Chapter 1 #2
His mouth kicks up, amused. “Tempting,” he says. “Bit public for that level of intimacy though, don’t you think?”
“You’re the one making jokes about a stranger’s underwear in the middle of the quad.”
“Fair.”
He crouches and picks up the pink one — my pink one — between two fingers, then sets it on top of the duffel without once looking at it. Then he picks up the black one, also without looking, which I appreciate, and hands it to me folded.
Folded.
“Thanks,” I say, not sure what my face is doing.
“Strap or zipper?”
“What?”
“Which died first.”
“You don’t need to—”
“Engineer’s curiosity.”
“You’re an engineer?”
“No.” He gives me a slow smile. “But I got your mind off the problem, right?”
Oh, come on.
“I’m having a great day, actually.” I finish stuffing the bag. “This is the best a day has gone for anyone, historically speaking.”
“You’re very convincing.”
“I am, thank you.”
“The comeback about the mouth especially.”
“I regret the comeback about the mouth.”
“Don’t.”
He says it just like that, one word, low and steady, and I feel it land somewhere south of my stomach. And as I fold the duffel’s flaps over like a broken wing, he’s already standing again, hands back in his pockets. He doesn’t say anything else, but he doesn’t leave, either.
“You’re still standing here,” I say.
“I’m just making sure no lecherous hordes descend on you.” He shrugs. “And making sure you’re okay.”
“You could just ask…”
His eyes are locked on me, like he’s reading me. “You’d lie.”
I’m meant to be invisible here. Nobody is supposed to be able to see anything. That’s the whole point of the version of myself I packed for this place. And here’s a stranger, ninety seconds in, who told me he can see right through me.
I look down at the bricks so he can’t watch me decide what to do with that. “Thank you,” I say. “I’ve got it.”
“Yep.”
I stand back up and take a few steps past him, moving double time back to Sterling House for reasons that have nothing to do with underwear embarrassment and everything to do with the boy who seems to see right through me.
“Hey,” he says.
I stop and look at him over my shoulder, still trying to process that I have already flashed my entire intimates drawer to half the freshman class, their families, and probably more than a few professors.
“What?” I say.
He seems to hesitate a second, like he was going to say something else, then he smiles. “Welcome to Halden.”
I stand there longer than I should, watching him go, then I continue the walk toward Sterling with the duffel bundled against my chest and the box balanced on top of it, not looking back at him or around at the people still staring at me.
The whole way across the quad my heart is going at a rate that is unreasonable for the amount of physical activity I am doing, and I utterly fucking refuse to go into any level of thought about why that might be right about now.
Tall.
Chiseled.
Dark curls.
Blue eyes.
Stop, I think. Halden Girl, remember?
When I get to 214, I push the door open with my hip, and Ivy is back on the phone. She’s sitting cross-legged on her bed with clothes everywhere, and when she notices how flushed I am, she hangs up without even saying goodbye to whoever she was talking to.
“What happened?” she says.
“Nothing.”
“Sloane.”
“Bag broke.”
“Sloane.”
I sit down on my bed, set the duffel at my feet, and put my hands over my face for exactly three seconds. Then I put them down, and I readjust in the most composed way I can manage right now, which isn’t very composed at all, really.
“My duffel opened in the courtyard,” I say, trying to sound like I’m commenting on the weather.
“So? Just buy a new bag?”
“My underwear came out. All of it.”
Ivy’s mouth opens.
“Don’t,” I say.
Her eyes shine.
“I am begging you.”
She’s laughing now, with her whole face, not cruel. “That’s a hell of an entrance.”
“It’s not even the worst part.”
Her eyes bulge now. “Okay. Okay. I’m being a supportive friend.”
I scoff. “Total supportive friend…”
“Start over. You were crossing the courtyard, underwear came out, and… go!”
“And a guy I don’t know picked up my bra.”
She makes a noise.
“And he made a joke,” I say.
“About the underwear.”
“About the underwear…”
“Was it a good joke?”
I consider lying. “It was a decent joke,” I say instead.
Ivy falls sideways on the bed, laughing.
“Ivy.”
“I’m fine. I’m dying, but I’m fine.” She rolls onto her back. “Was he cute?”
“That is not important.”
“It is very important.”
I try to keep my face composed. I try to be the Halden Girl who hears this question and gives it the little amused shrug, oh, I didn’t really notice. But, suddenly, months of practice and a day full of lectures by my mother abandon me.
“He was,” I say.
“He was hot.”
“He was cute.”
“You’re smiling.”
“I am not.”
“Sloane, you are smiling with teeth.”
I cover my mouth. Too late.
Ivy sits up and points at me. “Okay, my mission this year, my only mission, is to get that face out of you as often as possible. I will die for this cause, and I’m too beautiful to be a martyr.”
I want to tell her to stop. I want to tell her I have retired, for very good and very specific reasons, the version of myself who smiles with teeth at cute boys. I want to say the last time I did that, my parents had to hire a lawyer and a PR person.
But I don’t say any of that, because it’s nice to already have a friend in this place I was so unsure about. So instead, I grab the pink bralette out of the duffel and start re-folding it, very carefully, along the seams.
“You’re folding a bra,” Ivy says.
“Yes.”
“Nobody folds bras.”
He does, I think.
“I do,” I say.
“Sloane.”
“Ivy.”
She grins at me and says, “This is going to be the best year of our lives.”