When we make it upstairs, Rowe pauses, and I can see Nate hesitating. She’s not feeling well, and I think he’s considering staying with her. But he eventually gives in and joins Paige, Ty, and me back in their room.

Ty is twenty-two, so their mini fridge is well stocked with beer and their shelves with hard liquor. Just one look at the tequila makes my stomach turn, so I make a face at him and cover my mouth. “Overdo the tequila last night did you?” he teases, and I immediately nod yes in return.

One thing I learned from my mistakes in high school is not to be embarrassed to admit I’m drunk—or that I don’t want to drink. Paige, however, seems more than willing to have a repeat performance, and she downs a few shots within the first five minutes we’re in Nate and Ty’s room.

It’s comfortable in here. Everything is darker than our room, probably because they have a blanket looped over their curtain rod to keep the room extra dark. Their space also feels more masculine. It’s void of extra stuff, only necessities and the random magazine or two.

Ty is quick to pull himself from the chair into his bed. He pulls his shoes from his feet and lets them fall to the floor before unbuckling what looks like a very expensive watch and tossing it on the dresser right next to his bed. He looks up at me when he’s done, scoots his body closer to the wall, and then pats the space next to him.

“Uh uh,” I say, surveying the small stretch of open floor, not really ready to get horizontal with Ty.

“Come on, it’s just a bed,” he says, that perfect smirk luring me. Do I want to lie next to him? Of course I do. It’s just that I’ve learned through painful experience that the easy ones never stay long—they leave scars and change the course of your life without sticking around to see the fallout. I don’t want Ty to be easy. I want him to be a challenge—slow and thoughtful. A boyfriend. Easy ones aren’t boyfriends either.

There isn’t much room on the floor, though, and I will look ridiculous if I pull over Nate’s desk chair. My stomach sinks with that dropping sensation, because I hate that I’m giving in. But I do it anyway, and I slide onto my side to face Ty, careful to keep myself at least an arm’s length away.

“Oh my god, I can’t believe you bought that line. Now that I have you in my bed, I’m totally going to take advantage of you and turn you into my sex slave,” he says, only able to hold the serious look on his face for a fraction of a second before rolling his eyes.

“You’re an ass!” I say, smacking lightly against his chest, pulling my hand back quickly this time, so he can’t catch it.

“Yeah, I know,” he says, the corner of his lip curled up in that perfect way. “But I am going to kiss you again. Sometime…soonish. Just FYI.”

“We’ll see about that,” I say, taking note of the pleasant flutter in my belly. I love that flutter. I haven’t felt it since before the diagnosis—since before I turned myself into a doormat for heartbreakers. “And FYI? Chicks don’t dig it when you woo them about kissing with an FYI like some five-minute business deal.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he says, his eyes boring into me. “I get the feeling you mean business.”

“Oh, I’m all business,” I tease, pursing my lips and crossing my arms in front of my chest in defiance. I’m enjoying this game.

“Pity,” he says, rolling to his back and folding his arms behind his head. “Me? I’m all pleasure.”

FYI, you can go ahead and kiss me now.

Ty

Cassidy Owens is a goddamned goddess. I have no idea what she’s still doing in my bed, but she’s still here—I must have a shitload of karma I’m cashing in. We’ve spent the last hour talking about everything. I mean everything!

Cass likes cheeseburgers, and she dips her fries in mayonnaise. But she runs an extra two miles when she knows she’s going to eat like crap. She cares about her body, but not for vain reasons. She says she just likes to feel healthy. Usually, I’d call bullshit when a chick says something like that. Chicks always play off wanting to look hot, and they do it so you’ll tell them they look hot anyway. It’s stupid. But I really don’t think Cass gives a shit about the physical side effects of her workouts. She wants to be strong—like a killer.

She didn’t get too deep with me about soccer, but I get the sense she misses it. I’m not sure why she gave it up. From what I gathered, she would have made the team at McConnell, easily. She’s a competitor. I understand—so am I. And there isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t miss running the bases. If my body would let me round third just one more time, I would in a heartbeat. But when I brought up the idea of her training for tryouts, Cass just shrugged.