With Nate (that’s his name), there’s no note. Yeah, he said I was hot. Or, he sort of said I was hot. He actually said the way I wear my shoes is hot, and I’m not sure that counts, but then he hung out with my roommate in his room all night. Not the cool one, he hung out with her too, but she was there for his brother. Long story. Anyhow, I could have gone, too. I was the one he invited, but then I just froze.

I’m frozen, Josh. And I don’t know how to get unstuck. I know you won’t answer. I know you don’t have an answer to give me. But I wish you did.

Oh, and I think Ross might be full of shit. Because I don’t feel any better. Like, at all.

Love,

Rowe

What I need to do is be more like my friend Betsy. Betsy wouldn’t think—she would just act. Maybe that’s the new mantra I need to follow: “What would Betsy do?”

I know what she would do right now. She would march over to Nate’s room and barge right in just like she belonged there. Be like Betsy. Be like Betsy. I tip my head over my knees and run my fingers through my wet hair, fluffing it out into waves.

Be like Betsy. Be like Betsy. I stuff my feet into my sneakers, grab my wallet and keys, and shove them into my back pockets after I pull my door closed behind me. The hallway is quiet, because it’s still painfully early. I’m careful with my steps, like I’m sneaking up on someone. All I can hear is the thump of my pulse in my ears, and I’m worried it’s distracting me—keeping me from hearing someone coming.

I lean against the wall next to Nate’s door, and for minutes I just listen. The less I hear, the more my heart races, until I’m either going to pass out or choose to be strong.

More than a few times, I turn to walk away, but I keep pausing at the elevator and walking back. Finally, on my last trip, I shut my eyes at his door and turn the handle slowly, stepping carefully into his room, which looks like a smaller version of mine. It’s dark in here, so I leave the door slightly cracked to let my eyes adjust. At first, I don’t quite know what I’m staring at. But then the blonde curls of Paige’s hair register with me, and she rolls over, twisting her body into the blankets even more—unfortunately not enough to cover her underwear. Panties that are nothing like a single pair in my drawer. Victoria Secret panties, made of barely anything at all.

“Hey,” someone whispers, and I just back to the door a little. “Hey, it’s Ty. Rowe? That you?”

Ty is lifting his chest up from the other bed, and I blush when I recognize Cass is cradled next to him.

“Oh god, I’m sorry. I was just…they didn’t come home. So, I…I don’t know. I’ll just go,” I fluster, hitting my knee with the door when I pull it open. God, could I be any louder?

“If you’re looking for Nate, he had workouts this morning. He’s out on the fields,” he whispers, lying back down and moving the pillow over his face to block the little light I’m letting in.

“Okay. Thanks,” I say, with no intention of doing anything with that information other than going back to my own bed to fume over Paige and where she slept last night.

“Oh, and hey. When you see him, make sure you ask him when his birthday is,” Ty says, and within an instant, I swear he’s sleeping again.

I shut the door behind me, and before I can talk myself out of it, I go to the elevator and push the button for the first floor. What would Betsy do? Be like Betsy.

It’s getting easier to leave the building on my own, which is promising for my first day of classes the day after tomorrow. But right now, I’m grateful for ulterior reasons. I keep telling myself that every act I’m doing is an amazing achievement in my own recovery. But really, it’s just an act of bitter jealousy—and so will be the embarrassing fit I throw in front of Nate after his practice, when I rip him apart for being predictable and hooking up with Paige for the night.

Unless…unless it’s not just for the night? Maybe they hit it off? Maybe he decided he likes her after he got to know her. And maybe she’s more than just Katy Perry lyrics and G-strings.

As much as the doubt is there now, I can’t convince myself wholly of the idea of Nate and Paige as a couple. Not that I want to be a couple with Nate. I just don’t want anyone else to be. I think I may need to write Josh again.

The ball fields are easy to find. When I climb onto the bleachers, my back against the solid corner in the back, I’m transported to my life two years ago. The way the ball sounds when it’s struck by the bat—I think it’s a similar effect some people have with wind chimes. Over and over, that repetitive crack! The sounds of gloves catching balls, of boys shouting plays, random swear words, and laughing. It’s every practice my dad ever held. It’s every tryout I went to with him. It’s watching Josh play summer ball, and staying late to watch his practices after tennis would end.