You’ll get in. I just know it. Wish I could see you tonight to celebrate, but I’ll be deep in a research paper at the library. Toga party Friday?

I blink. Really? That’s five days from now. Surely he wants to see me before then? I must be misunderstanding him.

It’s just…

We didn’t see each other this weekend because he drove to Atlanta to see his family—without me—which is absolutely cool. I had to work at The Truth Is Out There. “And his parents think you’re a gold digger,” I say to myself.

So. Yeah.

His family has generational wealth, and while I’m not destitute, I didn’t grow up with Rembrandts on the wall either. This past summer I was there for his grandparents’ fiftieth wedding anniversary gala. The place settings at the table featured countless plates, forks, spoons, and crystal glasses. The flower arrangements were three feet tall. I legit had to look around them to see Donovan—who wasn’t sitting next to me but across the table next to an eligible girl from his parent’s circle of friends. My retro yellow velvet dress didn’t fit in with the black cocktail dresses the other women wore. My black thigh-high heeled boots were cheap pleather. My lavender hair made everyone squint.

His grandmother passed me in the hall before dinner, raked her eyes over me, and curled her lip. Dear, the catering staff stays in the kitchen, and shouldn’t you pull your hair up and wear something more appropriate? Then she asked me to refresh her champagne.

The socialite who sat next to me during dinner went on and on about her daughter’s debutante ball while the man on the other side of me (her husband) rested his hand on my back every time he mentioned one of his vacation homes or his investment portfolio, which was a lot. Donovan wouldn’t meet my gaze across the table, and an anxious feeling began to grow and grow and grow. Short story: I drank a little too much champagne, ate tiramisu with an oyster fork, then asked for A.1. Steak Sauce for my filet.

You’d have thought I murdered someone the way his mom gaped at me.

Cold December wind whips my hair around my face, obscuring my view as I grip my phone. My shoulders slump as my fingers hover over my cell, waiting for a text from him—the one he needs to send right freaking now.

I wait a full minute. Crickets.

I jerk up my backpack and walk.

He didn’t mention my birthday.

Stomping up the steps, I chew on my bottom lip as I wrestle with my emotions. He is forgetful. On top of his classes and volunteer work, he’s also the vice president of the Kappa fraternity.

It’s fine, I rationalize. He just got in from a weekend out of town, saw he got into Harvard, and that’s all he’s thinking about.

Maybe he’s planning something and wants to surprise me later. I wince. He really isn’t a surprise kind of guy—except for our meet cute. I soften as I recall that night in the library.

He was with his fraternity brothers at a table next to mine, his brown eyes behind a pair of modern black frames as he checked me out. When I left my table to find a book, I came back to find a note on my copy of The Outsiders.

I have his message memorized.

* * *

‘You should be kissed and often, and by someone who knows how.’

Let me introduce myself. I’m your next boyfriend. Yeah, let that horrible come-on line sink in, but the sentiment is sincere. Cross my heart and hope to die—not really, but you know what I mean.

There are three things about you that caught my attention. You smell like sunshine, your hair needs my hands in it, and I’ll be honest… I dig your kickass shoes. Those sparkly Chucks are a conversation starter.

Where are you from?

Are you new here?

What are you doing after this?

Please tell me you’re single.

Also… I’m not a serial killer.

Or an alien. (People in Walker really dig that stuff.)

Or a player.

Or a douchebag.

Or a dick.

Wait? Are those last three kind of all the same thing? Maybe? Anyway…

I’m just the guy in front of you, at a table in the library, baring his soul.

I’ll wait for you outside when the library closes. If you pack up and leave now, I’ll know it’s a no.

Your first reaction to this note may be to run as far away as you can, but you only live once and what do you have to lose?

Fate has a way of bringing people together, and maybe we’re meant to be. Give me a chance to prove I’m much better in person than on paper. I haven’t seen you smile and I want to.

Kappa Boy (at the table across from you)

* * *

When I picked up the messily scrawled message to study it, I looked over and two of the three guys at the Kappa table froze.

Had to be from one of them.

The author of the note noticed that I didn’t smile. As a transfer student, I was down that night, worried about credit card debt and making friends, all while trying to adjust to a big university from online classes.

Was the note cheesy, ridiculous, and over the top? Oh yeah.

But…

It was the Gone with the Wind quote that sealed the deal.

A guy who’s read one of my favorite books? Hello, handsome.

Plus, it was funny in a charming way that made me laugh, as if he had word vomit and wrote out random thoughts.

My eyes flitted to them. These three guys were hot in different ways, each with hard bodies like they worked out twenty-four seven, their black and gold Kappa shirts tight on their chests.

I’d heard they were the most popular frat on campus, all the rich guys and superstar athletes. But why would one of them be interested in me? That night, my pale face was devoid of makeup and my hair was in disastrous topknot shaped like a tornado. I wore my big white glasses, a pair of gray tie-dyed leggings, and a pink Nirvana hoodie. In other words, a hot mess without the hot.

I studied them as covertly as possible with my head bent, my eyes scanning over them. There was the sandy hair and glasses guy (Donovan), another male with the most devastatingly perfect face I’d ever seen, and a blond-haired fellow who was half-asleep.

I narrowed it down to either Glasses or Perfect Guy. Both of them openly stared as I clutched the note.

My body liked Perfect Guy—he had tattoos and his lips were to die for—but he made my stomach jumpy. Earlier in the night, I’d watched a stream of sorority girls fawn over him when he dropped his pen. He was out of my league. Too hot. Too popular.

In the end, I waited until the bell pinged that the library was closing. The guys stood up and left. Anxious yet excited about which one of them it was, I gave them five minutes.

When I walked out of the library—pepper spray in hand because a girl has to be careful—Glasses (Donovan) was the one sitting at the fountain in the courtyard with a huge smile on his face. He rushed up to me and grabbed my hands. “You are the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.”

It was so not true, but I laughed anyway, and we’ve been together ever since. We became friends first, then lovers.

Funny. I wish he’d leave more notes like that.

“But he doesn’t,” I mutter loudly. A passing student starts and gives me side-eye.

“Yes, I talk to myself,” I say to her back. “It was a lonely childhood.”

Warm air hits me as I walk into the lobby and dash for the elevator. I’m late. I groan knowing I’ll have to walk into Dr. Whitman’s lecture while he’s talking. The man is vicious.