My entire n hadn’t helped.


    Texts unanswered, or with quick, apologetic responses—but I’m still alone in this house.


    Mostly everyone I’d usually invite over forpany was busy doing other things, being with their friends—enjoying the ease of the beginning of the semester.


    I’m d they’re busy, but it doesn’t make the slight feeling of abandonment hurt any less.


    Even now, as I heat up microwavable bacon and scramble several eggs in the one pan Bet allows me to use, I hope that I’ll return to excited responses on my phone. At least one “<i>I miss you Freddy</i>” or “<i>On my way!</i>” to mend the hollow ache starting to grow in my chest.


    I m my bedroom door shut behind me and the echo of it sounds in my head.


    I’m alone. The house is empty. Rhyses back tomorrow, and Bet isn’t here—he never came homest night. Still, I feign ignorance to dampen the sting as I sit in my empty room. <i>You’re fine. Everything is great.</i>


    Forcing a quick smile like it might liven my spirits, I eat everything on my te before curling up under the covers and trying to sleep. Even as <i>her</i> voice gues me again.


    <i>I think you’d be really easy to love</i>.<hr ss="secbreak">


    I’m on time today, a rarity for me, but I’ve barely been able to think of anything except this uing tutoring session—be it in the form of anxiety or anticipation, or both.


    She asked me to meet her in the coffee shop on the third floor in a shortened email only minutes after my desperate run from ourst meeting. It’s the first day of fall semester, so the library is rtively empty—most everyone has no reason to be here this early at the start, apart from perpetual strugglers like me.


    Still, I barely slept, deciding to spend my morning at the sportsplex gym, which means I’m wearing shorts that show a bit too much thigh and thest of my clean T-shirts—I desperately need to doundry—from my current collection in the backseat of my car.


    I spot Ro before she sees me, seated in a corner booth. She’s still as pretty as the first time I saw her, if a little more buttoned up today. A sweater vest top like a tank that looks more professional than herfortable style fromst time. But she’s still got a funky clip—chunky with embellished cherries on it—in her hair, which makes me feel a little lighter. There’s a pencil pressed to her lips, and she rolls it mindlessly across them before <i>tap tap tapping</i> it on her mouth. It’s distracting enough that I stop for a moment and watch her.


    Like I’ve announced my presence, her eyes leave the papers spread in front of her and lock on mine—but not before gazing a little too long at the butterfly tattoo on my upper thigh. I flex the muscle a little on my next step, a brazen smile taking over, the need to perform for her in some way almost overwhelming in intensity.


    People watch me all the time, run their eyes over my body like it’s on show just for them. But the way Ro watches me feels different. Not covetous, but inquisitive, like she’s trying to see something deeper.


    <i>Or she’s trying to remember the night she wants to erase from existence.</i>


    The grin on my face falters slightly at the unbidden thought, but I manage to shake it away physically with a quick jerk of my head as I step up to her alcove.


    “Hey,” I say, dropping my voice. The effect is immediate, her skin flushing rose gold. My smile only widens; I <i>love</i> that I have an effect on her.


    “Hi.”


    Ro’s hazel eyes, wide and wonder filled, drop to my thigh again before darting quickly back to my gaze.


    “Have a seat,” she says, voice sterner than her expression shows. I follow her instructions happily, leaning on my forearms as she starts to speak again. “So, I double-checked your schedule and cross-checked it with—”


    “Cross-checking? That’s illegal.” The joke is pathetic at best, and anyone else might groan in annoyance or ignore mepletely. But as usual, <i>Rosalie</i> is different.


    Ro grins like she can’t really help it. It’s like pouring gasoline on a fire for me, and I’m desperate to pull another smile orugh or any positive reaction she’ll give me more than I care to pay attention to whatever she’s trying to show me.


    “Funny,” she says.


    “I’m <i>very</i> funny—as I’m sure you remember.” I’m testing her, trying again to see how much she might recall from Friday night. Maybe a few days have given her some of those memories back.


    Her brow furrows slightly, “No. I—” She clears her throat and looks up at me hesitantly. “I’m sorry. I just… I really don’t know what happenedst Friday. I don’t remember.”


    Her words pull the warmth from my skin and rece it with a cold, mmy flush.


    Ro looks like she’s waiting for me to fill in the gaps and I freeze, smiling despite the little ache at the reminder that she doesn’t remember anything.


    What’s a nice way of saying, “<i>You were so upset that you wanted to jump off the roof into a pool just to feel something different</i>”? Or maybe, “<i>You told me your boyfriend sucks and then tilted my entire world by saying that it would be easy to love me? When it’s a fucking hardship for everyone else</i>”?


    Instead, I smile and shake my head. “Don’t worry about it. Please, continue. I promise not to interrupt.” I make a show of zipping my lips closed, locking them and tossing the key over my shoulder, before straightening my back stiffly, hands sped. The picture of a perfectly attentive student.


    “Anyway…” She’s still smiling as she points to the papers she’sid out in front of me. “It looks like these dates in pink are the best ones for us to meet. I put the times on them as well. Once I get a better hold on what your hardest subjects are, I’ll break it down further to focus on what we need to tackle first. Make sense?”


    I swallow hard. “Sure.”


    “Okay,” she continues. If she notices I’ve barely nced at the papers, she doesn’t say. Ro hands me another printout, this one thicker and stapled together. “These are the topics for today’s pretest. I put a mini break under each one as a refresher, mostly because I don’t want you to be overwhelmed. What you score on the pretest doesn’t matter, obviously, but it will help me know what our starting point is.”


    Looking at the paper, I bounce my leg beneath the table. The amount of text is staggering, enough to have me giving up before I’ve even started.


    “Yeah.” I nod, skimming my eyes over the document. “All looks good. Should be fine.”


    Shoving the paper back toward her, I ster a smile on my lips before looking up. She’s less rxed now, brow furrowed as she looks back and forth between me and the paper.


    <i>She knows</i>. I skimmed too quickly; I’m usually pretty good at fake-reading, covering my own ass for years when ites to these moments. But I’m too nervous around her. She read the list in my file: dyslexia, dyscalculia, ADHD—but no one ever knows how severe the dyslexia is for me, how I struggle to read my hockey schedule, let alone a textbook on biology.


    We both stare at each other, my gaze jumping more than her clearly focused one, and the moment feels like it passes for an eternity before her hand spins the paper back to face me.


    “Okay, well,” Ro says, voice serene. “It’s a requirement to go through these together, for my team. So if you don’t mind, I’m gonna just read them aloud to you.”


    There’s no way in <i>hell</i> this is a requirement from her team—now that I know her team consists of Tyler and Rodger and anyone else who’s tried and failed to help me. I bite my tongue to avoid offering some snarky version of exactly that in rebuttal.


    But she’s lying because she wants to help me. Without embarrassing me or calling me out.


    “Okay.” I nod, swallowing tightly. “I’m listening.”