The elevator stops on the fourth level and the girls get off. Audrey gives River a kiss on his cheek and whispers something in his ear.

No doubt what that was about.

On her way out, Harper’s face is flat as she sniffs at my pink knee socks, black velvet mini skirt, and Eiffel Tower cropped sweater. I push up my glasses in defiance. Try me, sorority girl.

She gives me a sly smile and lifts her hand to push a strand of hair out of her face. My breath hitches as I catch the glimmer of the diamond tennis bracelet Donovan gave her for her birthday. It’s sparkly with two rows of jewels. The total weight is three carats. Not to my taste, but she never misses an opportunity to flash it at every party and have loud conversations about it…

Donovan was the most attentive boyfriend. He buys the best gifts, she’d gush to her Delta sisters as she—once again—flashed her bracelet. I can’t believe he’s dating that girl. Then, she’d smirk, giggle, and walk away.

Just like now.

Whatever.

I mostly ignore them, but today—well, today, my patience is shredding as each minute passes, a tightrope walker about to fall.

Why did I have to see her today?

Dammit. How could he forget my birthday?

The door slides shut. Finally.

River gets his phone out of his skinny jeans. I guess it was on silent. He laughs softly as he answers. “Baby girl, you gotta stop calling me. Get dressed, okay? Alright, alright, wear the one that has sequins on it. I know, baby girl. Soon. I can’t wait to see you. You rock my world too.” Another kiss into the phone.

He hangs up and hums under his breath, not a care in the world, and my tightrope walker says Fuck it and falls off the high wire.

I huff out a laugh. “Wow. Two girls on the hook, one on the phone and one in the elevator, and it’s just a regular day for you—in spite of losing to a cupcake team from nowhere Louisiana this weekend. Your game sucked. Your season sucked. Furthermore, I’m shocked you didn’t call Audrey baby girl. Let me educate you: that term is infantilizing. A baby girl is an actual thing and to use it as a term of endearment is gross. What if I called you baby boy? Not the same, right?”

He turns to me slowly. His lips part as if I’ve sprouted two heads.

I want to stomp my foot. He pretends I’m not here—when I can see myself clearly in the mirrored walls.

“Yeah, you see how that doesn’t work,” I add since he seems speechless. “If you must have a pet name, try dear or love or, I don’t know, honey or darling. Anything less obnoxious, but hey… You. Are. Obnoxious.”

It’s deathly quiet in the elevator.

Oh crap, I’ve crossed a line.

He and I, we don’t address the tension between us.

“Anastasia.” He says my name as if he’s tasting it, lingering and dragging out the four syllables.

“What?” I snap.

“Infantilizing? What a word.” He shuts his eyes. “There. Maybe it’ll stick.” He opens them and gives me a slow once-over, from top to bottom. “This might be the most you’ve said to me in a while. Having a bad day?”

“My day is freaking perfect.”

“Are you jealous of my ‘baby girl’?”

I shake my head to clear it. “No! And the most I’ve ever said—please. I’m at the house constantly. I’ve been in your class all semester. I’m around you all the time, but…”

“But what?”

“You…” My voice trails off.

“Yes, me? Keep talking.”

No, I can’t (he’s Donovan’s frat brother), so instead I look away from him. My shoulders slump as a long exhalation comes from my chest.

What am I doing? This isn’t me.

I don’t lash out at others to make myself feel better. I’m not hot-headed or sassy like my roommates. I veer to the meek side unless you hurt someone I care about.

I stare at the floor, hoping it swallows me. My life is just so uncertain, and everything I thought was going to happen isn’t. No Harvard next fall. A relationship that’s on the verge of ending.

It’s not his fault I’m having a terrible day.

“Never mind,” I say. “I shouldn’t have… Just forget it.”

“No.”

“Yes. Forget we even spoke. Please.”

“No.”

“Okay, keep saying no, but I’m forgetting it.” To further prove this, I stare at my cell phone, pretending to scroll.

“If I’d known all it took to push your buttons was having a conversation with my four-year-old niece, I’d have been talking to her all the time. She’s nervous about preschool and keeps calling me. She also wants me to buy her a big stuffed unicorn for Christmas. Every shirt she owns has a horse, a dog, or a unicorn on it. With sequins. She’s the sweetest. Unlike you.” He pauses. “I’ve been calling her baby girl since the day I held her in my arms at the hospital.”

I flick my eyes at him. “Likely story. You’ve been pushing my buttons for a year.”

Quietly. Stealthily. Just enough so that it’s not too obvious.

If we’re in a group talking at the Kappa house, he pointedly looks at his nails or stares over my shoulder. Two weeks ago, I walked in the house while he played poker with some of the guys in the basement. They invited me to play the next round, and I said yes since Donovan was taking a nap. River jumped up from the table as soon as I sat down, grabbed a random girl, pulled her into his lap, and sat on the couch. I lost two rounds because I couldn’t stop watching her nearly strangle him with her tongue.

My phone pings with a text from Donovan and I tear my eyes off River to read it, holding out hope that he remembered. Ana? You never replied. Are you coming to the toga party? We can celebrate my acceptance. I thought you might have to work? Btw, I checked out some neighborhoods for apartments near Harvard. What do you think about Longwood? Or Mission Hill? Let me send you some links.

Celebrate his acceptance?

My chest squeezes as disappointment sharpens to deep hurt.

River says my name again, bringing me back. He stares at me, fingers back to twisting that ring around his finger. He frowns. “I thought the bathroom door was locked that night.”

And we’re back to that. Anger rushes through my veins.

“It wasn’t!”

He gives me an incredulous look. “Why are you yelling? I didn’t invite you to watch.”

“I don’t know! I am having a bad day. Why is this elevator so slow?” I pinch the bridge of my nose.

He looks at my cell, then me. His voice lowers. “What’s wrong?”

I swallow thickly. “Nothing.”

“No, it’s something. Your face is red and you’re clenching your phone. Something has you fired up. It’s not me—I’ve done nothing but be myself.”

Precisely.

“You pretend I don’t exist. Don’t deny it.”

“I’m not,” he says quietly.

I suck in a breath, feeling a stab right to my chest. I blink rapidly. I mean, I knew this, but today it really stings.

What have I done to him? Why does he hate me?

“Anastasia—”

“It’s Ana.” I grind my teeth. “You’re the only person who calls me Anastasia besides my parents.”