“You can do better,” he says before I can open my lips to speak. His gaze is direct, and it halts me, if only for this moment. “That’s all I want to say. I just thought you should know. You. Can do. Better.”

His face is serious. There’s a part of me that wonders if he’s flirting. But it doesn’t feel like a pick-up line. Houston—his being here today, his words—this feels more like a rescue.

I smile, perhaps a little indignantly, and turn and step through the exit. When I round the building, I tuck my purse higher on my arm, and I clutch my sandwich and tea to my chest, running my hand along the cool spot on my skin where Houston touched me seconds ago.

Save your heroics for someone else. I have a plan. I’m sticking to it. And I don’t need rescuing.

No, I don’t need rescuing.

* * *

I used to think that I lucked out having a room of my own at the Delta House. So many of the other girls shared, but I had a room all to my self—a big corner one with two windows and a desk with a huge credenza nestled into the corner. But lately, I feel like I’m alone because nobody here really wants to room with me.

I never thought about it before; I was distracted by this fantasy I dreamt about for so long. I’ve always been dazzled by things. This desk—it dazzled me. I’ve been staring at it, at the various pictures I have stuck to the cork board in the back, and those propped up on the shelves at the top. Most of the photos are of Chandra and me, sometimes together with our boyfriends.

Chandra—she hypnotized me too.

The house is empty. It’s a weekend, and everyone has something to do. Chandra is at the stadium, watching her boyfriend practice. I guess she’s watching mine practice too. We have one football game left—it’s homecoming, and we’re going to lose. I don’t really see the point in practicing, but I’m also glad that’s where Carson is.

I feel like I’m waiting for a rocket to launch through my window, for an earthquake to happen. I really shouldn’t assume things will unravel that way. Maybe there’s a chance the photo won’t get picked up. I sent it to the student media, and to a few of the social sites that post about the campus who’s who. Maybe they aren’t interested? Of course they’re interested.

The longer I toss around in my brain what I’ve done, the more I start to regret sending the photo in the first place. Then, I feel guilty for regretting it. This cycle—it’s stupid.

I grab my backpack, stuffing it with every single book I own. I’m a design major, and my finals aren’t really something I need to worry about. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to sit around this empty house waiting for the sun to fall. Hell, I might just study right on through Saturday night. I’m sure the party will be at our house again, and drinking seems to turn my subconscious into a superhero—out to save the world and correct all the bad shit Paige Owens does when she’s sober. It’s pretty sad when the good version of yourself is the drunk one.

“Ugh, finals,” I huff, rolling my eyes as I pass two of the upper-class Deltas sitting in the common area downstairs. They nod and smile, but don’t say anything while I open and close the door behind me. Why didn’t they say anything? Do they already know? Have they seen the picture? Are they talking about what to do with me—the traitor? They’ve never really talked to me before, so why would they now?

I need to get to the library before I die from paranoia.

Houston

Six shifts wasn’t enough. It wasn’t even close to enough. Chuck was good to me when he could be; I knew it—I hated to be that guy who begged. I hate begging. It feels like I do it a lot, though.

I keep checking my watch while I pace outside his office in the front of the grocery store. The glass is reflective; it’s security glass and Chuck’s seeing me pace.

I’m about to sit down on the small wooden bench by the ice and chopped wood bundles when Chuck steps out of his office. He pulls his ill-fitting jeans up over his round belly and tucks the pencil behind his ear with his other hand. The small tuft of hair he has left on his head almost makes it look like a quill.

“Best I can do is add on some produce and cart time. That should bump you up ten more hours though. That do?” It will help, and I don’t want to make him feel bad; I nod and smile, shaking his hand and folding my apron up to tuck under my arm.

“Thanks, Chuck. I’ll be here bright and early to open.” I pull my keys from my pocket. An old, bent stick of gum falls to the ground, so I pick it up and toss it in the trash.