I shake off the memory of the day in his bedroom and gape at him.

He’s actually touching me—on purpose. I’m five eight but have to tip my head up to gaze at him. I stare down at his hand. “What are you doing?”

His forehead furrows. “Did Donovan do something?”

He’s eerily close to the truth. I pull out of his grasp.

He drops his hand. “I didn’t mean to touch you.”

Unsure what to say, I stare at his lavender-colored Chucks. They’re worn but clean, the shoestrings white enough to look as if they’ve been replaced. They’re shoes a guy loves. Is it strange that we’re wearing almost the same exact pair? Mine have a bit of a heel and his don’t.

“Anastasia, look at me.” He steeples his hands together as he watches me, calling attention to the letters tattooed there. Written below his knuckles, the letters form the word THREE on both hands, a letter for each finger.

“Did you break up?”

“I don’t need relationship advice from you.”

“Maybe you need a psychiatrist. You talk to yourself a lot. What was that shit in the elevator?”

“Knew it. You just can’t help being a jerk.”

“Let me educate you. Jerk is unimaginative, not quite infantilizing, but close since it insinuates emotional immaturity. You’re smart—supposedly. Can’t you come up with something, oh, I don’t know, more obnoxious?”

I can’t even. My even has just gone boom. “Tool.”

“Nope, try again.”

“You’re more disappointing than an unsalted pretzel.”

“Pathetic. I happen to like my pretzels dipped in mustard, salted or not.”

“I forgot the world revolves around you. Sorry, how silly of me.”

He narrows his gaze. “You’ve disappointed me. I need you to really let it out, baby girl.”

“You’re the human version of my cramps.”

“Gross, but lacks conviction. Haven’t you heard? Everyone adores me. I thought you had some fire underneath that purple head of yours.”

My fists clench. “It’s lavender! Fine! You’re an arrogant, bed-hopping asshole.”

He smirks. “Ouch, you went to sex—just leaving the door open for me. I guess you’re implying I get laid a lot. Oh, wait, you’ve seen me. You stood there a really long time, Anastasia. You caught the best part. Our eyes met. And held. Maybe you should have stuck around for round two—”

“Fuck you forever, River Tate,” I snap.

“Fuck me forever—that’s a new one. Finally.” He lets out a gruff laugh. “Feel better?”

I blink. “Maybe.”

“You need to let it out. I use the punching bag in the basement of the Kappa house. And showers. Tell me what happened to ruin your day. The more you talk about it, the easier it will be.”

I break our gaze. He has a way about him, a gift for encouraging others and getting them stoked. Not me, of course.

As a football player, he’s an unlikely candidate to be president, but he and Donovan work well together. River has big ideas and Donovan loves to execute them. At the beginning of the semester, River brought in several bigwigs from the business world in Atlanta to speak at a campus-wide event. Then, he came up with a dance contest for the Greeks. Every sorority and frat signed up and did an entire show. Costumes, music—you name it. It raised twenty thousand dollars for a homeless shelter. Donovan typed the event up on his resume with glee.

“Donovan…” I bite my lip, unsure what to say.

“What did he do?”

“He forgot my birthday.” I check my phone again, hoping for a birthday text from him. Nothing. “It’s not that big of a deal,” I lie.

He frowns. “That sucks. It must hurt.”

I glance away from him. I don’t even bring up my parents and how much I’m missing them lately. They’ve been in Greece for a year and haven’t called me for my birthday yet, which isn’t too surprising. My parents are artists who barely keep up with the day of the week.

Growing up, Mom would wake up on a regular day and start packing. Let’s live on a houseboat in Seattle. A few months there and we’d be off to a new place. I don’t have a real home and never attended a real school. I only came to Braxton for my last two years because it would look good on law school applications.

My parents taught me to depend on myself. To be strong.

But, sometimes, Jesus, I just wish they were…here. When I don’t get into Harvard. When money is tight. When the guy I love forgets—

I stop the spiral in my head.

“You’ll probably see him at the house, but don’t tell him he forgot, okay? I just…” don’t want to get River involved.

“Forgetting something that important isn’t like him. He’s my right-hand man.” He pauses, his eyes on my lips. “And a good friend.”

“He’s overwhelmed this semester. You keep him busy.”

River’s jaw flexes. “What can I say, he’s super organized. I couldn’t have held office without him. We’re opposites but click.”

“Everyone clicks with you. Except me.”

“You think?” He shifts closer and I take a tiny step back, bumping into the wall. With his height, he towers over me and makes me feel fragile and small, when normally I don’t.

“Um…” I say, then stop, taking in the colors in his eyes. Indigo dipped in smoke. Sapphires wrapped in a storm. I swallow thickly, taking in his thick lashes, dark brows, and the sharp angles of his face.

“Would you, um, take a step back, please?”

He doesn’t. “How old are you today?”

“Twenty-one.”

He nods. “I’m going to be twenty-two. Had to repeat kindergarten. Almost had to repeat seventh and eleventh, but my coach fixed it. They say the odd years in school are the hardest. I thought they all sucked.” His lips quirk.

I blink. Besides the fact that he isn’t moving back when I asked him to, I’m definitely in a parallel universe where River is sort of nice to me. Don’t get used to it, I remind myself. There’s probably a reason. Maybe he got a concussion at the game this weekend. Maybe he’s having an aneurysm. Maybe he’s—

I hear the professor’s voice calling roll. “We should go to class,” I say.

Neither of us moves.

He runs a hand through his hair. It looks soft, the top longer than the sides, the back curling around his collar. “You know what I do when my day is shit? I remember three things I’m grateful for. Anything. Could be the fact that the Wi-Fi in the Kappa house is working. Might be clean underwear. Could be a phone call from Callie—that’s my niece. What’s yours?”

“Does the high and mighty River Tate have a gratitude journal?”

“In my head.”

“Is that really who you were talking to on the phone?”

“Come on. Try. Give me one thing you’re grateful for.” His finger flicks the Kappa pin on my sweatshirt, his touch ghosting over my throat. “This?”

Electricity sparks, and I gasp, pushing the tingles away. Those little shocks don’t mean a thing. Yes, he’s accidentally touched me before, and he always flinches away.