Digging through my duffle, I find gray boxer briefs. Pull those on, all the while ignoring the looming shadow beside me.

Why is he still here? Why does he care? This is a guy who doesn’t give a flying fuck about anything; suddenly he has a vested interest in my dating life?

I’m in hell, that’s what’s happening—there can be no other explanation.

Resigned, I ask, “What the hell am I supposed to say to Hannah? You know how girls are—Skylar probably told her every last detail, probably cried all night and—”

“Ate all the ice cream?”

“No. I was going to say plotted revenge.”

“Oh yeah, that makes more sense. A scorned girl is ruthless, but her friends are worse.”

“I didn’t scorn her.” Why is he so dramatic?

“Right. You catfished her—that’s even worse.” When I go to argue, he holds his palm up to shush me. “Don’t say it. We both know that’s what you did, because you’re a dumbfuck and you weren’t thinking straight.”

I’ve never been called a dumbfuck by anyone in my entire life. I’ve been called brainy, smart, too sharp for my own good… never a dumbfuck.

“Fine. Whatever.” I root around for mesh shorts and step into them. “What am I supposed to say to Hannah?”

“The good news is, when you call—don’t text her, because all she’ll do is chew your ass out then block you—she won’t know it’s you, so she’s going to answer her phone.”

True.

“Maybe say some shit like, ‘Wait! Before you hang up…’ so she doesn’t hang up.”

I roll my eyes.

He’s not impressed with my dismissal of his suggestion. “You should be writing this down.”

“That one sentence?” I feel around my upper torso like I’m searching for a writing utensil. “Gee, looks like I don’t have a pen.”

“Don’t be a smartass.” First I’m a dumbfuck, now I’m a smartass.

“Hold up. Quick question: do you think I should tell JB about this?”

“Are you out of your mind? First of all, he’s the one who got you into this mess. Secondly, all’s fair in love and war, and he’s a moron. He’s going to cockblock you left and right and three ways from Sunday and still not want that Sky whatever-her-name-is. So forget it. This is no longer his fucking business—completely out of his jurisdiction.” He’s giving me a hard glare. “Any other stupid questions?”

“Nope.” Just that one.

“Good. Now as I was saying—once you have Hannah’s attention, play up the fact that you’ve never done anything this stupid before.”

Which is true.

“And you’re a smart dude who made a really stupid mistake.”

Also true.

“And that if she helps you out, you swear you’ll never do anything this fucking stupid again, and if you do, she’s welcome to chop your nuts off with whatever dull object she can find.”

“That’s my only option? Her chopping my nuts off?”

His brows rise. “Stop talking. I’m on a roll here.”

God he’s an asshole.

He’s also gone silent, brows furrowed, forehead creasing. “Fuck. I lost my train of thought.” The glare he gives me could shrivel anyone’s nuts by four sizes.

“I’m sorry!” I blurt out, slightly traumatized by the exchange to begin with. This is so weird, getting advice from him. Zeke has barely spoken ten words to me in the three years I’ve been on the team, and suddenly, he’s playing matchmaker.

“I guess start with Hannah. If that doesn’t work, give up, because dude—don’t be a stalker.” His favorite thing to do is look people up and down, and he does it to me, again. “If I find out you’re creeping on her, I’ll sock you in the balls.”

I cup a hand over my scrotum. “I don’t want you socking my balls.”

He stares at me like I’m mental, lip curled on one end. “No one wants to be socked in the balls, dipshit.”

Okay then.

Skylar

“Sky, can I talk to you for a minute?” Hannah scrapes her fingernails on my doorframe as a courtesy—the action makes my skin crawl—then enters without waiting for a reply.

It’s late, and a Thursday, so we’re both in our pajamas, but it’s clear only one of us has been studying while the other has been lying on her bed, staring at the ceiling for the past thirty minutes.

That’d be me.

I roll toward the wall, giving her a wide berth to sit on the edge of my mattress, the weight of her body sinking down, her palm resting on the swell of my hip as she bounces up and down a few times.

She gives me a nudge, eyes soft behind her black framed computer glasses, which she pushes atop her head so she can see straight. “Hey.”

“Hey. What’s up?” It’s nice that she popped in for a visit, but I’m not sure I’m done wallowing in my own misery yet.

“Have you been crying?”

“Pfft. Me? No.” A little, but I won’t admit it. Crying over a guy who lied, one I wasn’t even officially dating, one I barely know?

Lame. Pathetic.

Hannah doesn’t contradict me, just gives me a look that says When you’re ready, we can talk about it, and I’m grateful for that. Still, there is a part of me that does want her to push the Abe issue, because I do want to talk about it. About Abe, and this fucked-up situation. A part of me wants to give him another chance—wants to talk to him—but that part of me won’t admit it.

I need permission. Affirmation that I’m not losing my mind.

“You know, I’ve been thinking,” Hannah begins, crossing her legs and bobbing one idly. “Remember that time in high school when Kevin Rogers paid Lyle Stevens five bucks to write me love letters?”

“Who doesn’t remember Kevin Rogers?” He was always trying to convince people he was related to country music legend Kenny Rogers, claimed his parents changed his first name to Kevin only so there would be no confusion. Sadly, no one confused Kevin Rogers with Kenny—not even when he’d bring his acoustic guitars to parties and sing “The Gambler”.

Kevin simply could not carry a tune.

“Remember when we found out about the whole thing?”

“Yes. You were so mad you made your dad start a bonfire so we could roast those letters.” They were written on spiral notebook paper, folded into triangles, and slipped into Hannah’s locker every morning. She would pore over them, every single one, smitten.

Until Lyle spilled the beans, professing his own true love for Hannah, hanging Kevin out to dry. It was the biggest scandal Mount Pleasant High School had seen in years.

“Who were you more pissed off at? Kevin or Lyle?” I ask.

“Both, at first. But then I went back and reread some of those letters—I never told you this, but I saved a few from the fire pit of revenge—and they were so sweet. I still have them, you know.” She tilts her head to the side in thought. “I should look Lyle up, see what he’s doing these days…”

“Oh god. Do not look him up.” Hannah is such a creeper sometimes.