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My sigh comes next. “And I need your help calling somebody because I also didn’t renew my Triple A like Mom told me to a million times.” Each admission becomes quieter as I nudge the pavement with the toe of my Vans. They’re the same bright orange as my backpack—a present from my mother last Christmas.

When my brother makes a noise, it’s one of dragged-out exasperation. I sit down in the driver’s seat and stare at my bag of snacks knowing what’s going to come. “I thought you said you got a spare after I kept reminding you about getting it replaced.”

“I lied.”

He grumbles. “Why didn’t you renew your Triple A? You travel back and forth from campus too much not to have that. It’s important for this exact type of situation, Olive. You know…emergencies.”

Another fact I already know. But it’s not exactly like I’m stranded in the middle of nowhere. It’s the middle of the day and I’m in a nicely paved parking lot where there’s food, water, and plumbing. It could have been worse.

“Technically, this isn’t an emergency. And I didn’t call you for a lecture.” I try reeling in my irritation because I know he’s coming from a good place. “I didn’t have the money to renew anything or buy a new tire to put in the back. I thought I’d be fine until I scraped something together.”

“Olive—”

“I know, I know. Textbooks were a little pricier than I thought they’d be this semester. My classes expected us to sell our organs to get the material they required. Who needs to spend three hundred dollars on ausedhardback copy of Sports Journalism? It’s ridiculous. I’ve been looking into some jobs around campus for when fall classes start since my hours atFishtail get cut back. Reavers wants a new cashier. It probably wouldn’t suck too bad, and I’d have a discount for meals.”

“They don’t pay shit, and working another job will eat up your time,” he scolds. I vaguely remember one of his college buddies working there behind the counter at one point. He always gave me extra bacon on my BLTs. “Why didn’t you say something? You know I’d give you money.”

“I don’t need any handouts.”

“You take Mom’s money.”

He’s right, I do. “That’s because she’s our mom. It’s part of her job description to pass out money to her poor kids. Well, kid. Whatever.” I can picture him rolling his eyes at that since he definitely doesn’t need the financial help. He rarely ever did. He mowed lawns and worked on cars for people to build up his bank account when we both still lived at home. He’d rarely spend it, but when he did, it was usually on hockey gear. “Can you please just call somebody for me? I don’t know anyone, and my phone is about to die.”

My shoulders drop at the pathetic sound of my voice, but it must trigger something in Sebastian. “Fine. But we’re talking about this later. I don’t talk out of my ass for no reason, O. I’m looking out for you.”

Lips twitching into a guilty frown, I nod despite him not being able to see it. “I know. And I love you for it even if I find it super annoying. Like really,reallyann—”

“Do you want me to call for help or not?” he asks, snickering at me.

It’s an empty threat. “You’d never leave me stranded. You love me too much.”

“Or maybe I’d just hate the possibility of being charged with something if you get kidnapped and left in a ditch somewhere because I decided not to help you.”

My lips tug up at the corners. “The plus side to being heavy is that statistically it’d be harder to get kidnapped. More reason to eat all the sugar and bread.”

“Olive, I could bench press you.”

“That’s because you’re a freak. The average kidnapper probably doesn’t hit up a gym every day or play professional sports like you do. They would go for an easier target. Duh.”

“Whatever. I can’t see your location for some reason, so text me your address and I’ll handle it. No need to eat your weight in candy to ensure your safety.”

I open the bag of snacks beside me and pull out the small bag of Chex mix I bought. “Too late. Love you, big brother.”

After sending him my location, I peel open my snack and start scrolling through my phone once I find an old charger in my glove compartment. It’s frayed and probably doesn’t work that well, but it’s better than letting my cell die when somebody might need to get ahold of me.

And like always, I go to check the page of the one person I shouldn’t give a shit about. The one I swore I’d detox from.

But the thing about detoxing is that there’s always a chance of a few slipups along the way.

Alex’s face fills my screen. It’s a nice face. A heartbreaking one with hard lines and defined edges. He looks like Zac Effron’s little brother Dylan, and damn do those boys have good genes.

I know beneath the jersey Alex is sporting in his latest post is ridges of hard muscle that are droolworthy. If I were his agent, I’d get Calvin Klein on the phone and demand an underwear sponsorship to show off his thick thighs and six-pack. Well, four pack. He always complained about never being able to get those bottom two abs to pop out no matter how hard he ate right and trained. Nobody would care if they saw him in underwear, though.

Because I’m a masochist, I keep scrolling. Most of his posts look like pictures the team photographer took. Professional but unpersonal. Like he was only putting them online because he was required to keep a social media presence.

Why would he send me a sex toy? That’s the last thing I would have expected after telling him to go fuck himself.Think about me.What a cocky bastard. The problem is, I already do. I think about him whether I’m doing something dirty or not. And if he doesn’t know it, he certainly wishes it.

When I decide I’ve had enough torture, I exit out of the app and debate deleting it altogether. But then I remember how much I love following my favorite makeup influencers and mindlessly scrolling on nights when I’ve got nothing better to do than watch makeup review videos and add expensive brands to my Christmas and birthday wish lists.