberately into the phone. I watched him and my lungs
and chest filled with something, air and something else. I
think it was gratitude. “2333 McBride Street. Apartment
2D.” Jack’s voice didn’t waver as David started to cry.
He handed me a bag of ice and paced before us, a
look of capable concern on his face.
I put a hand on David’s back and he pushed me
away. “An assault. Yes, ma’am—his name is Ben
Mitchell. He’s a student at Northwestern. The athletic
department should have his address and photograph on
file. The victim’s name is David McPhee.”
“Hadley, please,” David said in a broken voice.
“He needs medical attention. No, he’s alert, but
he’s injured,” Jack said calmly, ignoring David. “Thank
you. We will.”
When he hung up the phone, Jack walked over and
picked David up. That was something that I wished I could
do, but couldn’t. He put him on the couch, steadied him.
“Are you drunk?” Jack asked him seriously.
David shook his head. “No.”
“Did he hit you in the head?”
David nodded. Jack was the strong one, the
capable one. He pulled David’s hands away from his face
so he could see his eyes. “You’re okay,” he told David
softly when the sirens grew louder.
 David flinched. And then he slumped against me
and I held his body against mine and pressed my lips to his
forehead. The little comfort I offered made him whimper.
The officers came before long. Their footsteps
made him flinch. When they sat down, all I could see was
the boy from South Dakota, who heard the word ‘fag’ in
church and tried to hide all of the truest parts of his soul.
He knew if they found out who he was, they’d kill him.
And then, like everyone promised, it had actually gotten
better. But then it got worse. Really, really awful.
“What happened?” one of them asked Jack.
Jack looked at David. “He’ll tell you,” he said
calmly, confidently.
“My ex-boyfriend assaulted me,” David said
simply. Saying it aloud changed him. He spoke more
forcefully about things that I hadn’t known about. He spoke
about harassing phone calls and controlling behavior.
“Was this the first time it happened?” one of the
officer asked.
David shook his head. “No,” he whispered. “I
thought he was going to kill me this time. I couldn’t
breathe.”
The police officer made a clucking noise with his
tongue against the top of his mouth. “Okay. What’s his
name?”
“Ben Mitchell,” David said softly.
The police wrote down his name and pulled Jack
aside, who had held himself together to ask him more
questions. “I was supposed to see Justin,” David told me.
“Let me call him.”
“I don’t want him to see me like this.”
I laced my fingers through his. “He’d want to be
here. But, he should at least know, don’t you think?”
He nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”
I stepped away, far enough so that he couldn’t hear
me calling Justin, but close enough for me to keep an eye
on him while the paramedics checked his eyes and the
marks on his neck.
Justin picked up the phone and his brief panic
settled into deliberate calm when I told him they were
taking David to the hospital.
“He’ll be okay,” Justin said. “Let me know when
he’s ready for visitors and I’ll be the first one there. Can
he talk?”
I looked at David, who was still basically
incoherent. No. He definitely wouldn’t want to talk to
Justin right now. “Not now. But he will tomorrow. He
wanted you to know that he wasn’t blowing you off.”
“Tell him not to worry for a second about that,”
Justin said. “Call me as soon as he wants to see me,
okay?”
“Okay. Yeah. I will,” I nodded, wishing I could be
so calm. David is fine, I reminded myself. He’s hurt. But
he’s fine.
 When Jack came back into the room, he took one
look at me and walked over. He wrapped an arm around
my shoulders, a simple gesture, and I leaned against him,
and he held me.

On the day after Valentine’s Day, Jack snuck popcorn,

Jack Daniels, Justin Shelter, and me into David’s small
hospital room by flirting shamelessly with a nurse.
“Hadley’s boyfriend could charm his way into Fort
Knox,” Justin told David. He sat down on David’s bed.
He settled down next to David, and after a moment, I saw
him lean forward and kiss David’s forehead and whisper:
“I’m going to murder him.”
David laughed hollowly. “I’m tired of all the death
threats.”
“I’m sorry,” Justin said. “I’m going to wage a very
effective letter-writing campaign.”
We turned on You’ve Got Mail. Jack and I
watched part of the movie, and then decided to give Justin
and David their privacy, walking out into the waiting room
to sit on cheap plastic chairs and thumb through old
magazines
I thumbed through a wedding issue for a reality
star. “God, this magazine is ancient,” I said. “These
people are divorced now.”
“It’s newer than you’d think,” Jack said, checking
the cover. “Yeah. Four months old.”
 “Seriously? Four months? They were married for
four months?”
He smiled.
“You know, you can probably go,” I offered.
“I want to see what happens to the bookstore,”
Jack insisted. “I think Meg Ryan is going to sue Tom
Hanks or else kill him.”
“It’s a romantic comedy, not Law & Order.”
Jack raised his eyebrows. “Well, they better have
paused it. Because I bet anything that Meg Ryan ends up
killing Tom Hanks. Down with capitalism and all that.
Occupy Wall Street. Occupy Fox Books. Or maybe it’ll
turn out to be some kind of Madoff thing.”
“A book Ponzi scheme? That’s not possible.”
Jack smiled at me. “No, but it could definitely be
the plot of the movie.” He looked over his shoulder at
Justin’s hospital room. “Do you think I should go ask them
to pause it?”
“I don’t think you want to disturb them,” I said.
“They’re probably making out.”
“Well, I should definitely disturb them. Justin
shouldn’t take advantage of David. He’s highly medicated
and I think I also got him drunk. Plus, I want to see the end
of the movie.”
I rolled my eyes and he kissed me suddenly.
“What was that for?”
“I like you,” he said, grinning.
 I grinned. I bit my thumbnail, tried not to blush, and
focused on the hideous bridesmaids’ dresses. I like you
too. I didn’t say it, because then I would have exploded
with embarrassment. But I’m pretty sure he knew that
anyways.
“Thank you for…knowing what to do,” I said.
“Oh, come on, surely you went to the seminar on
911 in Kindergarten,” he said. “Even I didn’t skip that
class.”
“You know what I mean.”
He leaned his head against mine. “You still don’t
want to date me, huh?”
I was quiet. “I just want to be like this.”
“Okay.” He smiled. “We can be like this. What do
you want to call it?”
I rolled my eyes. “Life.”
“We’re lifing?”
“Or, you know, living.”
He cocked his head like he was thinking about it.
“Right. Let’s pretend I never said that.”
I nodded. “Deal.”

Justin brought David home from the hospital late that night.
“Hey,” I said, when Justin opened the door.
“You know I can walk, right?” David asked dryly.
Justin had his arm tight around David’s shoulders, like he
could hardly support his own legs. David grinned at him
briefly.
“Get over here,” David said to me. He wrapped
me in a tight hug.
“I’m so sorry,” I said.
“Hey. It’s not your fault. He’s a bastard,” David
continued. “And I should have listened to you.”
“Oh, David, I don’t care—”
“No, I should have listened to you.”
“He’s going to press charges,” Justin added.
“Good,” I said fiercely.
David smiled weakly.
“Are you okay?”
“Of course,” David said. He smiled bravely. “I
knew Jack was good to have around. I’m glad you’re back
together.”
“We never were together,” I said. “But we’re
back on. Whatever that means.”
He rolled his eyes. “Okay, Hadley.”
“What?”
“You like him,” David said.
“Shut up.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
My mother sent me a beautiful dress and a pair of shoes
that would only make sense to wear to a ball for Jack’s
formal.
The dress was light blue, with a white silk tie at
the waist. It fell just above my knee.
“I’m nervous,” I told Jack when I got into his car.
He blinked.
“Is there anything I need to know?” I asked.
He blinked again.
I waved my hand in front of his face. “Hello? Earth
to Jack.”
“You look really, really pretty,” he said.
“Thank you,” I said. “What do I need to know?”
He laughed. “Mom is Julie, brother is Alex.” He
cocked his head. “Riley’s coming. You can call him…”
“Professor?”
He smiled. “Sure.” He looked me over again.
“What?”
“You look really goddamn pretty,” he said. He
smiled and drove to the frat house. “I told them you were
my girlfriend, by the way. I didn’t think you’d want me
explaining the details to my mother and Riley.”
We walked from the car to the fraternity house. I
leaned against him slightly in the cold and he laughed as
we reached the door. “You’re not going to recognize it.”
He was right. I didn’t recognize it.
 The floors sparkled, the music was playing at a
pleasant volume, and people were drinking from real
glasses.
“We rented the glasses,” Jack said, looking at the
expression on my face.
“Ah,” I said.
Riley looked out of place, in a tweed jacket,
leaning against a wall and chatting with a pretty dark-
haired woman who smiled just like Jack.
I swallowed nervously.
“Say hi, get a glass of wine, repeat. All night,”
Jack whispered as we approached them. “It’s like a
game.”
“You must be Hadley,” his mother said, turning.
She offered a hand. “I’m Julie Diamond. It is so nice to
meet you.”
“And this is Alex,” Jack said.
Alex shook my hand. “So, you’re the girl my
brother flew us out here to meet.”
“I don’t know about that.”
Alex chuckled knowingly.
“Alex, shut up,” Jack said.
“Do you know Robert Riley?” his mother asked.
“I do, actually,” I said and smiled. “I’m in his
combat journalism class.”
Riley nodded and gave me a friendly smile. “I’ll
have to pretend I don’t know you on Monday.”
 I grinned. “I’m used to that.”
“We’re going to get wine,” Jack said. “I promised
her there would be wine.”
I followed him. “Am I doing that badly?” I asked.
He laughed. “No. I just can tell they’re kind of
salivating that I seem to have a girlfriend.” He smiled. “I
don’t want them to get the idea that I’m some kind of
responsible and mature adult.”
I nodded. “Ah.”
He grabbed two glasses. “Thanks for doing this.
My mom’s been dying to come to one and…anyways, I
appreciate it.”
I smiled. “Yeah.”
“Does Riley know you’re going to Syria?” he
asked.
I nodded.
He took a sip of his wine.
“He put me in touch with the editor actually,” I
said.
Jack stopped lifting the glass to his lips. “What?”
I nodded. “Yeah.”
“Christ,” Jack said. He looked over at Riley. It
clearly bothered him. He took a long sip of the wine and
whistled. “Wow.”
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing.” He cleared his throat. “I need to find
Xander. Figure out where we’re supposed to sit.”
 I watched him go, confused, and sipped my wine
slowly, wondering how long he'd be. I'd finished half my
glass before I gave up waiting and went back over to his
brother and mother, who he'd neglected in a corner.
“Where’s Jack?”
“He went to go find Xander, I think,” I said.
“Oh,” she nodded and smiled.
"So, you're a doctor, right?" I asked Alex.
"I am."
I nodded. "How did you like medical school?"
He smiled. "Better than the Naval Academy." He
chuckled. "No, I liked it."
Jack wandered back, with a goofy smile. "Hey.
Sorry."
He looked drunk.
I smiled awkwardly.
"Where's Riley?"
"Getting a drink."
Jack nodded.
"So, how'd you two meet?" Alex asked.
"It's a really good story, actual—” Jack started.
“We met at a tailgate," I interrupted, blushing
preemptively.
"Right," Jack said.
Alex smiled at Jack and then at me. “You had no
idea what you were getting into, huh?”
"None," Jack said. "Oh. Were you talking to her?
Trust me. She's crazier than she looks."
Alex smiled. "Okay, then."
Jack started to say something else. Xander,
however, rapped his fork against a glass to make an
announcement. "Everyone, thanks for coming. I've been
told dinner is ready so if you'd make your way to your
tables, that would be great."
"We're table thirteen," Jack said. "Which is
appropriate. Terrible luck.”
"I'll tell Bobby," Alex said.
We found our table and I whispered in Jack's ear.
"You okay?"
"Yeah. I'm great," he said, pulling out my chair.
"Why wouldn't I be?"
“Nothing,” I said.
“So, Hadley, how do you feel about Jack not
having a job?” Alex asked.
“Lay off,” Jack said.
Alex laughed. “Oh, come on. I’ve been in
Afghanistan. I’m allowed to give you a hard time.”
Julie cleared her throat and peered at me. “You’re
one of Bob’s students?”
“Yes, I am.”
“So, you’re interested in journalism?”
I nodded.
"Jack's father was a journalist."
I found that shocking. I looked at Jack. "I didn't
know that."
"You didn't tell her?" his mother asked.
Jack was watching his mother. He smiled at her
regretfully. He rubbed his chin and said softly. "C'mon,
Mom."
Julie looked at me and then at Jack. "What paper
did he write for?" I asked.
"New York Times," Alex answered.
"That's where I’m working next year," I said. I
looked at Jack, genuinely shocked.
Jack cleared his throat. "Anyways, they just did a
Valentine's Day issue for the university paper."
"I saw that," Riley said.
Jack grinned. "Yeah. Hadley almost had a heart
attack over it. What did you think?"
"Gimmicky."
I smiled. I would've agreed, if I hadn't been
thinking about Jack's father. I was mystified. How could
he not mention that to a girl obsessed with working at The
New York Times?
"What are you interested in covering?" Alex asked
me. He looked quite serious.
Jack exhaled heavily. "Come on, Alex. Leave her
alone.”
"I'm going to be working with their Middle Eastern
conflict team," I said. I reached for my wine and swirled
it. "They said I would probably be based in Syria at first.”
 "Are you kidding?" Alex asked aggressively.
“Jack, are you serious?”
“Are you talking to me or Jack?" I asked. I cleared
my throat. "Am I missing something here? I’m not kidding
about anything.”
Jack studied his water glass like it was the
world’s most fascinating object. Julie watched me, and I
glanced at her briefly before looking away. Her eyes were
the same color as Jack's and contained the same edge of
loss Jack’s sometimes held.
“Syria?” Julie asked, her voice straining. “What
do your parents think about that?”
Jack made a strangled noise in the back of his
throat. "Mom. Let her be.”
"It's fine," I said. "They're not thrilled, but they get
it." I shrugged. "I speak Arabic. It’s what I want to do.”
"Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?"
Alex asked.
I cocked my head. "Aren't you a trauma surgeon in
Afghanistan?" I asked.
"It's different. I don't have an angle."
"Alex, for Christ's sake," Jack said. "Would you
please drop it?"
I shrugged. “I think it’s important to show what’s
happening. Journalism is about telling the truth, and people
here can help. They can’t help if they don’t know about
what’s going on. But if they know, they can help.”
 I met Professor Riley’s eyes and he nodded subtly
at me, but didn’t chime in.
"If you want to help, you should enlist,” Alex said.
“Don’t tell my girlfriend to enlist,” Jack said
angrily.
I wasn't sure who to argue with, Jack or Alex.
“Why not? She’d be safer in the army as she’d be
in a Jeep with a bunch of cameramen,” Alex said.
“Well, it’s not your concern,” Jack snapped.
“If you care about her, it’s my concern,” Alex
responded. “Riley can tell you how dangerous it is.”
“Sure,” Riley said calmly. “But she knows.”
“You don’t really know,” Alex said to me. “You
have no idea. How could you know?”
“Lay off,” Jack snapped. "It doesn't affect you."
Alex turned and looked at Jack. “It does affect me.
The last time someone you loved got killed taking pictures
in the Middle East, I was the one picking up what was left
of you. In case you forgot, you didn't take it too well."
Jack pushed back his chair and got to his feet.
“Yeah? Well, fuck you, Alex.”
I moved to get to my feet, as several of the other
families whipped their heads around to see, but Professor
Riley beat me to it, grabbing Jack by the upper arm. He
tugged him once, gently.
"Jack, come on," Riley said, gruffly. "Let's go for a
walk." He shoved him gently towards the door and Jack
turned, fists clenched, shoulders up by his elbows. But he
walked with Riley. Alex exhaled in his seat.
"Alex, you shouldn't antagonize him," Julie said.
"I wasn't."
Julie sighed heavily. "You—”
“I need the restroom,” Alex said brusquely,
stalking off in the opposite direction, leaving me alone
with his mother.
I sipped my water, just so I'd have something to do
with my hands which were shaking.
"I'm sorry," I said, when there was nothing left but
ice in my glass and I had to confront the fact that I had
somehow ruined the first family dinner they'd had in a
while. And that something terrible had happened to Jack’s
father. I felt things shifting into place.
She smiled and shook her head. "They've always
been like this." She smiled. "They love each other, and
they don't know how to say so, so they fight."
I nodded. “I’m sorry thought. I…”
"It's not your fault," she added.
I looked out the window. Jack had walked outside
with Riley. He was far enough away from the windows to
not realize I could see him. But I saw him. He sat down on
the steps, resting his elbows on his knees. The idiot wasn’t
wearing a coat over his blazer, and he'd turned his head to
look up at the stars.
I watched him shiver—from the cold or maybe the
argument.
Riley stood a few feet behind him, talking quietly.
Jack nodded occasionally and smiled sadly once. His
shoulders were slumped, awkwardly broken. He needed a
coat. He had to have a coat if he was going to sit out there.
I looked at Julie. “Would you excuse me?” I said. I
got up from the table and walked upstairs to Jack’s room.
His sketchbook was thrown open on his desk, the one he
was always doodling in, but he never showed me.
He had been drawn me, in the passenger’s seat of
his car. One leg up on the dashboard, my head turned away
from him. My face shaded lightly with pencil. I put my
fingertips on the page and felt tears brim behind my eyes. I
swallowed hard and took his coat from the back of the
desk chair, and hurried down the stairs with it.
I walked outside.
I'd never heard Riley's voice sound so gentle.
“…Alex is dealing with a lot right now. He’s not
the same kid who left for war. Nobody is—”
“Hey,” I said loudly so that they would know I was
there. I stood uncomfortably, wavering, not wanting to
intervene, and not wanting to go. “I, um, thought you might
want a coat.”
Jack looked at me and didn’t say anything. I
walked to the steps and draped it over his shoulders. He
pulled it closer. “Thanks.”
I sat down next to him.
 "You'll ruin your dress," he warned.
"I don't care."
Riley smiled. "You'll be okay?" He nodded at the
door, like he was thinking of going in.
“She doesn't bite,” Jack said. He blew on his
hands and turned his head, watching Riley go. I didn't say
anything. He pulled a flask from his front pocket and took
a sip.
“Should we talk?” I asked.
"About?"
"That." I nodded inside. "Alex. Your Dad."
“It's a long story," he said.
"I'm good at long stories."
He shook his head. “I know." He smiled and
looked over at me. He took another sip from the flask and
offered it to me. "But I'm not."
I took a small sip. It burned my throat. I handed it
back to him.
He cleared his throat. “My dad was a war
correspondent.” He bit his lip. “He loved it." He
shrugged.
The shiver that went down my spine felt like ice.
He took a sharp breath. "And then he died."
"I'm sorry," I whispered.
"Yeah," he nodded. "He went to Afghanistan. Right
after 9/11, when we just had gone to war. My mom begged
him not to. He told her he’d be fine." He looked up at the
stars again. "They took him hostage. The Taliban." He
shrugged. He took a sip from his flask. “We never got the
body back.” He breathed shortly and exhaled. “They cut
him into pieces and put it on terrorist YouTube or
whatever the fuck they call it.”
"Oh, Jack," I breathed. I couldn't imagine. I
couldn't imagine any of it, but I didn't have to imagine
Jack's pain, because there wasn't any way for him to hide
it.
I could almost feel the tension of it beneath his
skin.
My breath swirled in white clouds in front of my
mouth. Everything made sense. “Jesus,” I squeezed my
eyes shut. “God, Jack. Why didn't you say something?"
“I didn’t know how to. And you weren’t going to
Syria until a week ago. For a long time you were going to
be a journalist. I mean, honestly, by the time I figured out
you were applying for a job in Syria, I was so far in over
my head with you…” he took a breath and his voice
trailed off. “This is just like me.”
“What?”
“To fall in love with someone who couldn't be
worse for me." He shook his head. "I mean, Jesus Christ.
You've got a lot of rules. And I've got just about none. But
if I had to come up with one it would be: don't sleep with
the pretty girl headed for Syria in six months. And if you
do sleep with her, be damned sure you don't fall in love
with her. But here we are." He smiled humorlessly.
"You're not in love with me," I said. "We're not
even dating."
He laughed bitterly. “I am, though. I really am. I'm
in love with you.” He smiled again and shook his head.
“But, I’m fucked up." He got to his feet.
“Jack…”
"Look, don't worry about it." He put his hands into
the pockets of his jacket. “You don't have to say anything,
Hadley. I get it. You're not into it. You said that from the
beginning and you don't owe me anything. If you want to
take off, take off." He rubbed the back of his neck and
turned back towards the house.
I stood up. "You want me to go? You want me to
leave the party you invited me to?"
He bit his lip. "No, I don't want you to go." He
shook his head. "But you probably should."
I met his eyes. "C'mon," I said softly. "Talk to me.
I'm not going to die in Syria."
"My dad used to say that." He nodded and looked
down at his feet and then up at me. He shrugged. "Listen,
I'm going to go inside. You didn't sign up for this."
"Okay," I said. "That's okay. We'll figure it out."
"Figure what out?" he demanded. "I’m telling you I
can’t do this anymore, Hadley.”
I met his eyes. "You can't do this because I'm going
to Syria?" I said. I shook my head. "I just don't understand
—”
"Jesus, Hadley, haven't you listened to anything I
said?"
"Well, everything was fine. You knew that I—”
"I said I’m love with you," he yelled. He threw his
head back and I took a step back and looked at him. He
looked at me again and exhaled. "I'm in love with you," he
repeated quietly. “Do you get that?”
I bit my lip. I had nothing to say.
"I'm sorry," he said. He shook his head. "There are
about a dozen girls who I had to say I was sorry to
because I didn't love them. So I get what it's like for you
right now. Believe me. I know. It's terrible. You feel guilty
and awkward and like you failed to communicate
something to me." He nodded. "But most of all you feel
like you want to get the hell away as fast as possible. And
I know what that feels like and I'll make this easy for you.
Take off. Go home. It’s fine. I broke the rules and I got
burned and that’s my fault.”
"You don't know how I feel," I said. I didn’t feel
awkward. I felt sick.
"I love you, Hadley."
"Would you stop saying that?" I snapped.
He smiled sadly. “See?” He shook his head.
I wanted to cry. I was almost sure that I’d start
crying. “Since when?” My voice sounded strangled.
He laughed. He lifted the flask to his lips. His face
twisted when he swallowed. He stared at me. “I don’t
know. Maybe since I met you,” he bit his lip. “Listen. Go.
Go. It’s fine.” He smiled. “You don’t want this and I’ll…
I’ll deal with it. But, you should go. It’ll be easier for you
and it’ll be easier for me, too.”
"Well, do you want me to come say goodbye? To
Riley or your...family?"
He gave me a cocky smile. I’d seen it a million
times. On his Facebook page, when he was talking to
people he didn’t really know, when someone told a story
he didn’t think was particularly funny and he wanted to be
polite. This empty, distant, arrogant smile like he’d never
even worried about anything before in his life. “Nah. Don't
worry about it. I’ll clean up. Not your mess anyways.”
I expected him to turn back and look at me as he
walked back towards the house. I expected him to laugh
and say he was fucking with me, he was drunk, or that he
just needed some space, or that he’d call me tomorrow or
that he’d see me around. Or something.
But the door closed and he didn’t come back.
I stood staring at that door for a long time.

I didn’t have a ride back to my apartment. And I didn’t

call for one. The air was cold enough that I couldn’t think
about the icy pain in my chest.
By the time I got home I was shaking from the cold.
I felt so tired, like I’d walked eight miles instead of half of
one. I shuddered in the doorway, flipping on the lights,
taking off my heels.
“You’re early,” David said. He turned to look at
me. “How was it?”
I smiled, took the kettle down from the cabinet, and
filled it with water.
Then I burst into tears.
“Hadley! What the hell happened?” David asked.
He got up from the couch next to Justin. I smiled as widely
as I could manage.
“Nothing,” I insisted, pressing my hand to my
mouth, squeezing my eyes shut.
“Hadley.”
“Please, David,” I said, as he crossed the room to
me.
“What did he do?”
“Nothing. He didn’t do anything,” I said. I took a
deep breath and managed to keep the sobs down until I’d
entangled myself from his wrist and gotten to the bathroom
to turn on the shower.
Chapter Thirty-Four
David refused to let me leave the next morning. He
insisted on an explanation. And when I’d finally spat out
the whole sorry story, I still hadn’t touched my pancakes.
I shook my head. “I should have known."
"What?"
"That this would end badly," I said.
David looked at me in concern. “Is it really a
problem that he loves you?"
I shrugged. "He seems to think so."
"Why?"
"Because he broke up with me."
"But you aren't even dating."
"He told me to leave." I took a breath. "He told me
he loved me and that I had to go. And I did."
"What did you say?"
I shrugged. "Nothing. I left."
He was quiet. "Do you love him?"
I cocked my head at David. I exhaled. "I don't
believe in that stuff."
"In love?"
"Not the way he meant it." I put my hair into a
ponytail and gathered up my things. "I have to go."
"Hadley," David called after me.
“David, I have to go. The newspaper has to get put
out,” I said. I probably had done it before, used the
newspaper as an excuse to hide from people. But I’d never
been so aware of it.
Every comma I cut, every sentence I reworded, I
knew exactly what I was doing. He told me he loved me
and I wanted to say it back.
But, I was afraid.
So, on a Saturday morning, feeling hung-over and
half-empty, I copyedited the newspaper.
You’re breaking your own heart , a tiny voice told
me, when I looked up for my work long enough to think
about it.
Another voice, one I knew better and trusted more,
spoke back you have to break your own heart. You can’t
compromise.

I had no idea how I was going to face Professor Riley in

class on Monday. I wondered what Jack had said when he
returned to dinner. Had he told them I was crazy or
heartless or just feeling sick?
Had he just told them the truth?
I sat in the second-to-last row, close to the back of
the room. I scrawled my name in nervous, looping letters
in the corner of my notebook. I tried not to think about the
way Jack smiled on Friday night, like he'd seen this
coming and he hadn't been able to stop it and for some
reason that was funny.
Like finding out something that had seemed too
good to be true just wasn't true.
 Well, of course.
I had scrawled my name over half the page by the
time Riley walked in, and I didn't look up when he
grumbled hello to the class.
He had moved to ethical constraints on journalism
when it came to respecting other people's religious
beliefs, and I finally looked up when he referenced a
statistic on a slide.
He wasn't looking at me. Obviously.
He didn't look at me all class. I bit my lip and took
notes and when he was finished talking, I did my best to
pack up my things in record speed.
"Now before you go, we'll be distributing your
assigned journalist for your profile." He looked around.
"Oh, and Hadley?"
Shit.
"Can I talk to you for a second after class?"
I wondered if Jack had told him we’d broken up.
Or whatever that had been on Friday. A fight? No,
it was more than a fight. It was the end of something.
I chewed my thumbnail while the classroom
emptied.
"Are you going to come down here?" Riley asked
with a grin.
I got up and walked down the rows to where he
stood by his desk.
I wasn't going to talk first. I couldn't think of a
single thing to say. He stared at me piercingly.
"So, Friday was fun," I said. So much for the not
talking first. "I mean, it was nice seeing you."
Riley smiled. "I didn't know about you and Jack."
"Oh," I said.
"You're good for him," he said, cocking his head.
I opened my mouth and then closed it. I cocked my
head and cleared my throat. "I'm not his girlfriend or
anything."
He laughed. "Yeah, he said that. Whatever you are,
though, I think it's good."
I nodded. He told me to go away. I guess even
investigative journalists missed the obvious sometimes.
"Anyways, I'd assigned you Jack's father, Scott
Diamond." He looked at me. "I'd made the decision before
I knew you were...how did you put it? Not Jack's
girlfriend or anything?" He smiled at me.
Jesus. Christ.
I smiled back. "Right."
"Anyways, if you're not comfortable with the
assignment because of that, you can choose someone else.
But I thought you'd do a good job with it." He smiled.
"He'd have liked you. He was idealistic, too." He nodded.
"It's the only time I'd thought to assign him to anyone and
I'd like it if you did it. But I understand if you'd prefer not
to."
"I'll do it," I said quietly. I cocked my head. I had a
feeling Jack would hate it if he knew. But he wouldn't
know. The sad thing was that I didn’t think he’d ever find
out. Because I didn’t think he’d ever talk to me again.
He nodded. "Good. Glad to hear it. You feeling
better?"
So that's what Jack had gone with. Sick. "I feel
great. Thanks."
He nodded. "I hope you don't take this the wrong
way, but you should know Jack's a fighter."
I looked at him.
"It's how he shows he cares about people." He
grinned. "If he's fighting with you, you know."
I wished that we were fighting. But we weren't. He
was ignoring me. And I was letting him. "Thanks, but I'm
really not his girlfriend."
"Like I said, whatever you are to him, it's good."
I nodded once, unwilling to shatter that perception,
because it seemed to make him happy. "Well, ah, thanks."
He laughed. "For a research project and
unsolicited relationship advice for someone you swear
you're not dating? Anytime."
I managed to laugh and told him I had to get to a
meeting. I walked quickly from his classroom to the
newspaper office.
My phone hadn't been quiet. Not exactly.
My mother had texted about dinner plans for
graduation weekend, my father had sent me an email about
a suicide bombing in Syria with the subject line FYI, and
David had sent me a gif of a dancing rabbit.
But Jack hadn't sent me anything.
I put the phone in a drawer so I couldn't think about
it and turned my attention to writing a brief on employment
statistics for recent graduates.
It was dry material and uncomplicated—the report
released by the Alumni Affairs Office came with charts
and detailed analyses. On a normal day, I would've
delegated it to a junior writer, but I wanted something to
do. I sighed when I finished it and forwarded it to Andrew
for copyedits.
I glanced out the window, pulled my phone from
the drawer and tapped out a response to my mother.
Graduation wasn't far off—two months now—just
eight weeks.
That seemed surreal.
The newspaper office was quiet. I peered out my
door. If I wanted to Google Scott Diamond, I could. No
one would know. But I felt brittle and I thought that
reading about it might break me.
I packed up my things and went home.

I started crying in the shower. Something about the hot

water on my skin. The way he had told me to leave. The
way I couldn’t stop remembering. The first sob felt like it
was ripping through me, and when I realized I wasn’t
going to be able to stop them, I just let myself cry. I sat
down on the cold, tile floor and tried to breathe through
the pouring water.
I never expected to feel this rejected.
I scrubbed my hair viciously, like it could stop the
flood of emotion. I was crying because he said he loved
me and that I had to leave and I knew that if the first thing
was true, so was the second one.
I got out of the shower, wrapped myself in one
towel, and put my hair up in another one.
I wandered out into the living room to David, who
was lying flat on the floor listening to some kind of new
age spa music.
“What are you doing?” I demanded.
“Realigning my spine," he said serenely.
I sat down next to him in my towel and looked at
the ceiling. I shifted. “Huh.”
“Sh..." he said. "You're killing my zen."
"How?"
"Bad energy." He snapped open one eye. "Lie
down. If anyone needs their spine realigned, it's you."
"What does that even mean?" I demanded.
"It means shut up and lie down."
So I did.
“How do you know when it’s aligning?”
“When you feel the tension leave your body,”
David said knowingly.
 “What does that feel like?”
David turned his head to me and glared. “Start
with silence. Tension leaving will eventually follow.”
“Sure.”
“Close your eyes. Shut up.”
I breathed and stared at the ceiling and closed my
eyes. My damp shoulder brushed David’s and I waited for
the tension to leave my body.
My breathing slowed. Maybe it was the tension
leaving my body. Maybe it was being hit with a wave of
exhaustion. But something happened.
“There,” he said.
“What are you talking about? My spine is still
misaligned,” I informed him.
“Well, you haven’t been working hard enough at
the silence,” he said. He stood up. “Want some tea?”
I sat up.
“Well, now it’s definitely not going to align,” he
informed me.
I chuckled.
“How you doing, girlfriend?” David asked gently.
“Spectacular. I'm writing a paper on Jack’s father
for the journalism class taught by his godfather who
doesn't believe that I'm not his girlfriend."
"Sounds complicated.” He handed me a warm mug
of tea. Our hands brushed. "Your mom emailed me about
graduation."
 "Oh yeah," I smiled.
"Justin said his parents wanted to come.
Especially since mine aren’t."
"Nice."
"Yeah? You don't think that'll be weird?”
"I mean, my parents are coming. That will be
weird. I'll tell my mom to add them to our reservations. If
you want.”
He nodded. "Mm. Yeah. If she doesn't mind?"
"She won't."
Chapter Thirty-Five
I didn't work up the nerve to Google Scott Diamond until
midnight on Saturday. That's when most people worked up
the nerve to say what they wanted. Midnight. Weekend.
Have a few drinks. Say something stupid. Something that
you mean.
I couldn't look down on that. If I had a little more
nerve, I'd have called Jack and asked him how dare he tell
me to go away just when I had gotten used to having him
around, just as he started being the first person I told
everything to.
I chewed my fingernails looking at the search
results.
Scott Diamond's Son Recites Father's Last Words
I clicked on the link with trembling fingers, biting
my lip. It wasn't Jack, but Alex. The video was a few
years old, taken when Alex was at West Point.
I closed my eyes. I did not hit play. I stared at the
frozen image for a long time.
Finally, I shut the screen of my computer and
pushed it away.
I got up and walked away from it.
I could either research Scott Diamond or I could
tell Riley I couldn't do it. And I had a feeling if I couldn't
handle this, it wouldn't say much for my prospects in
Syria. I knew I'd have to be tougher.
I turned my head, looking back at the computer,
and gnawed on my lip. I walked to it and opened the
screen and began to work.
Scott James Diamond was born in 1961 in
Chicago, IL. He attended the University of Illinois, got a
graduate degree in journalism from NYU, and took a
mailroom job with the Chicago Tribune.
He met Julie Rowland in 1983, married her in
1985. She gave birth to his son, Alexander, in 1986, and
his son Jack in 1992.
He spent three years in Bosnia, and was
hospitalized when shrapnel in his leg became infected.
He was the co-recipient of the Pulitzer Prize with
Robert Riley in 1994.
He spent time in the First Gulf War, co-authored a
book, and was named the Chief of the Moroccan News
Bureau. He returned to the Metropolitan desk at The New
York Times in 1999.
After the terrorist attacks on September 11 th, he
and Riley were asked to cover the war in Afghanistan. He
agreed. In January of 2002, he went to a café to meet with
a source.
Riley had a stomach bug from drinking the water
so Scott Diamond went alone.
He didn't come back. Not that afternoon. Not that
night.
The last time most people saw him would be in the
photographs they released. He looked levelly into a
camera, with serious but unpanicked eyes, holding a
newspaper with the day's date.
The last time a very small handful of people would
see him would be in the VHS tape sent to the Kabul hotel
room where Riley had holed up, refusing to leave.
They slit his throat, cut off his head, and the
camera went black.
I took notes on all of this. That was what they
taught you. The way to make sense of things was to take
detailed notes and to construct a narrative, identifying
causes and effects, the repercussions and the warnings.
They didn't kill Scott Diamond. They slaughtered
him. Like an animal.
I twitched. I took more notes. It made less sense.
The more I learned, the less sense it made. Not
what had happened. I knew what had happened. I
understand the timeline. I recognized the reasons the men
who murdered Jack's father gave for their awful crime.
But I couldn't get to a place in my head where I
could understand it. I couldn’t understand the violence or
the terror or the brutality or the basic tragedy of a kid's
father dying like that. I knew exactly what had occurred
and I also knew it was too horrible to ever fully
understand.
I closed my laptop and my notes and walked away
from them. I could tell you what happened to Scott
Diamond. But it would never be the full story. It would
never be the story of what happened to Jack Diamond’s
dad.
Chapter Thirty-Six
The first nice day came at the end of March. The first real
day of spring. When you knew winter had just about
ended.
It would be cold again—maybe once or twice—
but when the temperature soared to the high sixties, you
knew it would never again be as cold as it had been.
I had barely noticed March until that warm day.
When it became clear that Jack wasn't going to come back
to me, that Jack didn't want to be friends, I buried myself
in work like I used to.
There was something relaxing about it, about
checking every box, mitigating some barely-there anxiety.
I hated the Scott Diamond assignment, selfishly,
but I did it. I did it slowly, writing down the details,
highlighting the key elements in play from the moment of
his abduction to his ultimate death.
I could only take so much at one time.
And I knew that was because of Jack, and I knew
that it was a good thing to learn how to do. To write about
something awful happening to a person who meant more to
you than the average person did.
I never met Scott Diamond but I knew his son.
It was, if nothing else, an exercise in empathy.
I was up early—the first nice day—and I didn't see
anyone walking across campus to the newspaper office. I
liked the quiet in the office, too. Starting a pot of bitterly
strong coffee, I began to think about the positions we
needed to fill next year.
I thought Juliet could be a good Editor-in-Chief.
But she said she didn't know if she wanted the job. She
had smiled and shrugged when I suggested it. "I don't
know, Hadley. It looks like a ton of work."
When I'd gotten a few things into shape, I turned to
my homework. I had started working in my newspaper
office around the time when I started being worried that I'd
run into Jack on campus.
I put on my headphones to listen to Arabic
conversations spoken at a quick clip, while answering a
series of challenging questions about their contextual
meaning. It was the sort of work that took a lot of focus—
so much that you couldn't think of anything but the noise
and what it all meant.
Andrew popped his head and waved, letting me
know he was here. I smiled, waved back, and kept
working.
When I looked up again, it was dark. I pulled off
my headphones and sighed. I flipped my phone over to see
I'd missed four calls while it was on silent.
That was weird.
I unlocked the phone and scrolled to my missed
calls.
Jack.
Jack.
 Jack.
Jack.
The phone, still on silent, lit up with his name
again.
I swallowed. I picked up the phone.
"Come on, come on, pick up," he muttered
frantically.
"Hey," I said. They were having a party. Or
something. It sounded like a thousand people were
chattering behind him.
"Hadley?"
“Jack? What do you want?” I asked quietly. “Is
everything okay?”
“Come to the house.”
“I don't think that's a good idea," I said.
“Come on, Hads,” he begged. “I gotta see you.”
"Hey, have you had dinner—” Andrew trailed off
when he saw I was on the phone.
"Hadley?" Jack said.
"I have to go.”
"Why? Just come here," he said.
“I can't.”
“Please. Come on. I've got to talk to you.”
I wavered. Andrew was watching me. “Jack, I've
got to go.” I hung up and put the phone away.
“Everything okay?” Andrew asked.
"Great."
 "Was that Jack?"
I cast a wary eye at him. I didn't like the idea of
people knowing anything about it. I nodded, though.
"You're better off," Andrew said. He smiled.
"Everyone thought you'd lost your mind. You know?"
I looked at him. "No, I didn't know."
"Come on?" he laughed. "Jack Diamond?" He
smiled. "Number one cause of breakups at Northwestern?"
"I've never heard that," I said. And I hadn't. If Jack
had a history of sleeping around, he'd kept it quiet. And so
had his friends. Though it made sense: handsome and tall
and popular and that goddamn smile.
"You want to order dinner?"
"Sure," I said.
"Chinese?"
I nodded and he left my office.
The phone rang again. I silenced it with a flick of
my finger and bowed my head. I tried to focus on fixing an
awkward split infinitive in the third sentence of Scott
Fleischer’s article on vending machine robberies.
But, of course, all I could see was Jack’s face.
And in the buzzing silence of the room, all I could hear
was the drunken slur to his words. I gotta see you.
When the phone lit up with his name again, I
simply turned it off. I couldn’t do anymore work, but I
waited an appropriate period of time, before I slipped my
stuff into my bag and went to find Andrew.
 "Do you mind if I bail on Chinese?" I asked. "I've
been here all day. Can't focus anymore."
"Yeah." He grinned. "No worries. I'll see you
tomorrow, right?"
"Right."
I turned my phone back on. Ten missed calls, three
new voicemails. It had only been half an hour. I stopped in
the parking lot, staring at my phone, wondering if I should
call him, wondering if I should just go over there and see
him.
When my phone rang again, I answered it.
“Hadley,” he said tightly. “Pick up, god fucking…”
“It’s Hadley.”
“Oh.” I heard him take a sharp breath. “Look, is
there any way, any way at all, that you could come over
here, Hadley?” His voice was ragged with emotion. It
sounded like he was crying.
“Why?” I asked.
“I just... I really want to see you,” he whispered.
His voice broke. “I need…I need you.”
“You’re drunk and you think I’m available,” I told
him. Maybe if I was a bitch, he could just hate me. That
would be easier for both of us. “It’s not fun anymore.
Remember?”
“I don’t want to have fun,” he said fiercely. “I
want to see you.”
I bit my lip. It was impossible to get him back
now. It was impossible to tell him I was fun when he'd
already told me that I hurt him. It was impossible to drive
home and sleep, because he still sounded hurt.
"Okay," I said. "Okay, I'll come."
He exhaled. "Thank you."
I hung up the phone and drove to the house.
There was loud music playing downstairs and red
plastic cups lining the railing of the porch.
It was the prettiest girls and the coolest boys. The
closer I got, the more inadequate I felt. In my jeans and
Hanes t-shirt, with my backpack firmly on my shoulders, I
stepped through the open door, looking around for him.
Maybe upstairs.
I didn't want to venture into the kitchen, or through
the throng of people spilling out of the living room and
into a narrow hallway. So I hoped he'd be in his room.
I walked up the stairs, squeezing past a pin-thin
Asian girl with a flower behind one ear and a redheaded
sophomore boy making out aggressively by the bannister.
Jack sat against the wall in his room, watching the
news on mute.
Handsome Jack, with an open bottle of whiskey,
and a self-loathing smile on his face.
“Hi,” he whispered like a little kid, when I opened
the door and stood there.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. I closed the door. He
didn’t say anything. The bass beat of the speakers
shuddered through the room. The painfully neat room, with
so many books in it. And with Jack sitting against a wall,
drunk, glassy-eyed, impossibly sad.
He laughed. "I'd blame it on you if I could." He
shook his head. “I’m all fucked up again.”
“You're not fucked up."
“Are we still friends?” he asked.
I swallowed. "I don't know. Would you like to
be?"
Jack shrugged. "I don't know. I thought I'd be over
it by now. But I'm not."
"Over what? Me?"
He laughed. "Yeah, you." He lifted the bottle to his
lip. "I miss you. It's weird."
"It's not weird," I said. "I miss you, too."
He smiled. "Stupid, right? We go to the same
school and you live down the road." He leaned back. "I'm
sorry I told you I loved you. I shouldn't have said
anything."
I looked at him. "I'm sorry I can't be who you
want." I exhaled.
"You're exactly who I want."
"Well, what you want then," I said. "I can't be the
girl who follows you. I can’t not go to Syria. And you can't
just be whatever it was that you were to me." I bit my lip.
He closed his eyes and slumped further down.
"Maybe I could be.”
 I walked over to him and sat down next to him
against the wall. I tried to think of something comforting to
say. "David says my spine is misaligned."
He laughed.
"He says that's the root of all of my problems."
"Don't be nice to me," Jack said softly.
I was quiet. "You said you wanted to talk."
"I lied. I wanted to see you," he said. He exhaled.
"I don't want you to be nice to me."
"Well, I'm not going to be mean to you. Especially
not when you're looking like that."
He gave me a look.
"Being mean to you right now would be like
kicking a puppy."
"Because I'm adorable," he said.
"Because you're drunk and sad."
He rolled his eyes. "That's just my personality."
"Drunk and sad?"
He laughed and I did, too, and it was funny and
horribly painful and deeply aching all at once. Like the
laughter echoed and because of that you knew you were
hollow.
He reached for my waist and kissed me. No matter
how drunk he was, no matter how sober and stupid I was,
he could still kiss me like it was what he was born to do.
I was left breathless and senseless, and
whispering: “We cannot do this. Jack, we cannot, cannot
do this.”
“I can’t stop thinking about you.”
“I’m still going to Syria. I can’t give that up. I just
can’t.”
“Will you tell me something?”
“Yeah."
"What was with the rules? Seriously?" he asked.
I shrugged. "I don't know. My way of not turning
into my mother." I bit my lip. "She just never got it
together after my dad left. She kept looking to fall in love
with someone. And she was always at their whims, you
know? I don't want that. And maybe the rules were
overkill. But, the one that I absolutely can't break is the
one that you want me to, right? I mean, I'm going to Syria
in May. You can't deal with that. But I can't not go."
He was quiet.
It wasn't fair for me to have this conversation with
him when he was drunk. But I asked. I wanted to know. "I
mean, if we tried again and if we gave up all the other
rules and I still went to Syria. Do you think that could ever
work?"
He bit his lip. He shook his head. "No."
I closed my eyes. Well, at least I knew now.
I bit my lip.
The rejection still stung.
"It's not that dangerous. The chances of me
dying..."
 "It's not rational," he said. "I still wake up in the
middle of the night panicking about my dad." He looked at
me. "And he's been dead for a decade. Nothing worse can
happen to him. Nothing. And I still can't sleep sometimes
thinking he's somehow still suffering." He cleared his
throat. "And Alex is in Afghanistan and..." He took a
breath. "No, I can't. And I can't ask you to give it up. I
know you'd say no if I did. But I wouldn't want you to say
yes."
He took a long sip from his bottle. He met my eyes.
He closed them.
"This sucks," he said. He was wasted.
"Yeah," I agreed. He dropped his head to my
shoulder, and I felt him nod off to sleep. I shook him
gently, helped him get to his feet, and stumble into his bed.
I moved the whiskey bottle to the other side of the
room and filled a glass of water and put it next to his bed.
I looked down at him, breathing quietly, his thick-
lashed eyes closed. I smoothed his hair back off of his
forehead. I pressed a light kissed to the top of his head,
turned off the lights, and walked away.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
I didn't see Jack again until May.
He texted me occasionally late at night when I was
sure he had been drinking and I ignored him until they
stopped. And I fought the urge to text him during the day,
when I was sober and clear-headed.
I spent time with David and Justin. They were
good together. They worked. They made sense.
When I saw Jack in May, he was at the library. He
was leaned over a book, his fingers curled around a
Starbucks cup. He whispered to a girl with golden hair
and smiled occasionally.
So, someone else had gotten him to the library.
I decided not to say hi, not wanting to worry if he'd
told her about me or if maybe she was just a girl from an
English class or if maybe she wasn't anybody at all.
Maybe they'd just met.
I got away without him seeing me. I couldn't
decide whether or not that was a victory though, by the
time he was out of view.

"...and now she's sending emails at 5 AM about Oxford

commas. I mean, she's got to get a grip..."
I closed the door to our apartment and dropped my
bag on the floor. "Who’s talking about Oxford commas?"
Justin fell silent.
"She does look kind of cracked out,” David
commented.
I glared at him ferociously.
David looked right back at me. "Justin thinks you
might be spiraling."
"Spiraling?"
"Into despair," he added.
"I didn't say that," Justin said quickly.
"Is this about the email?"
"It's like five pages long. Single-spaced. About
grammar,” David said.
“You read it?” I asked. “That was only for the
newspaper staff.”
"Justin forwarded it to me."
"Okay. You're totally unreliable," Justin said,
looking at David. “I told you not to bring up the email.”
"I just don't understand why everyone is confused
about Oxford commas," I took a sip of my Red Bull.
"They're sloppy and it's May and people should know
these things by now. The Northwestern Daily News does
not use Oxford Commas. Is that really that complicated?
No. It’s not complicated at all.”
"You shouldn't be sending emails at five in the
morning. Especially not about commas. It's disturbed,"
David said.
"I didn't say you were spiraling," Justin added.
"Just to be clear."
"Well, I think you're spiraling,” David chimed in.
 "And disturbed," I said. "Got it."
"We're going to the bar to have a beer and
celebrate basically being done with college."
"You and Justin?"
"No, Justin is a freshman. His GPA still matters.
He has things to learn. You and me. It's pub crawl."
“I have things to do."
"Like what?" David asked. “Writing an email
about apostrophes?”
"Just things."
"You've got nothing to do. C'mon. I won't make you
brush your hair," he said. "Andrew will be there."
"So?"
"These are people you've gone to school with for
four years. We don’t have that much time left to spend
with them, Hadley."
“Fine,” I said.
I went to my room and slipped into a sundress,
cowboy boots, and a soft blue cardigan. I sat with David
and had a glass of wine. It was nice, I realized. It was nice
to relax.
I hadn't had a drink in a long time. I sipped slowly
and the wine made me sleepy more than anything. I was
yawning while we walked to the bar.
"I would rather take a nap," I said, looking at the
line.
He grabbed my wrist. "One beer. Then we go. You
go. Whatever."
We were both too sober for the place. People
seemed pretty emotional actually. We only had a few
weeks left, and the bittersweet realization we were
nearing the end had infiltrated the bar.
I had known I'd see Jack when we'd walked over.
I missed him. I'd missed him badly at first, but now
it was more like a dull ache. Bearable. Completely
bearable. Yet, I wanted it to go away and worried it never
would.
When I saw him, the ache was sharper. But it also
felt good. It felt like standing on the doorstep of my
grandmother's house when I was a kid.
He was with the same girl. The one I’d seen in the
library.
I bit my lip, watching him. His hair was a bit
longer, he had a few day's stubble, and he'd rolled up the
sleeves of a flannel shirt that I hadn't seen before.
He caught me looking. Smiled. Looked back at her.
Jesus. That was the worst.
I looked over my shoulder at them twice. He was
introducing her to people. Some of them she knew. She
shoved Nate's shoulder like they were old friends,
laughing.
"Go say hi."
"No way."
"Well, then stop staring," David ordered. "You
want a beer?"
I shook my head. "Ginger ale."
"That's so boring."
I smiled. "I don't want to get drunk and go over
there and say something stupid."
David looked over. "She looks like she's twelve."
"She does not," I said.
"She does. He ordered a child bride from Russia
online."
I laughed.
"You did the right thing in getting out when you
did. You would've ended up like one of those clueless
women married to the total psychopath on SVU with the
child bride in the basement."
"Groovy."
"I'll have a Corona," David said to Xander, when
we reached the bar.
Xander looked at me for a long minute. He looked
at me like I really pissed him off.
"What about you, Hadley?" he asked. He sounded
overly polite. Cold, if I was being honest.
"Ginger ale would be great, thanks." I smiled as
warmly as I could. "How are you?"
"Fine,” he said shortly.
Xander filled a cup with ice and ginger ale. He
looked at me with frozen eyes and pushed the glass across
the bar. He handed David a beer.
 "On the house," he said icily.
"What's with him?" David asked as we watched
him walk away.
I shrugged, sipping my ginger ale. "I think I wanted
vodka."
"Now, you're being sensible."
"Let's guess the name of the child bride," I said.
"Tatiana."
"Svetlana," I countered.
"Anastasia."
"Too 19th century."
He chuckled. "Let's not think about Jack or Jack's
child bride."
"Fine," I said. I looked around. "Should we nap?"
David disagreed with and disapproved of my
suggestion. He snorted and dragged me over to the seniors
in the GSA he had rekindled his friendships with.
People were getting drunk, David included. Jack
definitely included. I kept looking over to see if he was
still around. He was never looking at me when I checked.
"I'm going to go," I said, suddenly sick of it.
"You sure?" David asked with concern.
I nodded. "I'm tired."
"Thank you for coming," he said. "I know you
didn't want to."
"Hey, it was fun. I’m glad I came," I hugged him.
"See you at home?"
 He nodded. "Yeah."
I left alone, shouldering out the door into the warm
evening.
I felt alone, I realized. Which was strange. I'd just
been in a crowded room of people, but I felt disengaged
from it, detached completely, profoundly unlinked to the
people with whom I had so much in common.
I had felt like this all the time before I started
seeing Jack. It hadn’t bothered me then. But now that I had
been in crowded rooms with him and known what it was
like to feel like the person next to you was, in some unique
way, the exact same thing that you were, I missed it. And I
hated feeling so detached. I wondered if I would always
hate it now, or just when I saw Jack.
I looked back at the door, wondering if I should
give it one last shot. But I shook my head. I'd be graduating
in two weeks. I’d gotten a lot out of college, I told myself.
I didn’t need to ask for anything more. I had a degree, a
friend named David who I would do anything for, and the
job I had always wanted.
All good things.
But I felt like I'd missed out on some essential part
of being young. I felt older than my classmates. I knew that
was my fault.
I turned back towards the road.
I heard a familiar laugh and I turned to see Jack,
and the pretty new girl, and it took a moment for him to see
me.
He stopped laughing. I started walking.
"Hey!" he called. I didn't turn around. I didn't want
to meet the girl or talk to the boy or do any of the post-not-
breaking up stuff.
I heard his footsteps as he ran after me.
"Hold up."
"I'm going home."
He looked at me. He looked like he was going to
say something.
"Jack!" she called.
His face fell while he was looking at me. "You
look good."
I smiled. "Thanks. I'll see you around."
"Let us drop you off."
"That's okay. Really." I nodded. "It's a five minute
walk. I'll be back before the cab's here."
He looked resigned to that. "Shit, Hadley."
"Jack! What's the address of this place?" she
called.
Jack closed his eyes briefly. "Hadley."
"Jack, it's around the corner," I laughed. I pushed
his shoulder playfully, but he locked his feet in place so I
just ended up with my hand resting on his shoulder. I
dropped it to my side.
He looked deadly serious. I was the one who
should've been annoyed and jealous, and I was, but it
wasn't fair. Of course he was with another girl. Of course
she was pretty. Of course I was alone.
"I'll see you around," I said.
He didn't follow me and he didn't say anything but
when I reached the corner, I snuck a glance over my
shoulder at him. He was still watching.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
It was the feeling of detachment that prompted me to forgo
the last weekend of festivities before graduation to
apartment hunt with my father in New York.
My mother and Solomon had both called to offer
me Solomon's Greenwich Village apartment, but I didn't
want that. I wanted a place of my own, where I paid the
rent, and wouldn't be suddenly evicted when my mother's
marriage fell apart.
My dad needed to be in New York that weekend
and said he'd look with me. I knew he'd be more practical
about what I needed and what I'd be able to afford.
"I still think this is a bad idea," my dad said when I
met him at the hotel for lunch.
I rolled my eyes.
"Your boyfriend agreed with me," he pointed out.
"He's not my boyfriend."
"You broke up?”
"We were never dating."
He sipped his water. "Your generation has some
messed up ideas about normal relationships. You know
that?"
I inhaled sharply.
"That boy likes you," he said.
"Dad."
"And you like that boy."
"Dad."
 "Screwy ideas," he said.
"Shut up."
He smiled, extracting a piece of bread from the
basket before him. "You want to see what New York
looks like on a journalist's salary?"
I raised my eyebrows.
He ripped the bread in half and took a bite. "It
might be scarier than Syria."
It wasn't scary. But it sure was small and
overpriced.
My father didn't gloat though. He let me ask the
broker most questions—rent, security deposit, transport—
and he chimed in with things I wouldn’t have thought of—
whether the building was responsible for fixing
appliances, if the security deposit was fully refundable, if
there was someone I could call if I ever lost my keys.
My dad told me he thought I had a suicide gene
when I told him I liked the place on 116th Street best.
"Why?" I asked.
He smiled. "This is Spanish Harlem. It has the
highest crime rate in New York.”
"Well, it has high ceilings," I said. And it was
clean and the neighborhood wasn't nearly as bad as my
father made it out to be. I liked the idea of having a little
bit more space up here instead of a closet and a bathroom
further downtown.
My dad cosigned the lease grudgingly and we went
to dinner; tired but infinitely relieved that we wouldn’t
have to spend the next day tramping around walk-ups.
We ate at a famous restaurant in Harlem that my
dad somehow knew somebody at. He was the opposite of
me in that way—I didn't know people in places where I
should. He knew people everywhere, even in places
where he shouldn't.
My dad started in on Jack again after we ordered
wine.
"You met him for five minutes. He stormed out of
dinner," I said.
"The only people worth keeping around are the
ones who drive you crazy." He nodded. "If I figured that
out when I was twenty-five, I'd probably have never left
your mother."
"You slept with a secretary."
He shrugged. "It was complicated. So, why'd you
dump him?"
"How do you know he's not the one who dumped
me?"
"I saw how he looked at you.”
"Well, you must have been hallucinating because
he ended things,” I said.
My dad studied me for a second and nodded, like
he wasn’t sure he believe me. "Your mother is in a state
about you going to Syria."
I exhaled. "It's not like I enlisted."
 "No," he said. "I don't think you'd much like
thinking about David going over there though." He paused.
"Or Jack."
"That's over."
He cleared his throat, annoyed. "Listen, Hadley.
All I'm asking is that you acknowledge our concern. You
think you're doing something selfless and noble, and you
are, but it's selfish to refuse to see how it affects the
people who care about you."
I bristled. "Oh, you think I'm being selfish?" I
demanded. "Well, about time, don't you think? You know
how many times we moved? You know how many
different stepsisters and stepbrothers I grew up with that I
don't talk to anymore? That mom told me were family
members before she changed her mind?"
The restaurant wasn't noisy enough to drown out
my voice. The diners at the table next to us glanced over at
me, seemingly perplexed.
I lowered my voice, embarrassed. "I know it's
selfish. Okay? It's for my career. But, I'm twenty-two. And
you were never there. That was selfish. And instead of just
getting on with things, Mom went looking for love. Over
and over and over, no matter who we had to leave or
where we had to go. That was selfish."
“Alright.” He held up his hands in surrender. "Fair
enough."
"I know it affects you and I know I pretend not to
see it," I continued. "I feel like that's probably what you
did when you came to visit, right? You pretended not to
see how freaked out I was?" He didn't meet my eyes,
looking down at a menu. I shrugged. "It might be different
if you had ever given me the courtesy of acknowledging
how things affected me.”
He rested his chin on his hand and cleared his
throat. "I thought you'd be better off with your mother.”
"I'm sure you convinced yourself," I said. "But
you're a smart guy. You don't get to run a company without
noticing a few things. You knew I wouldn't be. You just
wished I would."
He leaned back and looked me in the eye. "I
worked. Your mother didn't. I thought you'd be neglected if
you lived with me. You would've been. I was working
sixteen-hour days six days a week. I would’ve had to hire
someone to raise you." He met my eyes. "I'm not saying it
was perfect—life with your mother. I know it wasn’t. I
know that. But I did believe it was better. I didn't talk
myself into thinking that. Maybe I was wrong, but I wasn't
deceiving myself. The thing you learn when you grow up
is how to make do with the choices you have.”
I hadn't expected an apology, but I didn't want an
explanation either. "The point, Dad, is that you chose your
career. And Mom chose romance. And neither of you
chose me. So, the fact that I’m choosing my career is
something you should respect.”
 "It is, Hadley."
I nodded. “Well, good.”
He was quieter at dinner then. He told me about
the tech company in Europe they'd been looking into, about
how much savvier the young associates at work were, and
about how he couldn't believe I was graduating from
college.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Dale shook my hand gruffly, while he was on the phone.
"Well, whatever the fuck happens, we're not going to get
scooped by Larry Dawes."
I smiled and caught the eye of a much-younger
reporter grinning in the corner. I couldn’t believe I was
here—at the New York Times as a new hire.
Dale waved at the younger reporter to get his
attention and made an indecipherable series of hand
gestures.
The younger reporter grinned. He nodded. He was
tall and lanky with dark hair and square-framed glasses.
"Hadley, I'm Kip Styles."
"Nice to meet you."
"You'll have to forgive Dale. He woke up in a
good mood and he's been trying very hard not to show it."
"I heard that," Dale growled.
Kip laughed. "Come on. Let's get you set up."
I followed him to an elevator bank and up to the
eighteenth floor. "You’ll be overseas mostly, right?"
I nodded. “Yeah.”
"So, you'll have a neat desk." He smiled. "You're
young to be doing this."
"What?"
"Going to a conflict zone." He smiled. "You speak
Arabic or something?"
I nodded again. “Um, yeah. I do.”
 "I thought so." He logged me into a computer and
set up my email account. “They usually don't take anyone
out of college without good reason. Arabic is a good
reason."
I nodded.
"What do you do?"
"Metro," he said. "And I cover sports a little.
Baseball and hockey.”
“Cool.”
He nodded. “It’s fun. Not nearly as prestigious as
international news, of course, but they also never send me
further than Yankee Stadium.”
I smiled.
“Dale said he’d come up to brief you and then
you'll probably be free to go after that.” He grinned.
"Don't let him freak you out."
I nodded. "Yeah. Sure. I won't."
Kip left me for coffee and I looked around the
newsroom in awe. I couldn't believe I was actually, really
here.
"Hey." Dale said, pocketing his Blackberry and
coming back towards me. "Let's chat."
I nodded and followed him into his office. He
closed the door. "You're done with classes?"
I nodded.
"When's graduation?"
"Saturday."
 "Congratulations. So, Syria. What do you know?"
I looked at him warily. "Where should I start?"
"With the basics."
"It's bordered by Lebanon, Turkey, Iraq, and
Jordan."
He nodded.
"Official language is Arabic. The ruling party is
the Ba'ath Party. They’ve been in power since 1963. The
current conflict started in 2011, with the rest of the Arab
Spring uprisings. Protests began relatively peacefully.
However, the government tried to crush the
demonstrations using military force. The protests
developed into a violent uprising against the ruling party.
In the past few months, it’s become a full-scale Civil War.
Bashar al-Assad, the current President, has refused to
resign under international pressure.” I took a breath. “The
conflict’s been going on for two years now. And it’s been
complicated by religion and by the involvement of other
countries. Assad is an Alawite, which means he's part of a
minority branch of Islam, as opposed to the Sunni branch."
I took a breath. "Large parts of the conflict can be found in
the religious differences, as well as political ones."
He nodded. "Good. Current death toll?"
I lifted my shoulders. "I don't know. I haven't seen
a specific number."
"As of now, it's safe to say 40 to 50,000."
I bit my lip. Christ.
 "Meaning it could be many, many more. And
millions of people have been displaced," Dale handed me
a folder. "Here's our timeline of major events. It's helpful,
but it's not the most important thing you should know. What
you should know is that where we are sending you is
extremely unstable. It's safe enough. We feel comfortable
with the risk, but it is ultimately unstable. No matter how
many facts you memorize, a clear head will be your most
important asset."
I nodded.
"So, let's run through this."
We ran through the grim facts. He talked. I listened
and made notes. When we finished the most recent
updates, he cleared his throat.
"Right. You're fluent in Arabic. You won't be
doing that much reporting at first. You'll contribute, but
Erin and Kevin will do most of the writing. Chip does
photos. The four of you will be a team." He nodded.
"Think of yourself as a highly valuable assistant." He
smiled. "The young man over there now is leaving us for
law school. He burnt out quickly—six months—but a lot
of people don’t even last that long.”
I nodded.
"So, rest up. You know? Let your friends have
your fun. Tell them you need to sleep," he said. "As a
precaution, we have hostage training sessions for anyone
going over there. How much longer are you in town for?"
 "Friday."
"We can schedule it for Thursday. I think it's better
to do this a few weeks before, so you're not panicked
when you go."
I nodded. "Yeah, sure."
Chapter Forty
I wanted to say the training had been reassuring. But it
hadn't. I ended up with a notebook of things not to do and a
foreboding sense that the training was a desperate attempt
to assure workers they had some modicum of control.
Dale had told me to delete my personal Facebook
and Twitter accounts and to open new ones just for work.
"Everyone uses social media now." He explained.
"Even Syrians in the middle of a civil war."
Deleting my Facebook seemed like especially
good advice when I logged in and saw a picture of Jack
with some delicate-looking Asian girl named Grace on my
newsfeed. It could have just been a friendly photo. Jack
was wearing his fraternity’s senior week t-shirt and Grace
was wearing one from her sorority. But they were both
beaming at the camera. And for some reason I hated that.
Delete. Gladly.
During hostage training, I had thought of Jack only
sparingly, which surprised me. I'd thought more of his
father, who I felt I had actually come to know by reporting
on him for Riley’s class. I'd found video clips of him
online. Alex resembled their father much more closely
than Jack, but there was one short clip I found of Scott
Diamond interviewing a man outside of the New York
Stock Exchange. It was a boring interview about exchange
rates. But it was just like watching Jack. They had all the
same mannerisms.
 I wondered if Scott Diamond had known to not
beg. Begging, they told us, made you easier to kill.
Personal details, however, were helpful. The things your
father said when you went fishing, the cake your mother
cooked for your twelfth birthday, the bedtime story your
sister told her kids. Those things humanized you. Those
things, they told us, could save your life.
I wondered if they taught Scott Diamond to be
compliant and calm. I wondered if he tried to tell the men
who killed him about Jack and Alex and Julie. I wondered
if any of it mattered at all.
Chapter Forty-One
My mother came to town in a blue dress and with
Solomon, intent on not speaking to my father, in keeping
with tradition.
My parents turned out to be easier to ignore than
they'd been before. David chattered at my mother and
plied her with champagne until she remembered the only
thing she loved more than not speaking to my father was
being the center of attention.
Justin's parents came, too. They were lovely.
My mother rolled her eyes when Justin's mother
explained she worked as a neurosurgeon. I understood for
the first time in my life that my mother looked down on
women who worked so that she would not have to look
down on herself. When Justin’s mother asked what she did
for a living, she spoke haughtily: "I'm a mother," she said,
turning her attention towards Sol.
My father's eyebrows took off towards his
hairline.

My parents, Solomon, and Justin’s parents left us after

dinner so we could be wild for one last night. We found
Andrew and Nigel and Juliet and we drank underneath a
big white tent, laughing with each other, telling each other
we couldn’t believe it was over, wondering what we’d
missed, wondering when we would see each other again.
I laughed a lot. We were far enough away from the
music that I could talk to Andrew who was moving to D.C.
to work for the weather bureau and to Juliet, who had been
named the next Editor-in-Chief, without yelling. Juliet and
Justin commiserated about how much they would miss us
next year. We all promised to come back and see them.
I saw Jack from afar, or at least I thought I did. I
saw plaid and dark hair and that familiar walk.
I sipped my beer and bit my lip. I wanted to talk to
him. I pulled my hair into a ponytail, finished my drink for
courage, and followed him.
I found him with Xander and thankfully without a
girl. Xander saw me first and nudged Jack with his
shoulder.
Jack turned. He hadn’t shaved in a few days. He
looked scruffy. It was a good look on him.
“Hey, there,” he said.
Xander got to his feet, nodded at me—“Hey,
Hadley”—and turned towards a crowd of boys in their
fraternity so that Jack and I were alone.
Jack stood up to his full height and looked at me.
He smiled. “So, Hadley Arrington.”
“So, Jack Diamond.” I wavered, thinking about
what my dad had said about selfishness. I’d been selfish.
And Jack had been selfish. We chose ourselves instead of
the other person.
“You’re something else, you know that?”
“You’re not so bad yourself,” I said.
 He nodded. He sipped his beer. “You leave
tomorrow?”
“After the ceremony, yep.”
He smiled.
“What about you? Where you headed?”
“New York,” he nodded. “My mom’s house in the
suburbs, though. Not the city. I need to figure some things
out.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Well, that’s good.”
He nodded. “It’ll be nice. A lot of people will be
nearby.”
I snuck a look across the tent. The metal poles
were wrapped in Christmas lights, the van Morrison song
playing sounded a little sadder than it usually did, and
Jack looked damn good.
“Thank you,” Jack said, with a smile.
I flushed. “What?”
“You said I looked damn good. Thank you.”
I closed my eyes. “Jesus. I’m sorry.” I could feel
my face flaming.
He laughed. “It’s fine. You always look damn
good.” He licked his lips and stared at me nakedly.
“So, maybe we’ll see each other,” I ventured. I
tried to think of him in New York—the both of us growing
up a little bit—and then maybe in a few years….
“God, I really hope not, Hadley,” he said.
Right. I swallowed. “Yeah. Sorry. Sorry, I just…
the music and ceremony and all that…it’s making me
sentimental. Congratulations, though. On graduating.”
He smiled sadly and I smiled sadly back. “You
too.”
“I’ll…well, maybe I’ll see you at the ceremony,” I
said, with a shaky smile.
He laughed bitterly.
“I’ll go though. Sorry.”
I turned. He reached for my wrist and pulled me
close to him. He ran his thumb over the veins on my wrist
near the base of my palm. His hands were warm and
gentle, calloused. They felt so good. I exhaled heavily. It
felt like so long since I’d been touched.
“Hadley Arrington,” he murmured.
I swallowed. He looked me in the eyes, pulled me
close, and kissed me gently—his lips like a flutter of
butterfly wings against mine. “Goddamn, I miss you.” He
said.
“I—I wish…” I didn’t know what to say. “Me
too.”
He raked his fingers through my hair, loosening the
ponytail, cupping my chin in his hands. “Hey, be safe,
okay?”
“Yeah. I will.”
He nodded at me, our eyes were locked, and I
thought briefly that maybe we could salvage it. Maybe we
could fix it. Maybe we could be whole.
“Goodbye, Hadley.”
Chapter Forty-Two
I cried over Jack Diamond when I got home. Instead of
crying at graduation, I cried over Jack.
He was right to say goodbye then.
I searched for his face, briefly, when we threw our
caps into the air, when we turned out to meet our families,
when people were crying from joy and sadness and
possibly from colossal hangovers. I couldn’t find him.
I clung to David, who couldn’t stop laughing.
“We’re done, done, done, done,” he chanted.
But later David clung to Justin, and they reaffirmed
that they’d be able to make a long-distance relationship
work, and my mother and Solomon went to the airport and
my father came back over to help me with the last of my
belongings.
David’s flight to San Francisco was the following
day.
My dad waited in the hallway while I hugged
David tightly and he started crying again.
“No, no, no,” I said. “We’ve got to be happy.
We’ll see each other. We will.”
“It won’t be the same.”
I kissed him on the cheek. “You’ll always be my
best friend.”
I gave him the cappuccino machine and tried not to
burst into tears when he said: “Four years and it’s finally
all mine!”
 We drove to the airport. We had separate flights—
my dad’s to Beijing and mine to New York and he hugged
me at the gate. In a few days, I’d be in Syria and he’d
move onto Tokyo before looping back to London.
“I’m proud of you, kid,” he said gruffly, pushing a
wrapped box into my hand, and disappearing towards the
international terminal.
I opened it waiting for my flight, thinking it would
be a delicate piece of jewelry selected by his assistant.
But it was a satellite phone. The perfect present.
I took a breath and exhaled. I told myself I’d be
okay.
Chapter Forty-Three
“They’re sending us fucking babies now,” Kevin Dell said
at baggage claim at the airport in Damascus.
Judging from the airport, you wouldn’t know the
country was at war. It was clean, and while there were
armed soldiers, it didn’t seem much different from JFK.
I knew it was Kevin Dell because I’d spent the last
week memorizing the résumés of the three journalists I’d
be working with. Kevin Dell was the most senior. 42,
grizzled, Pulitzer Prize-winner, a leg full of shrapnel, a
bad divorce in 2003, and more accolades than you could
count.
“Fucking babies,” Dell repeated.
He was speaking to Chip Clark, the handsome
Pulitzer Prize-winning photographer with a million dollar
smile. “You Hadley?” Chip asked.
“Yeah.”
Kevin Dell extended a hand. I shook it.
“I’m Dell. This is Chip Clark,” Dell said,
knocking Chip in the stomach. Chip was thirty, somewhat
of a prodigy. I’d seen his photographs before. They tended
to be heart-stopping.
We were just missing Erin, an experienced
broadcast journalist who had grown up in Australia and
broken several major stories about international
corruption.
“Let me grab your bag,” Chip offered.
 “No, carry your own bag,” Dell said. He looked at
Chip. “It’s not the fucking Ritz Carlton. Let’s not give her
any ideas.”
Chip smiled at that, and we walked through a
series of metal detectors out into the bright, shining
morning.
I saw her sitting in the passenger’s side of the
Jeep; Erin Phipps, in olive green pants, with a headscarf
falling back from her blond hair onto her fine shoulders.
She had a cigarette clenched between her teeth. She
looked sort of like a movie star.
I tossed my bag into the back of the jeep as Dell
jumped into the front.
“Christ, how old are you?” Erin asked in a raspy
voice. She sounded kind of like a movie star too.
“I told you. She’s a baby,” Dell said.
“I’m twenty-two.”
Erin nodded and exhaled a thin stream of smoke
through her teeth. “Welcome to hell, kid.”
Chip climbed into the back with me. “It’s not that
bad.”
“Don’t sugarcoat things,” Dell said. “We’re
staying in Damascus, which is safe. We go out into the
rebel-controlled cities every few days. Things have gotten
a bit hairy the last few weeks. You don’t want to be caught
outside of Damascus after dark.”
I nodded. “Right.”
 Chip looked out at the highway. We could’ve been
anywhere. There were billboards, cars, no signs of unrest.
I shifted uneasily.
“Weird, huh?” Chip said, looking at me.
“Sorry?”
“It’s weird—how calm it seems,” he explained.
“And like twenty miles away everything’s gone to hell.”
I nodded. “Yeah. It is.”

They didn’t give me much time to settle in before we went

out to talk to a rebel commander. I left my stuff at the
hotel, grabbed a tape recorder, a bottle of water, and a
notebook and followed them back out for the day’s
assignment.
We drove out to Daraa. A military stronghold that
was vulnerable to rebel takeover.
It was an hour’s drive to Daraa. The world
changed in an hour.
You could hear firefights once you started heading
south towards the strongholds.
Erin and Dell were joking about the bombastic
general we were going to interview and Chip occasionally
snapped photos.
“Take one of Hadley,” Dell suggested, watching in
the rearview mirror. “Before and after she’s seen this
fucking mess.”
He grinned and snapped a photo. I was sure I
looked uneasy.
“We’re coming up to a checkpoint,” Dell told me.
“Time to shine.”
I was grateful to have something to do.
“Put on a headscarf,” Chip said seriously.
I pulled one on awkwardly. Chip snorted and
adjusted it quickly. His touch was utilitarian, like I was a
camera, something that he was handling for work.
Erin yawned. “Misogynist bullshit, Arrington. Get
used to it.”
Dell rolled down his window.
“Salaam,” he said.
The Syrian guard barked quickly for ID and I
handed him our passports and press credentials, speaking
as deferentially as I could.
The guard gave me a hard look but waved us
through. I settled back against the seat, feeling relieved.
We drove to the rebel commander’s offices. We
were ushered in wordlessly. Dell had interviewed him
before. I was the only one who was new.
The commander spoke in English. “She’s new.”
He nodded at me. “What happened to the boy?”
“Law school,” Dell said, glaring at me so I knew
not to talk.
He studied at me suspiciously, but said nothing
else. I turned on my tape recorder and waited for him to
lapse into Arabic. He didn’t.
 Chip fiddled with his phone. Having been told not
to take pictures, he had nothing to do with his hands.
“What’s up?” Dell asked, turning to him.
“Bathroom?” Chip said. He waved his phone at
Dell and Dell nodded.
He was escorted from the room, and a few
seconds, having asked nothing more than softball
questions, Erin thanked the commander for taking the time
to meet with us and we started to go.
I didn’t understand what was going on until Chip
was in the car. “What’s going down?” Dell demanded.
“Two suicide bombers attacked a rebel
stronghold.”
“What?”
“Unconfirmed.”
“Where?” Dell asked.
“Northwest corner of the city.”
“Anyone taking responsibility?” Erin demanded,
tapping out a text or email on her Blackberry.
“No, no, not that I can see. People are saying ISIS
or the military.”
“It can’t be the military.”
“Unconfirmed, unconfirmed,” Chip shouted as we
sped off.
We reached a smoking pile of rubble a short while
later. I shivered while I heard the gunfire. I’d never heard
it so close. A screaming child ran past a crumbling wall in
the direction we had driven from.
“Focus,” Chip said quietly to me. “Seriously,
heads up now.”
I nodded, trying to worry where someone that
small would have to go for help in a place like this.
Dell gestured to a distraught man who was
motioning wildly at the destruction.
I closed my mind and just began to translate for
them.
Chapter Forty-Four
After the first day, I didn’t think anything could shock me.
It all blended together. We worked in groups of two or
four, depending on what needed to be done. Increasingly,
Chip and I were on our own.
Chip had no Arabic, but Erin and Dell had enough
to get by together. It made sense, even if it left us without a
more senior reporter.
I filed my first story on the second day. It would be
buried in the international section when it was printed, a
brief write-up on medical shortages in rebel-controlled
regions.
On my third day, I just started sending briefs to the
New York office, un-copyedited, unspectacular. Just
information. They were folded into larger stories by
practiced reporters based in New York and London.
I couldn’t remember when my first week ended
and the second one began. I certainly did not know what
day of the week it was most of the time.
So, I don’t know when we saw the girl die.
Chip was swearing as darkness fell. Our Jeep was
nowhere to be found. We had both begun to fear it had
been stolen. We were in the outskirts of a dangerous part
of the city, the sky was fading to gray, and the gunfire
sounded close, maybe just a few blocks away.
We’d gone to chase down another story of carnage,
and we’d found carnage, but too much gunfire for Chip to
safely photograph it, so we turned back for the Jeep.
And it had fucking vanished.
“Didn’t we park it here?” I demanded.
“I don’t know!” he screamed. He breathed.
“Sorry.” He ran a hand through his hair. “We’ve got to
move, though. We can’t just stand here.”
“Where?”
“Just walk. I’ll call Dell.”
He dialed and we walked north, past broken
windows and crumbled houses, the loud roar of the world
in our ears.
“Dell, it’s Chip. Our car was stolen and we’re
walking north along the city border…yeah, I fucking
know.” He sighed. “We’re not far. Alright, we’ll try to get
there.”
“We’ve got to move,” he said, breaking into a jog.
“What did he say?”
“To move,” Chip snapped. I heard the urgency in
his voice and I started to run with him. “We’re meeting
him at the edge of the ruins by the mosque, alright?” He
shook his head. “The whole city has gone to fucking hell.”
He pulled me left down a familiar street. “Listen, if we get
split up or if I get hurt, just run to the ruins and get Dell.”
“Did he say to do that?” I asked, thinking it
couldn’t possibly come to that.
“Yeah,” he said.
We started to hear shelling. It was close, really
close. It was so loud that it obscured the gunfire.
My ears rang.
“Shit, shit,” Chip yelled. “Let’s cut through here.”
He nodded at an alleyway.
“No, no, no,” I shouted, grabbing at his wrist. It
was a narrow alley that went between two buildings and
we could so easily be shot by a sniper from the rooftop
windows.
“It’s faster.”
“No, let’s go the way we know.”
A man pushed two young children in front of him,
hustling them down the same alleyway. I heard him urging
them to run home as he unholstered a weapon.
I saw the blood blooming from the girl’s forehead
at the same time as I heard the gunshot. She fell to the
ground. She was dead. I knew immediately.
The father cried out and scooped up her tiny,
broken body, howling even as he urged his son home,
carrying her with him.
“Oh my god,” I said, in a strangled whisper.
We heard another shot and Chip ducked. “Run!”
We sprinted along the path that we knew. I ignored
the gunfire, shaking, seeing the that little girl die again and
again as I ran.
How old had she been? Five? Maybe six.
How much more fair would it have been if I were
shot instead of her?
 When we reached the rubble at the square, we saw
Dell’s Jeep. Chip doubled over and threw up.
“Christ,” he said.
Dell didn’t say anything when we got into the car.
Chip climbed into the back and swore incoherently as we
sped down the bumpy road.
When we reached the main highway, he spoke.
“You guys okay?”
Chip didn’t say anything.
“Clark, I need to hear your fucking voice.”
“Fine,” he said hollowly.
“Hadley?”
“I’m good. I’m fine.”
Dell swore again and punched the steering wheel
and sped all the way back to Damascus.
I ate with Chip. If you could call it eating. Neither
of us touched our food. We sat on the floor of his room,
which was messier than mine and covered in his jaw-
dropping photographs.
“You two are off-duty tomorrow,” Dell advised
us. “I don’t care what they report.”
He left us to go to Erin and work on their write-
ups.
“How old do you think she was?” I asked Chip.
He shook his head.
“Like six, right?” I asked.
“Shut up,” Chip said. “It’s not going to do any
good talking about it.”
“I mean, like, nobody—there’s not anything—that
should be an atrocious thing, and it’s not. Like, there’s so
much bad shit going on, nobody will even care about—”
“Shut up or get out,” Chip said. “I’m serious. I
can’t think about this shit.”
I got out. I didn’t like being yelled at for trying to
have a conversation I badly needed to have.
Knowing I could sleep in the next day made
everything worse. I chose to stay up, reading through
pages and pages of information on Twitter. The Arabic
script blurred into one continuous stream.
140 characters and all anyone had was bad news.
They were right, I thought, as I fell asleep at
sunrise. I had no fucking idea what I was getting into.
Chapter Forty-Five
The day off was worse. Because I had to reckon with what
we’d experienced. I didn’t want to see Chip, but I didn’t
want to be alone.
I wrote back to David’s emails.
He’d sent me eight and the latest was cheery, but
concerned:
Hadley girl,
Are you ignoring me? It’s foggy here and
wonderful and Justin is trying to change a light bulb and
failing, but it’s twenty feet in the air, so I can’t blame
him! Hope you are safe.
Love, David
I started the email four or five times.
It would’ve been selfish to complain to him. I
couldn’t tell him a child had been shot and nobody had
called the police or done anything because that was just
one of the things that happened all the time here.
I wrote a short piece on it, trying to fit the cruel
and personal tragedy into an article that could run in a
newspaper.
I finished it and sent it to Dale, knowing he’d say
that it wasn’t something they could run in a national
newspaper—it was just an anecdote, not a news story, but
I told myself at least I would know that I had tried, that at
least I had bothered to write something down, at least I
would have a record of her death, those few seconds,
something that gave one of so many victims a public
record of death. Even if I didn’t know her name.
Chip couldn’t stand being alone in the hotel any
more than I could. He knocked on my door, muttered a
gruff apology for snapping, and offered food.
I let him come in.
“I think they might evacuate us,” he said. “I mean,
this is getting fucking crazy.”
I nodded in agreement.
There wasn’t much else to say. When I was
twenty-two, I saw a five-year-old girl get shot. Maybe she
was six. I’ll never know her name. And I knew nobody got
to decide how their life went. Not really.
Chapter Forty-Six
I never thought about anybody in Syria, because I was
focused on what was happening. Transcribing the story,
keeping an eye on the door, looking out for Chip, knowing
that we might need to move at any second, any second at
all.
You can’t think about your mother and father when
you’re screaming over the sound of shelling in a language
you learned in quiet classrooms halfway around the world.
I saw things worse than that five-year-old little girl
dying.
Bloodier things. Sadder things.
Eventually you stop putting things on the scale. It’s
all horrible, you can’t tell the difference, so you turn each
horrible thing into a fact. A girl shot. A man executed. A
teenager bound and beaten and killed because someone
repeated a story he told in his history class.
Another journalist missing.
Rumors of chemical attacks again.

One long night, as we drove silently away from a horrific

scene—same old story in a brand new place—I pressed
my head to the window of the truck, squinting out into the
darkness at the cities from which everyone vanished.
Erin was cold, Dell rough, Chip brittle. None of
them invited closeness. Neither did I. But I felt like I was
vanishing, too. The things that had grounded me in place,
the people I spoke to, the routines I had, my family, David,
they’d all disappeared.
Chip had told me if anything happened to him, I
should tell his parents how much he loved them. I told him
I would. I was sure they already knew that.
I realized that if anything happened to me, I would
want someone to tell Jack Diamond that I had loved him. I
had never told that to anyone. He would never know if I
died here.
I watched the unlit buildings and land and I thought
of Jack, like he was just out there, beyond reach. I
remembered his warmth. I remembered that he comforted
me, somehow, when I didn’t even know I needed comfort,
someone to hold onto at night when I wondered what the
hell the point of anything was.
I wanted him.
I missed him.
I would trade this for him.
I would trade this for nothing.
But I wanted to trade it for him.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chip grabbed me before dawn, on maybe two hours of
sleep, and he said we had to go, pushing a can of Red Bull
into my hand.
“Pierre says they’ve got real evidence now.
Massive casualties.”
“Evidence of what?”
“Chemical weapons,” Chip shouted.
We’d been chasing proof of chemical weapons
attacks for weeks now. Having interviewed dozens of
rebels across the country, we knew it was unlikely for
such uniform stories to come out without attacks having
occurred.
Some doctors had told us that they had treated
patients whose symptoms lined up with exposure to
neurotoxins, but we’d found no other evidence to
corroborate that and we couldn’t print stories other than
ones that said Syrian rebels claimed to be attacked by
chemical arms.
I pulled my boots on, and a jacket, and grabbed my
flip camera and recorder and phone.
We were on the road before 3 AM. Chip tossed me
one of the gas masks from the glove compartment.
“Seriously?”
“Pierre says it’s hot,” he said. “Take it.”
Pierre was a French journalist who had reported
on patients admitted to the emergency room with
symptoms of gaseous poisoning a few months back.
We trusted him, but he hadn’t been able to confirm
anything other than the doctors’ accounts. Rebels were
hard to track down, young men in danger of dying, and if
you could find them, they might not want to talk. They
never knew who they were putting in danger.
“Where?” I asked.
“In Ghouta,” Chip said. He shook his head. The
last alleged attack had been in Adra.
“The patients are coming in now,” Chip said. He
looked at me. “It’s going to be grim if Pierre’s right. He
said a couple thousand could die.”
“Jesus,” I said.
“Yeah.”
We parked in the dark near the hospital, and we
could see there was a lot of activity already.
We jogged towards the entrance to the emergency
room, and then we saw it all.
The vomiting women and children coughing blood,
tiny bodies slumped against walls, medics shouting over
screaming patients, doctors restraining wild-eyed boys.
Pierre had abandoned his camera and was talking
rapidly to a doctor in French.
“What the hell?” Chip said. “What the fuck is
going on?”
“We’re almost out of atropine,” the doctor said.
“We’re going to need to divert patients to facilities where
they can be treated.”
“What’s atropine?” I asked Pierre.
“It’s the antidote to Sarin,” he muttered in English.
“Holy fuck,” Chip muttered.
He lifted his camera and began to take pictures.
I looked around bewildered for someone who
wasn’t too sick to talk, but it seemed impossible. I closed
my eyes and took a short breath.
It was hard for me to breathe too. I panicked
fleetingly, wondering if the attack was ongoing, if I was in
danger of dying. It felt that way—the way my heart was
pounding.
I found a boy, sitting alone, maybe thirteen. He
was a child by my standards, but an adult by the standard
of this room. He was crying softly, in between huffing air
from an oxygen mask.
“Can I ask you a few questions?” I asked softly in
Arabic.
He nodded.
“Do you remember what happened?”
“We were sleeping,” he began. “And I woke up,
my mother screaming that the baby wasn’t breathing.” He
went on. He had five sisters. His father, a rebel, was dead,
and his two older brothers had joined the fight against
Assad.
The baby died, he told me.
He started crying again, softly.
 “What’s your name?” I asked.
“Jabbar.”
“Did they get out? Are they here?”
He shook his head. “I ran for help, but everyone
needed help. They brought me here instead.”
I bit my lip. Tears slid down his cheeks.
“Do your brothers know where you are?”
He shook his head. A doctor came and shooed me
away and I watched him, wishing I had the time to be
heartbroken for him, wishing I had the resources to find
his brothers. Jabbar. Jabbar’s baby sister died.
Chip found me in a hallway, trying to catch my
breath. He pulled me by the arm. “They want us out of
here. We’re going to the mosque.”
“What? Why?”
“They want us out. Say we might get exposed and
they’re running out of resources to treat people.”
We followed Pierre out of the hospital and deeper
into the city.
It was still and silent in the square as the sun rose.
We got out of the Jeep and closed the car doors, and
realized why. There were announcements being read over
the loudspeakers: a list of names.
And across the square, in neat lines, wrapped in
white sheets were hundreds of bodies. Normal adults
ones, child ones, toddlers, and tiny, little infant bundles.
My heart dropped.
 I couldn’t do this.
It thudded against my chest. I thought I could do
this but I knew then that I couldn’t. I couldn’t do this.

At the end of the long nightmare of that day, we got the call
we’d been expecting. The call I’d been waiting for.
“We’re pulling you out. Chip and Erin will go to
Lebanon. Arrington, we’re pulling back to New York.
Dell, you’ve got authority to continue reporting, but we’re
moving you to Turkey,” Dale told us. We heard the
heaviness in his voice over the speaker phone. “You did
good work. But we’re bringing you home.”
Chapter Forty-Eight
A blare of sirens woke me.
New York sirens. Harlem sirens.
The kind of sirens you know not to worry about.
But it was the third time they’d woken me and I’d dropped
out of my bed and onto my knees, like I was expecting
bullets to spray through the window. It was only one in the
morning.
I picked up my cell phone with shaky hands and
called David.
He might be awake, out in San Francisco.
“Hey girlfriend! I’m so glad you’re back in New
York,” he trilled. “Now we can speak on the phone.”
“Hey, David,” I said. I swallowed.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing. Just. Can’t sleep.”
David had been more shaken than I had been able
to be over the chemical attacks. I didn’t know how to
make it make sense in my head and I’d stopped trying.
“Tell me something about San Francisco,” I told
him.
“It’s cloudy.”
I smiled.
“But I can see the Bay Bridge from my window. I
bet you remember that. I like the Bay Bridge. I think the
Golden Gate is overrated. I mean, it’s so out there. Red!
And suspended. But the Bay Bridge is blue. It doesn’t
really want your attention. I’m really into that quality in a
bridge.”
I laughed.
“And it’s the one I can see from my window, so
it’s my favorite.”
I laughed again.
It was the fifth night in a row I’d called him.
He told me about the homeless man with the
golden voice who hung out near his building and how he
was going to visit Justin in a few weeks and then, when he
was sure I was good and calm, he said. “Hey, Hadley, I
was thinking maybe you should talk to someone about
what happened in Syria. If you can’t sleep. You know?”
I nodded. I didn’t want to see anybody. I wanted to
get tough and get on with it. I just needed a few more days.
“Yeah.” I smiled. “Yeah, if it keeps up, I will. I still think
it’s jetlag.”
“You’re not recovering from the flight,” David
told me.
“It was only three months.”
Dale had given me the week off, not just given it to
me, but demanded I take it.
“It doesn’t matter,” David said. “I saw someone
after what happened with Ben. It helped a lot. I think it
might help you, too.”
I nodded. “Yeah. I’ll think about it.
Chapter Forty-Nine
My third day back at the office in New York, when I was
starting to think I would be okay, we had an unannounced
fire drill.
I had a panic attack.
I thought maybe it was asthma, and then I thought
maybe I was having a heart attack, and knowing both were
impossible, I tried to keep quiet while everyone got up
and left their desk. But I was paralyzed. I couldn’t move. I
stood, holding the edge of my desk, afraid I would
collapse.
Dale recognized it when he walked past my desk.
“Hadley, let’s go,” he shouted. And then he took a closer
look at me. “Jesus, you’re shaking. Are you okay?”
“Yes,” I managed.
“Do you have asthma?”
I shook my head.
"You sick?"
I shook my head vehemently.
“I think you’re having a panic attack,” he said.
“Hold your breath for a few seconds then let it go. And sit
down. My wife says that helps.”
When I finally got my breathing under control, I
wished he'd left me. I wished it were an actual fire and I
was dying of smoke inhalation. I was mortified.
“You two didn’t hear the drill?” the fire marshal
demanded, walking down the hallway to check if we were
all clear.
“Give us a pass. Kid doesn’t like sirens, okay?”
Dale shot back.
The marshal looked from Dale to me and back to
Dale. He nodded. “All clear," he shouted out, to
whomever was listening before he disappeared from sight.
Dale leaned over my desk and picked up a
notepad. He scrawled a name onto it.
“Sorry,” I said, my face burning.
He shook his head. “Don’t be.”
I shook from the adrenaline. He handed me a piece
of paper. Dr. Jane Ferguson. “Make an appointment. She
can help. You need help with that. Alright? You can’t
handle it on your own. You don’t need to tell me about it if
you don’t want to. But you need to call her.”
I nodded. “Yeah, I will.”
“Look, I’m going to give you another week off. See
the doctor, see what she says, and write a fun story. Write
about the fucking fall foliage in New England or some shit.
Go to a dog park.” He smiled.
I nodded.
“Take off. Don’t worry,” he said.
I nodded again, packing up my stuff. Humiliated as
hell. I had to get a grip.

Dr. Ferguson didn’t ask me that many questions. I told her

I was having panic attacks since Syria, I thought it was
temporary, and I didn’t want to talk about it too much. She
told me to take a Xanax when I felt one coming on and to
come back in two weeks.
I wrote a story about dog parks.
And I went for a few long walks.
And when the phone rang incessantly at work and
the edge of terror crept in, I took a Xanax.
It helped at first.
And then it stopped helping.

I went back to Dr. Ferguson. She upped my dosage and

said I should try talk therapy. I said I'd stick to the pills.
Dale called one afternoon when I was trying to
figure out how to get my hands to stop shaking.
"I just wanted to see how you were doing."
"I'm great," I said tightly.
"Yeah? That's good."
I swallowed. "I should be able to come into the
office soon."
He was quiet. "Don't rush it. I liked the story on
dog parks. You could do a whole series.”
I smiled and swallowed, staring at the bleak walls
of my apartment. I should decorate. I should decorate, put
down roots, and reach out to the people I knew here. I
should go back to work.
I heard a siren in the distance.
"Look, if it makes you feel any better, Chip's still
on leave. You guys saw some horrible shit,” he said.
“Nobody thinks any less of you for needing time to get
over it.”
The siren got louder. It's just a noise.
I took a breath and let it go, thinking about the
subway and the East River. I knew I was supposed to
ground myself in the present, that a panic attack was
misinterpreting something that was harmless as danger,
that it was fear in the absence of danger.
I'm not in danger, I reminded myself.
The sirens were coming up my block now.
"I have to go," I told Dale. “Thanks for calling.”
I dropped the phone and scrambled to the
bathroom for my Xanax.
I was fine, either by the time the medication kicked
in or by the time the sirens faded.
I wanted Jack, I realized.
I wanted Jack. He was the only person who ever
seemed to get me, to get all of me, and he was the only
person who I believed might get this, too.
When I caught my breath, I scrolled to his number
and to the picture I’d taken of him one morning when we
were still together. It was a goofy shot of him sitting in his
boxers on the corner of his bed with his hair standing up in
sheer defiance of the laws of gravity.
I pressed my thumb as lightly as I could against his
image. I called him.
 I didn't lift the phone to my ear. I didn't put it on
speaker. I heard the faint ringing buzz from my hand.
I wanted it to go to voicemail and I wanted him to
have the same message he had in college.
Hey, it's Jack. Leave a message and I'll call you
back.
It wasn't funny or original at all. It was just the
way he said it, like he didn't care who was calling. I could
imagine him leaning back on a couch, easy and relaxed.
I swallowed, tears blurring before my eyes. I
finally put the phone to my ear.
I didn't get his voice, though. "You've reached the
voice mailbox of Jack Diamond," a computer informed.
"Please leave a message at the tone."
I swallowed hard on a thick lump in my throat. I
turned the phone off before the tone. I couldn't even
breathe normally.
Get a grip, Hadley.
But I didn't even know what that meant anymore.
I was going to work tomorrow, I told myself. I
wasn't getting any better staying inside. I needed to go out
there. I needed to face it.
Chapter Fifty
The phone rang around 11.
"Hello?" I said, pulling myself up, rubbing my
eyes, glancing at the clock.
For a fleeting moment I was transported back to
Syria, to the early morning wake-up calls, the sudden
arrival of danger.
I switched on a light and got to my feet.
"Hadley?"
I swallowed.
"It's Jack."
I walked to the window, and pressed my hand and
my forehead to the cold glass and closed my eyes. His
voice was like water. It was like water when you've been
thirsty.
"I saw you called." I heard a grin behind the
familiar rumble of his voice. "Well, I'm almost sure it was
you. I deleted your number, but you had the three threes.
So..."
"Yeah," I said. "Yeah, it was me." I kept my eyes
closed. It had only been a few months ago when Jack felt
dangerous.
And a few months of real danger had changed all
of that.
"You okay? Did I wake you up?"
"Yeah, I'm good." I opened my eyes. I'm good. I'm
good. I'm fine. How long had I been telling people that?
 "I read all your stories," he ventured. "Sorry.
That's weird. It sounds like I'm stalking you. Are you back
in New York for now?"
"Yeah, yeah. I'm in New York. Are you still at
your Mom’s?"
"No, actually. I'm in Brooklyn."
"Brooklyn." Brooklyn was close.
"Yeah. I'm teaching at a charter school."
"Wow."
"Well, I'm teaching art. I'd save the wow if I were
you."
I smiled, stupidly sad that he was so much the
same. I turned from the window, feeling the early fall chill
on my neck. "I bet the kids like you."
He laughed. "They do, actually. Which I find
disturbing."
"Yeah?" I looked down at my socks and rubbed
one against the other. "Why? I think that makes sense."
"It does make sense. They’re like, here is a man
who seems incapable of tying his own shoes and whose
favorite subject doesn’t count. I identify with this person.”
I couldn't do anything but laugh at that.
"So, how are you?" he asked, when the line had
gone quiet. "Was there a reason you called?"
I smiled. "No, no. Just, misdialed."
"Ah. Gotcha," he said, knowingly. "Well, sorry to
wake you up then. I'll let you go.”
 "Wait," I said. "Wait, I didn't misdial."
"Okay."
I took a breath. "I miss talking to you." I closed my
eyes, surprised at the stillness of the world. "Syria...." I
didn't know what to say about Syria. Maybe there was
nothing to say. Maybe there never would be anything to
say. "Would you come—would you want to come over?" I
asked. I bit my lip.
"Now?" he asked.
"Oh...no, no. I mean, just maybe sometime," I said
backpedaling.
"I can come over now," he said, calmly. "If you
want."
I nodded and swallowed. "I’d really like that.”
"Give me half an hour, okay?"
I nodded. "Yeah. Okay."

About half an hour later, I realized I was still in

sweatpants in a t-shirt with my hair in a mangled half-bun
on top of my head.
I pulled off the stained, neon-green t-shirt. Where
the hell had I ever gotten that? I put on a bra, and a
normal-looking white sweater. And I brushed my hair
back and braided it.
The buzzer downstairs announced Jack's arrival. I
pressed my thumb over the black button. I could hear his
footsteps on the last flight of stairs. They were steady. My
heart beat twice for every one of his steps.
The doorbell rang. I smiled for practice and then I
walked to the door and opened it.
He looked good, his hair was a bit shorter, he was
clean shaven, and he was wearing a soft white Henley
instead of plaid. Maybe he'd changed a little, too.
I smiled. "Hey, you look great!"
He laughed and then he hugged me. It wasn't a
normal kind of hug. He held me tightly.
"I'm really, really glad you called," he said. He
walked into my apartment, closing the door behind him.
"Are you back for good? How was it? I read your articles
and they were great." He paused. "I mean, they were
scary. I hated thinking of you there. But they were great."
"Oh." I nodded. "Um, thanks. Yeah, we're back for
good. A stringer for a French paper died and..." I
shrugged. "After the chemical attacks…It was getting
pretty volatile when we left."
He nodded. "That's good. I mean, that you're back
for good."
I met his eyes, which looked as clear as they ever
had. He had been right to worry. I had been stupid not to. I
looked away.
"Listen, I was thinking…a lot. About giving you an
ultimatum. That was shitty."
"Oh," I said. I shrugged. "No. Not at all. It was..." I
searched for words. I came up with nothing. Again. "Do
you want to sit down?"
He sat on the couch.
"Do you want wine or anything?"
"Yeah, sure," he said. He smiled. I walked to the
kitchen. I heard sirens, distantly enough that they didn't
surprise me. Still I frowned as they grew louder and then
began to fade again. My hands shook slightly as I poured
two glasses. Shook even while I handed him one, and his
fingers lightly brushed mine.
"So, how's work?" he asked, taking one. He
smiled.
I shrugged. "I, um...actually I’m kind of on leave." I
paused, sitting down on the couch. I glanced away from
him. "I didn't deal with things so well when I came back."
He didn't say anything for a moment. "Jesus. I'm
sorry. Do you want to talk about it?"
I shrugged. "I don't know what to say." I smiled
bitterly. "It sucked. You were right. I never should have
gone."
I took a sip of my wine, and then another, focusing
on the cold liquid. I swallowed and exhaled.
"I never said that," he said quietly. "It was never
about you being wrong. It was about me wanting you to
stay."
"Well, I should've stayed," I said. I took another
sip of my wine.
"Why are you on leave...exactly?" he asked
delicately.
I shrugged.
"Sorry. You don't have to tell me if you don't want
to."
"I had a panic attack." I tried to say this
nonchalantly. "Or something. During a fire drill. The
managing editor told me to take some time off."
Jack was quiet. "Are you seeing a doctor or
anything?"
I shrugged. "Yeah. She gave me Xanax. It helps.
Sometimes." I sighed. I looked at him again. "Sorry. I bet
you're regretting calling me back, huh?"
He shook his head. "No. Not at all.”
I nodded. “Oh.”
"So what happened?" he asked.
"The fire alarm just went off and I freaked out," I
ran a hand through my hair.
"In Syria, I mean."
I turned my head and looked out the window. I
hadn't talked about Syria with anyone, not really. "There
were chemical attacks."
"To you, though. What happened to you in Syria?"
"I don't know." I closed my eyes. I shook my head.
"I saw a little girl die." I looked at him. "She was young,
maybe six. And then, the bodies outside of the Mosque
after the chemical attacks." I lifted my shoulders
helplessly, trying to recall the particularly brand of
desperation that had closed in. My throat tightened up,
warning me not to say any more. I tried to clear it and,
finding that impossible, gave him a fake smile and took a
breath. I started to cry silently. I brushed the tears away
from my face roughly and took a breath.
“Hey, hey,” he said comfortingly. He put an arm
around me, which made it worse. “It’s okay.”
I took a few deep breaths. “Sorry. I probably
shouldn’t talk about it. How have you been?"
He smiled. "I have been okay." He nodded. "I think
about you a lot. I, um, wanted to tell you how much I
regretted giving you an ultimatum.”
"It's okay."
He shook his head. "No, it's not really. I fucked
everything up."
"I fucked everything up," I told him.
He rubbed his chin. "I don’t know. We’re both
responsible. Well, listen. I know that you can't be with me
like I wanted—like I thought I needed."
I was quiet. I wanted to say that maybe I could.
"But it seems like you could use a friend right
now."
"Yeah," I said. I exhaled. "Yeah, probably. I could
use, you know, a team of psychiatrists, too."
He smiled a bit sadly. "So, you know. Maybe I
could be that for you."
I met his eyes. "I don't know if you want to be my
friend."
"I do." He looked at me. "No benefits," he said,
with a grin. "I think that was the problem. But, we could
be friends. That could work for me, I think. I mean, I think
I would like that."
I sipped my wine and decided to tell him the truth.
"Would you say something?" he asked. He laughed.
"No," I said.
"What?"
"No, I don't want to be friends with you," I said. I
said it automatically, and more fiercely and surely than I
had said anything in a long time. "I don't want to be your
friend."
He raised his eyebrows and shook his head.
"Okay. Fine.”
"I don't want to be friends," I repeated.
"Yeah. I got it."
I sipped my wine again, for courage. "Do you
remember when you told me you loved me?"
He cringed. "Jesus, Hadley."
"Do you?"
"We really have to revisit this?" he demanded.
I stared at him.
He exhaled. "Yeah, I remember, Hadley." He
rubbed his chin. "Obviously, I remember. And if you don't
want to be friends, then I don't want to talk about it." He
got to his feet and pulled on his coat. "You know, if you
change your mind. Give me a call. I won't tell you I love
you. And, for what it's worth, I'm sorry."
He moved towards the door.
“Jack, just listen. I didn't know what to say. But, I
do now. I should have said that I loved you." I looked at
him, just a stolen glance. He looked stricken, more than
anything. "In Syria, I was out with our photographer one
night, and our jeep was stolen. And Chip told me—”
"I'm really not a fan of Chip," Jack said.
"What?" I said.
"Never mind," he smiled wryly.
"How do you even know Chip?"
"I don't. I just saw you shared a byline and then I
followed him on Twitter and then...never mind."
I looked at him warily.
"You were saying something about a Jeep."
I took a breath. "Chip told me that I should tell his
parents how much he loved them if anything happened.
And I realized that if anything happened to me, I wanted
you to know that I had loved you." I bit my lip. "I mean, I
didn't even know that, I don't think. I loved you but I told
myself I didn't. And I believed that I didn’t. Until I thought
about, if I die right now, he wouldn't know that I loved him
and I do. I never let it show. But I loved you." My voice
wavered. "Sometimes -most of the time, actually, I still
think I do." I snuck another look at him. "I don’t want to be
your friend, because I’m in love with you.” I bit my lip. “I
know, you're probably completely over it, but I thought
you should know.”
"I'm not over it," he said automatically.
I was quiet.
"I meant it. I love you. I still love you and not just
most of the time. All of the time," he said. He looked so
serious, it was hard to believe we'd just admitted it to one
another.
"Okay," I said.
"Okay," he said.
He smiled first. "So maybe we should pick up
back where we started? Same rules?"
I shook my head. "I was thinking....I would really,
really like to have dinner with you."
Jack threw his head back and laughed, a happy
laugh, a sound of relief. I got up to my feet and for some
reason, when I blinked, I was crying. He walked towards
me, grabbed me by my wrists and pulled me close.
"No way," he whispered, teasingly.
"Shut up."
He kissed me softly.
“So, dinner?” I said, trying to keep my voice from
wavering.
He smiled. He kissed me again, briefly, barely at
all. “I don’t know,” he teased. “What about your rules?”
"C'mon."
He smiled and kissed me for a third time.
 I pulled my mouth away. “Yes or no?"
"Ask me out again?"
"Don't push your luck," I said.
"I might have to think about it," he said, laughing.
"Have dinner with me," I said.
“Yes,” he said. “I should leave you hanging longer,
but, yes, I will have dinner with you.” He kissed me again,
pressing me against the wall. “Anywhere, anytime, you
can take me to dinner."
I smiled and grabbed his wrists. “Good.”
He nodded. He kissed my forehead, his lips
shaking ever so slightly. “Good.”
I closed my eyes again and he braced himself
against the wall with his hands and kissed me again.
His mouth was warm and we'd left the lights on
and he turned me, walking me backwards towards the
couch. He bit my lip and I broke the kiss and caught my
breath.
"Maybe we could start with breakfast, though," he
said. "You free tomorrow?"
"I could move some things around," I said.
"Oh, yeah?"
I nodded. "Yeah."
Chapter Fifty-One
In the end, he picked the restaurant and he insisted on
coming all the way uptown just to go all the way back
downtown with me.
"You have too many stairs," he said. "Fact."
"We could've just met at the restaurant," I said,
opening the door.
"You could just move."
"Mmm...maybe you can carry all my boxes for
me?"
He raised his eyebrows. "Ask me that when I've
had a chance to recover."
I smiled. "Let's go."
"Oh, back down the stairs? Right after I came up?"
I laughed.
"I told you that we should've met at the restaurant."
"I had to pick you up for our first date."
We got into a cab and headed down to the West
Village.
"How was school?"
"Crazy. Kids are psychotic. I had the
kindergarteners today. I wasn't impressed. Not too bright."
I smiled, imagining Jack surrounded by five-year-
olds.
"Junessa said that I was spelling my name wrong."
"Jack?"
"No, Mr. Diamond."
 "They call you Mr. Diamond?"
"It's disturbing, I know," Jack said. "She said I was
spelling Diamond wrong because it needed to have
sparkles. And I told her, you know, sparkles isn't actually
a letter, and she started crying."
"Oh, God. What did you do?"
"I told her I'd made a huge mistake and that
sparkles was definitely a letter. The kindergarten teacher
was like, please don’t ever talk about the alphabet
again.”
I laughed and took a long second to stare at Jack,
really stare at him. He was so damn handsome.
"What?"
"Nothing," I said smiling. I bit my lip. "We’re
going on a real date."
He nodded. "You freaking out?"
"No," I said. I smiled and shook my head. "Well,
kind of. But not about being on a date with you."
“What are you freaking out about then?”
I laughed. “Everything else.”
Although, strangely, I wasn’t. Knowing he was
here. Knowing that I could call him…it made everything
that had seemed so hard seem a little bit easier. I leaned
against his shoulders. “This is going to work, right?” I
asked.
He nodded. “Affirmative.”
I brought him back home with me. I let him feel me
shivering when the sirens started as we climbed the stairs.
“What do you need?” he asked softly. He put a
hand on my lower back, as I braced one hand against the
wall. “You said you had Xanax?”
I nodded. “Upstairs. I can walk.” I didn’t want this
to happen in front of him. I didn’t want to seem like a total
fucking head case in front of him.
He nodded. “Put your hands on top of your head.”
“What?”
“Put your hands on top of your head. It helps with
the breathing.”
I looked at him.
“My mom,” he said. “She gets panic attacks.” He
smiled, he took my hand. “Did I ever tell you about my pet
pig?”
I shook my head.
“So, when I was younger, I read Charlotte’s
Web,” he said. We had reached the landing of the
staircase. “And I was kind of obsessed with Wilbur. We
were living in the city at the time. Not exactly the kind of
place where you can see farm animals. But, my dad took
me out to New Jersey one day. And there was an organic
pig farm.” He smiled. “You know, happy little pigs. And
we were on the tour and they were showing us the baby
pigs and there was a tiny one named Twister and the
farmer giving us the tour said sort of dismissively that
Twister was not likely to live to maturity and I asked what
that meant.” He smiled. “And my dad, I could tell, right
away, he wanted to punch this farmer in the jaw for telling
me that the baby pig was not likely to live to maturity. But
he told me it meant the pig would die.”
He had reached my couch and sat me down and
locked my door.
He kept talking as he walked to the bathroom and
took down the Xanax and brought me a glass of water.
“So, I had a meltdown and my dad couldn’t take it
so he asked the farmer how much the pig would cost him.”
He smiled. “I think he shelled out like three hundred
dollars.”
“And you had a pet pig?”
He smiled. He handed me the water and the pill.
“And I had a pet pig.”
I looked at him. I felt fine. I felt calm. “I don’t need
it.”
He smiled slightly, like he was proud of himself.
“How did you do that?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Um, I don’t know. I got good at
distracting my mom when she was getting upset.” He
smiled. “She liked when I talked about Twister.”
“A pig named Twister.”
He nodded. “I’ve got the pictures.”
“I want to see them.”
He smiled. He kissed me lightly.
 “Are you really freaked out?”
He looked at me. “About what?”
“Me.”
He shook his head. “Why would I be freaked out?”
“Because I’ve turned into kind of a head case.”
He shook his head. He wrapped an arm around me.
“I’m not freaked out.”
I smiled.
He ran his hands down my body. “You’re
gorgeous,” he said. He smiled. “And I love you.”
“And I’m a head case.”
He kissed me.
“I’m sorry,” I said throatily.
“For what?”
“For being selfish,” I said.
“You did what you needed to do.”
I shook my head. “I hurt you.”
He bit his lip. “Yeah.”
My eyes filled.
“But I was being an idiot,” he said.
“No, you told me you loved me. And it was all I
wanted to hear. But I pretended it wasn’t. I convinced
myself I wasn’t. Because I thought—I don’t know. I keep
trying to figure out what I was trying to protect myself
from and it doesn’t make any sense.”
“Listen. We were both young.”
“We both still are.”
 “No, we both made promises to ourselves when
we were young. Right?” he looked at me. “They had a lot
to do with our parents, right? I saw my Mom’s life shatter
because she married someone with a dangerous job who
couldn’t give it up. And I said, I’m never going to do that
to my wife and I’m never going to fall for a girl that would
do that to me.” He met my eyes. “And you promised
yourself you were never going to give anything up for
love, because it never worked out for your parents. You
promised yourself you wouldn’t fall in love, basically.
“But I fell for the girl with a dangerous job and
you fell in love and we both decided we needed to keep
these stupid promises we made to ourselves when were
kids instead of growing up and realizing, things aren’t that
black and white.”
“Right,” I said. I nodded. “But you…”
“I’m sorry.” He said. “If I’d listened to you, I
wouldn’t have pushed you so hard so fast. But I wanted to
know after two months whether you’d give up your dream
for me. And when you hesitated, I wouldn’t compromise. I
fucked up, too. This is not on you.”
I shook my head. “Yeah, it is.”
“It’s on both of us.” He grabbed my hands and
laced our fingers together. “And I don’t care, because we
fixed it, right?” He looked at me.
“We fixed it?” I smiled. “Jack, this is still kind of
a mess.”
 “Right. But we know that now,” he smiled back. “I
mean shit happens. Bad shit happens. To everyone.” He
met my eyes steadily. “We both thought we could avoid it.
But nobody does. You know? And we shouldn’t hurt
ourselves in the meantime.”
I nodded.
He pushed his forehead to mine. “We’re going to
be okay.”
“Yeah.” I nodded.
“You’re going to be okay.”
I smiled. “Yeah.”
He pulled me into his lap and I wrapped my legs
around his waist and kissed him hard. “I love you,” I said
again. It had been scary the first time. Unpleasantly scary,
but it wasn’t now. I wanted to say it. I wanted to keep
saying it. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”
He laughed. “I know. I love you too.”
I kissed him again. I knew that saying I loved him
wasn’t going to break me this time. I knew it would save
me.
He kissed the top of my head.
“I was afraid,” I said.
“You don’t have to explain.”
“I was afraid that if showed that I loved you, I
would end up getting hurt and feeling stupid. So, I did the
opposite. And I ended up getting hurt and feeling stupid.”
“I know,” he said. “You really don’t have to
explain, Hadley. It’s okay.”
“I’m not afraid though. Of letting it show anymore.
I’m not afraid of letting my love show. I’m afraid of not
showing it,” I said.
It turned out to be easy to let it go. That once I
started, I couldn’t really stop. I loved the way he laughed,
the way his hair stuck up in the morning, how he cocked
his head when he was looking at me. I loved how sweet he
could be, and how sure he was. I loved how he talked to
people, like they were the center of the world.
I loved that he noticed me. I loved that he knew me
better than I knew myself. I loved that he had put it out
there back in March, when he was pretty sure I was going
to shoot him down.
I loved that he never told me to smile or to stop
being so serious. I loved the way he held my wrist and
kissed the palm of my hand.
I loved that after all that time of thinking love
wasn’t safe, I realized that I had never been safer than I
was, curled in my tiny apartment in Harlem, with Jack
Diamond, the person I was madly in love with.
I loved him. I was going to let it show forever.
Epilogue
Jack, Seven Months Later
“We are not getting a Mastiff,” Hadley said.
“Why not? I like him. And he’s a puppy.”
“Because we live in New York. And I’m going to
be the one who ends up walking it in the morning,” she
said. “I don’t need as much exercise as a mastiff.”
I looked over at her and smiled. “A mastiff would
look good on our couch.”
“I want a mutt,” Hadley said. “I want a small mutt
with an anxiety disorder who speaks Arabic to keep you
company when I’m in Jordan.”
Soon she’d be leaving for three weeks to go to a
Syrian Refugee camp just across the Jordanian border. It
would be her second trip. She’d gone for just five days a
few months back and written an article that just about
everyone in America had read.
And this time, she wasn’t scared to go. The refugee
camps were stable. People were suffering there, but they
were safe. Hadley wouldn’t be in danger of dying.
After Hadley had walked away the night of our
formal, Xander said she was the world’s most emotionless
bitch. At the time, I had wished I could agree with him.
But even then, when I wanted to hate her, I knew nothing
could be further from the truth.
Hadley saw everyone’s suffering clearly. She saw
it perfectly. And she knew how to write about it. She gave
it a name and a face and a story you could understand.
David and I might have been the only people who really
saw that part of her in college.
But when you read her articles, you knew.
I laughed. “I don’t want Hadley 2. I want a
mastiff.”
She shook her head and walked further into the
animal shelter. We’d just signed a lease together on an
apartment in north Chelsea. It was on the eighth floor and
the building didn’t have an elevator. The bedroom was
microscopic. But it had a kitchen you could use and a
decent view. It was only a few steps away from the
subway and it was ours.
And Hadley wasn’t freaked out about that at all.
Her phone rang and she pressed it to her ear.
“David!”
I could hear his laughter through the phone and I
walked up behind her and kissed the soft part of her neck
and she smiled and elbowed me in the hip. She pointed at
a nervous looking dog that was sitting in the corner of its
cage.
I smiled at the dog. She looked terrified, and I
gripped the front of my cage with my fingers. “Hey, girl,” I
said to her.
She had a white medallion on her chest and curly
speckled ears and black fur and big mournful eyes. The
placard on her cage said she was about two years old and
shy, but housebroken.
“We’re getting a dog,” Hadley told David. “Yes,
seriously….No, I know. It’s insane…well, he wants a
mastiff, but that’s not happening…” She laughed. “But,
yeah, I get back at the end of May, so any time after that is
great for us…the apartment is the size of a postage stamp,
but you both will fit….”
I looked down at the shy mutt and smiled at her,
trying to coax her out of the corner. “Hey,” I said again,
smiling when she approached my hand cautiously. She
nuzzled up against my hand and sat down.
Hadley ended her phone call with David. “Don’t
you like her?” she asked me.
“I do like her,” I said. “Is David coming to visit?”
She nodded. “Yeah. In June. Justin, too.”
“That’ll be fun.”
“Yeah.”
“You like her, too, right?” I asked, nodding at the
dog.
Hadley smiled. “Yeah, she’s adorable.”
“Do you want to get her?” I asked.
“Yeah. Only if you’re sure, though.” She leaned
her head on my shoulder. “I thought you wanted the
mastiff.”
“No. She’s perfect,” I said. “Don’t you think?”
“Yeah,” Hadley said softly.
“What do you think about Avery?” I asked.
 “Avery. I like that,” Hadley said, wrapping her
fingers around mine. She put her hand up against the cage
too. “Hey, Avery.”
The dog turned her attention to Hadley and I
smiled. “She likes you.”
“I like her too,” Hadley said. She looked up at me.
“Let’s get her,” I said.
I met her shining eyes and she mouthed the words
I’d gotten used to hearing: I love you.
 Table of Contents
LOVE SHOW
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Epilogue