Just thinking about her nonsense makes me smooth down the lapel of my blazer.

Audrey had a ceremonial burning of her collection of school-issued ties, sweaters, knee socks, and the other items she haphazardly shoved onto her body as she fought me for space in our spare bathroom every morning. Getting ready has been a much calmer experience overall since she graduated high school two years ago.

Of course, most students take liberty with the dress code.

James, for example, barely attempted to make a knot with his tie this morning. It hangs loose on his chest, obscuring the unbuttoned collar.

My phone buzzes in my bag.

It’s Audrey texting to ask if I can check to see if she left her favorite pink sweater in the closet when I get home, and if so, would I please mail it to her???

I promise to do so later, and she sends me a few emoji kissy faces in return.

Part of me wonders if I’m so rigid because Audrey and James are so infuriatingly lax, and I have to overcompensate.

I pull up one of her social media accounts and smile at how funny and overly posed her pictures are. It makes me miss her, like one misses the wind when it’s too stifling outside, so I focus my attention on the girls gossiping a few tables over.

They’re on the track team with James, and they’re talking about how grueling track practice was yesterday. I already know the details of it because James complained about it for the entirety of our ride home.

The girls shift their discussion from the merits of long distance to sprinter training and ranking the hotness level of the guys on the team.

It’s annoying and sexist, but I can’t stop myself from listening in.

Audrey would want me to join in on their conversation, to share my funny stories and opinions on their ranking, but I can’t relate to them.

I’m pretty sure the last time I ran was through the kitchen to grab a bag of chips during a commercial break. And as far as guys go, James has been the first—and pretty much the only—one on my list.

“No way,” Serena laughs. “Dylan Archer over James Lawson any day.”

Her argument isn’t really a surprise—she and Dylan have been on and off for as long as I understood what it even meant to be somebody’s girlfriend.

She’s tall and sleek, the perfect combination for executing all of the jumps that make me chew on my nails in nervousness as I sit in the stands during James’s track meets.

“James is the kind of boy you bring home to your parents, ready to settle down and be seen with in public,” she continues, watching him run his hands through his hair.

My best friend is blissfully unaware of the appraisal of him happening nearby. He should consider himself lucky he doesn’t have to endure the callousness of girl talk.

She’s right, though. James is the guy you bring home to your parents.

In fact, he’s been around my parents for as long as I have. Fate, or something more kind, brought both of our parents together to move into houses next door to each other, and we were brought into this world on the same day.

Out of all the family photos hanging in our respective houses, I don’t think there’s one where the two of us aren’t together, staring at the camera in wonder and occasionally wearing matching outfits.

He’s as familiar to me as my own blood relations, and sometimes I think we’re just an extension of each other.

It wasn’t until our freshman year, when he had his growth spurt and made out with Lyla Gray in the hallway, that I realized I felt something deeper for him.

It’s a common trope, I know, to all of a sudden fall for your best friend out of jealousy or some other emotion I didn’t know how to describe, but unfortunately, I’m as cliché as they come.

But it’s not like most loves I’ve read about. It’s not some all-consuming affection; it’s more like a feeling that he’s a piece of me that I want to hold onto and grow with. Hence the big future plans that he’s mostly oblivious to, despite how our families try to push us together.

Teenage love stories rarely have a happy ending, though, and James and me not ending up romantically involved would be devastating to everyone.

Now is absolutely not the time for us to fall into some hormone-induced relationship anyway.

Maybe after we’ve had some time to mature and get all the mistakes that young people are supposed to make out of our system.

More like college, junior year. A late night of studying turns into something else...

I force my eyes away from him and back on Serena’s words, hoping that her objective view will hold my attention long enough for my brain to recalibrate away from this topic.

“Dylan’s the kind of guy that you, well, have for everything else,” Serena finishes.

Both girls erupt into quiet laughter and drop off into quieter conversation that I can’t hear.

I sink back against the wooden chair and sigh.

“It’s a little bit of a broad generalization, but I’ll take it,” a cool, bored voice says.

My head snaps up so fast, I’m surprised my neck doesn’t break.

Dylan stands tall between a row of bookshelves and seems very amused at how he caught me off guard.

Finally, after a full week, I manage to drive him and his staring out of my mind, only to have him actually talk to me.

“What do you want?” I ask, wanting to cut to the chase.

That’s not how Dylan plays, though.

He treats human interaction like a sport. It doesn’t matter if he’s dealing with a girlfriend, a teacher, or one of the few people I think he considers friends.

There’s no affection. It’s all ego and manipulation.

And I can’t figure out what he wants with me.

My question goes unanswered, and it’s unnerving to me that he has the upper hand in whatever this is.

I feel vulnerable and defenseless, sitting at the edge of the room with all my belongings on display, so I tear my hair from the messy bun on top of my head and let the curls loose.

It’s a terrible shield, but I instantly feel better.

As much as I want everything neat and organized, I’ve spent seventeen years unsuccessfully attempting to tame my wild hair, and for once, it’s a benefit.

“Did you just try to block me out, Reed?” Dylan laughs quietly. “Using frizz as earmuffs? Hilarious.”

“Are you going to tell me what you want?” I ask.

“Your help.”

The two words are so light when they come off his lips that I have to make sure I heard him correctly.

Dylan Archer.

Asking someone for help.

Specifically, me.

I can’t do anything other than turn back around at that, but he’s already on the move.

He stalks over like a predator and takes the seat across from me. The table is a buffer, and I grip the edge like it’s all I have left as a defense against him.

“I’m asking for the third and final time, Archer, what do you want?” I try my hardest to match the balance of nonchalance and venom that I know he has perfected over the years, but it comes off as an uncomfortable groan.

“Why do I get the feeling that you’re not happy to see me?” Dylan asks with mock disappointment.

I look at him.

Really look at him for the first time in a long time.

He’s grown into his height, filled out with long and lean muscles that are no doubt from the miles of running he does each week. His dirty blond hair is swept back off his forehead today, increasing the sharpness of his cheekbones and the severity of his brown eyes.