Nate never asks why I need to move, and I never tell him. Instead, he picks up the conversation, and starts to tell me about his family and growing up in Louisiana, and I listen—at first, splitting my attention between my heart rate and breathing as well as Nate’s words, until eventually all of my focus is on him.

“You and your brother are close,” I say, not really needing to ask it. He smiles and nods at my question.

“Ty’s my best friend. Always has been. I had friends in high school when he was gone and at college. But Ty, he’s the only guy I ever share my secrets with.”

For some reason, the second he says it, all I want to do is become the second person he shares secrets with. Maybe it’s because I don’t have anyone to share mine with, and the thought of getting some of this out is so inviting.

“How about you. You have any brothers or sisters?” he asks.

“Just me and my parents. I spend most of my time with my mom, because her office hours are at home. We live near the campus she works at—she teaches economics at State. She homeschooled me the last two years, so I guess that would make her my best friend.” And that would make me…pathetic.

“It’s nice that you’re close to your mom,” he says, and I smile and look down into my lap. Am I close to my mom? I guess I am. I don’t really hide much from her, but I don’t really have much to hide either. She knows my issues. She’s more like my doctor—my live-in, enabling-and-disabling doctor. But Nate’s not ready to hear all of that yet. I wouldn’t even know how to begin to articulate it without telling him everything.

“So, tell me something about yourself,” I say, wanting to get the focus away from me for a while. “Who is Nate—” I panic for a moment when I realize I don’t remember his last name. Instead of asking, I hold up a finger and pull my phone from my pocket to look up his Facebook message. “Preeter! Who is Nate Preeter?”

The way he laughs sets me at ease, and at that moment I realize I can no longer hear my heartbeat rattling in my own head.

“Ouch! I made like…no impression on you at all, did I?” he chuckles, and I flush a little, embarrassed that I forgot his last name.

“That’s not true. You made an impression. We just met, though, so that’s not fair. I can’t be expected to remember everything. I know your room number! That one stuck! Besides, I bet you don’t remember my full name.”

As soon as I issue that challenge, he leans forward on his elbows, and I get a good look into his eyes. They were mesmerizing in the dark, but here—in the full light of day—they are breathtaking. There’s a grayish hue to them, and when his brown and golden hair drapes over his forehead while he talks, I can’t help but awe at the contrast of the light and dark. I could get lost in his features, but suddenly his voice captures my attention.

“You’re Rowe Stanton, a freshman from Arizona, and you’re here with honors. You haven’t picked a major yet, though I can tell from the small things you said during our walk over here that you really like art. You should think about that. You used to play tennis, and I bet you could still kick my ass, and you don’t wear socks with your sneakers. I like that. It’s hot.”

He sits back when he’s done, and takes a long sip of water, the smirk on his lips peeking out from the sides of the glass. I feel naked in front of him. Granted, he didn’t really pull out anything very personal—except for the art comment, that one was pretty intuitive—but the fact that he’s locked away every fact I’ve given him makes me feel…something. And my heartbeat is suddenly pounding again in my eardrums, but for an entirely different reason.

“So, art, huh?” I say, trying to build a little distance from the fact that he just called me hot.

“Yeah. Art…you seem to be interested in it. You should think about that. And yes, Rowe.”

“Yes, what?” I gulp.

“I think you’re hot. You made an impression.”

Nate

Something tells me that if I put a pencil in her hand, Rowe would draw me a picture, and it would probably be the prettiest damn sketch I’ve ever seen. I wish there was a fast-forward button somewhere I could hit to get to her secrets. She keeps everything so guarded, and I feel like we’re playing a game of chess, the way she detours our conversation away from herself.

Our food is coming out—just my luck, the one time that kitchen is fast. Rowe doesn’t waste any time, and normally I’d love the fact that she doesn’t pick at her food. She wraps both hands around the bun of her burger and takes a bite that makes a serious dent. At this rate, she’ll be done and ready to go in about ten minutes.