I told her I moved from the sorority back to Cass, since they weren’t happy about me moving out in the first place, and the transfer messed up my payment, so it would come out later. But my lies were getting confounded—too many to keep track. Eventually, my father put together that there were holes in my story—time that I couldn’t account for, periods where it seemed like I was homeless. Rather than tell him I lived with a man, one who fathered a little girl in high school, I decided it was better to switch his focus to Chandra and the video.

My dad went on a cyber-bullying mission, wanting to file a formal complaint with the university for allowing such activity to happen. My mom—she just cried—disappointed that I would let myself be in a video “like that.” No matter how many times I explained that it wasn’t really me, she didn’t understand. I guess parts were actually of me, so she might as well be disappointed.

I’m pretty disappointed in myself, too, really.

My indiscretions have taken the focus off my sister and her MS, which is maybe the only silver lining thus far. Cass has had to endure daily calls on her health from one of our parents ever since we stepped foot on this campus. When she relapsed over the holidays, those calls became twice-daily routines. But for the last week, every time one of them calls, they ask to talk to me. My father is itching to sue someone—I think it’s part of being a lawyer; he craves litigation. As long as that video stays hidden, and my name stays out of the newspaper, though, I should be able to avoid having nightly legal debriefs with him.

“You’re up early,” Rowe says, cracking the door open and spotting me sitting in the hall. She startles me, and the coffee I picked up from the stand downstairs spills on my lap.

“Shit!” I say, setting the cup aside and wiping the drops onto the floor.

“Sorry,” she says, recoiling a little. I scare her. I don’t mean to. Intimidating her—that used to be a goal. But not anymore. It’s a habit I need to break.

“It’s fine,” I say, keeping my eyes on my screen. I don’t hide what I’m looking for. Rowe and Cass know about the video. I told them before I called Dad. I needed reinforcement. They don’t know that I’m the Chandra-whistleblower, though, but at this point, I don’t really care if they find that out either. I just feel like it might be better for my sister if she’s in the dark. Cass had the most to gain from Chandra being gone.

Rowe slips out the door, shutting it quietly, then slides her back along the wall so she’s sitting next to me. Her nearness makes me uneasy—mostly because I haven’t been very good to her. She’s the only one who seems to sense there’s more to Houston than a casual friendship. She hasn’t verbalized it, but I notice the looks she gives me. Rowe is very observant, and I hate that she senses this about me, but it makes me love her, too…just a little.

She’s looking at my screen, watching me type in my name and scroll through news sites. I keep my eyes on what I’m doing, but I’m trying to think of something to say to her. That’s the biggest problem—when I’m alone with her, I don’t know what to say. We have nothing in common.

After a few minutes, she slides a pink heart on top of my keyboard. It’s made of paper, and one side is a little larger than the other. I can tell she cut it out herself, and there’s a handwritten note scribbled on one side. I put my finger on it and slide it into my lap, glancing at it but not really reading in front of her.

I turn to the side to make eye contact, the side of my mouth curling up for a faint smile.

“Thanks,” I say softly.

“You’re welcome,” she says, just as quietly.

It’s Friday. Valentine’s Day. And Rowe and Cass have plans with Nate and Ty tonight. There was a pathetic invite thrown my way, to be the fifth wheel on their double date. Pity—it’s come to pity. What’s worse…I’m actually considering meeting them at the bar. The thought of trying to get a cute guy to buy me a drink sounds like a good challenge for my ego.

When I moved back in, nobody asked any questions. Ty only asked if he could still call Houston for poker. I told him that we were fine, still friends. I just didn’t want to live with him any more.

Friends.

I miss my friend.

Rowe stands, her legs pausing next to me. I can tell she’s looking at me, waiting for me to say something more. But per usual, I have nothing to say to her, so I take a long sip of my coffee, pretending it’s hot; it’s lukewarm at best. When she finally slips back inside our room, I let out my breath and look at the closed door between us.