“Oh really—what kind of messages?”

My gray eyes flicker over him. “Dude, aren’t you going to shower?”

“Aren’t you?”

“I was going to hit it at home.”

He pulls open the passenger side door, hefts his shit inside, and climbs in behind it. “Let me guess: you’re texting Violet and don’t want to waste another second fucking around inside the building. Aww, aren’t you just the sweetest.” He leans over the center console toward my door, bellowing, “Zekey has a girlfriend, Zekey has a girlfriend,” like a fucking moron.

Jesus, why does he have to be so goddamn obnoxious?

I ignore him, but it’s hard with the incessant shouting.

Not to mention, now he’s grasping for my cell, wiggling his fingers. “Come on man, put the phone down and let’s go. I told Jameson we’d—”

I throw up the middle finger. “Would you shut the fuck up for like, five more seconds? Thanks.”

His back plops against the seat and he starts buckling his seat belt like a good boy scout.

Zeke: What’s wrong Violet?

Zeke: Are you in some kind of trouble? Do you need me to come get you or something?

Violet: No, it’s nothing like that. It’s just, god—I’m so embarrassed I texted you. It’s going to sound so dumb, but both my roommates are gone and I’m alone and I’m crying and can’t see the keys on my phone

Well that explains the shitty typemanship.

Zeke: You can tell me what’s wrong.

Violet: Today was the anniversary of parents’ death, and I hate being here alone. There’s this movie on and for some reason it just…made me want to talk to a human and not sit here wallowing in front of the TV. And I feel so…

Violet: I hate being alone.

Well. Shit. Not what I was expecting.

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I climb into the driver’s side of my truck but make no move to buckle my seat belt. No move to turn over the engine. No move to do anything but send her a reply.

Zeke: I know what you mean. Is there

My roommate’s bitchy whine causes me to hit send too soon.

“Uh, hello, why are we still here?” Oz intones dully, rapping his knuckles against the window. “Are we just going to sit here all night, because if we are, I’ll have James come get me.”

“Dude.” I take a calming breath so I don’t explode. “Just—give me a minute, okay? I’m thinking.”

“Dude, what the hell is going on? Did you get some chick pregnant?” His bark of laughter dies when I look over, expression stony. “Shit. Did you?”

“No, Jesus Christ. It’s Violet, she—”

It’s not my place to spill her personal shit, so my lips clamp shut.

“Give me one more second to text her, all right numb-nuts? Just…climb down out of my asshole so I can shoot her a note. She sounds like she needs some—”

Shit. I was about to say She sounds like she needs some cheering up. Good thing I caught myself, because seriously, the last thing I need is Oz asking me a shit ton of personal questions.

He raises his eyebrows when I tell him, “First we’re running home—I call dibs on the shower. Then I’m running to Violet’s place.”

If Oz is shocked by this news, he—well shit, he’s showing it.

The dumb fucker has his mouth hanging open, eyes wide as saucers. “It’s Friday night, dude—aren’t you coming out with us? Nothing crazy, just a few beers?”

“No.”

My phone pings, and we both look into my lap, down to where my cell sits nestled between my legs.

“I’m going to her house to see if she’s okay.”

Violet

“Zeke! What are you doing here?”

He’s standing on my front porch, hands stuffed in the pockets of a black quilted jacket. Jeans. Brown leather boots. Hair wet from a recent shower.

His wide shoulders slouch uncomfortably then shrug.

“I thought you could use some company.” His mouth is set in a straight line, and if he hadn’t just shown up voluntarily and unannounced, I wouldn’t have believed he came willingly.

“You did?”

He shifts on the balls of his feet. “I thought we could go do something, uh…Fun.”

Is he wincing?

Yes. He definitely is.

I pull back the storm door so he can step through, up into my tiny living room and into the house. Zeke Daniels is in my house, platinum eyes scanning the room. They take inventory of the twenty-year-old couch Winnie’s parents bought us at Goodwill; it’s gold and scratchy, but it’s something to sit on. The dinged up coffee table we found on the curb last semester. There’s a lamp in the corner, our only source of light in the room.

Winnie, Melinda, and I, we’re like the Three Musketeers—or the Three Blind Mice, but poorer.

Zeke’s large frame fills the doorway as he stands rooted to the spot, having not removed his boots. Unless he takes them off, he has nowhere to go, and from the looks of him, he has no desire to go stalking across our brown carpet.

“So,” he begins. “Want to get the hell out of here?”

He doesn’t have to ask me twice.

“Go do what you have to do to get ready; I’ll keep the truck warm.”

When he steps off the front steps, retreating to his giant black truck, I scurry to my bedroom. Yank open my closet, pull out a fresh pair of jeans. A solid black t-shirt; it’s tight, hugs what little curves I actually have.