Page 13

There's something deeply satisfying about a freshly organized desk. Color-coded notes stacked in perfect alignment, highlighters arranged by color, textbooks positioned by size like some kind of academic cityscape. It's the one thing I can control in my increasingly chaotic life.

I've been in full avoidance mode for four days. Four days of hiding in the library's most remote corner, of taking alternate routes to classes, of turning down social invitations. Thank God my roommate is never here, or she’d be worried I joined a homebody cult.

It's not avoiding if it's studying. I tap my pen against my Bio Ethics textbook. Finals are in three weeks.

My phone buzzes, and I jump like I've been shocked. I've been doing that a lot lately—flinching at every notification, both dreading and hoping it might be him. But it's never him. How could it be? He doesn't have my number.

I glance at the screen. Instagram notification. Probably Lennox tagging me in another meme about being perpetually single. I swipe it open, then freeze.

@sanderson_sandman has sent you a message

My heart does a ridiculous flip. How did he find me? My account isn't even under my full name—it's @hannahbanannah99, a childhood nickname I never quite outgrew.

I tap the notification with a finger that's definitely not trembling.

@sanderson_ sandman: Let's play a game, Hannah Banana. Rules are simple: I ask a question, you answer. You ask a question, I answer. First person to not respond within 5 minutes loses. If I win, I get another date. If you win, I'll do whatever you want. Game starts now: favorite place on campus?

The timestamp says he sent it five minutes ago. The clock is already ticking.

"Are you kidding me?" I say to my empty room. This is exactly the kind of disruption I've been avoiding. The kind that makes my carefully ordered life spin off its axis.

I should ignore it. I have a Bio Ethics paper due on Friday and a Comparative Literature reading response that's barely started. I don't have time for games with Sanderson Connolly.

But my fingers are already typing.

@hannahbanannah99: I'm sorry but I'm busy and focusing on school for now. No time for relationships.

There. Mature, direct, responsible. I set my phone down and turn back to my textbook, feeling virtuous.

The reply comes almost instantly.

@sanderson_ sandman: Wrong answer. You just failed the first game. I'm on my way to your dorm now.

"What?" I yelp, staring at the message in disbelief. "No, no, no."

I glance around my room in panic. It's not messy, exactly, but it's not ready for visitors either. There's a bra hanging off my desk chair, a pile of laundry in the corner that's clean but unfolded, and my bed is only half-made. My desk is perfect though.

I launch into action, shoving the laundry into drawers, hiding the bra under my pillow, and straightening my comforter. I'm sweeping crumbs off my desk chair when the absurdity of the situation hits me.

Why am I cleaning for him? I'm not even letting him in. I'm not home. I'm at the library, obviously. Studying. Like I told him.

But the panic doesn't subside. The memory of our ice cream "date" is still fresh—the easy conversation, the way he seemed genuinely interested in me, the warmth of his hoodie around my shoulders. The fact that he didn't push, didn't try to kiss me, didn't ask for more than I was ready to give.

I rush to the bathroom, checking my reflection in the mirror. My hair is in a messy bun that's more messy than bun at this point, I'm wearing my oldest, most comfortable sweatpants, and there's a smudge of highlighter on my cheek. Great.

I wash my face, apply some lip gloss, and attempt to tame my hair. Then I stop, annoyed with myself. What the fuck am I doing? I am so not getting ready for him.

But even as I think it, I'm walking to the window that overlooks the parking lot to see if he’s here. Nothing yet. I grab my phone.

@hannahbanannah99: Very funny. I'm not at my dorm. I'm at the library. STUDYING. Like a responsible student.

The reply bubble appears immediately.

@sanderson_ sandman: No, you're not. I just checked.

My stomach drops. Did he really go to the library looking for me? This guy is relentless. And so infuriating.

I need the upper hand here. Maybe if I just kiss him once, get it over with, I'll realize there's nothing special about him. That the night we spent together was just a fluke, the fun we had was a pure accident.

No, that's a terrible idea. I can't kiss him until…well, ever. Or at least not until our tenth date, which is basically never since we're not dating.

A car engine revs outside, and I duck below the windowsill, peering over the edge like a spy in a bad movie. Sanderson's car swings into a parking space with the same confidence he does everything else. He steps out, glancing up at the building, and I drop to the floor.

Shit. This is ridiculous! I crawl across the carpet toward my door. You are an adult woman hiding from a boy.

But I keep crawling anyway until I’m far enough to stand. I smooth my sweatpants and take a deep breath, running to my dorm. I glance in the mirror one more time, pinch my cheeks for color, and then hate myself a little for doing it.

When the knock comes, I'm ready. Or as ready as I'll ever be.

Except I don't answer it. Instead, I find myself backing toward my closet, an idea forming. Hide. Just hide until he gives up and goes away. It worked for three-year-old me during games of hide and seek; maybe it will work now.

I slip into the closet, pulling the door mostly closed but leaving a crack to see through. The knocking continues, more insistent now.

"Hannah?" Sanderson's voice calls through the door. "I know you're in there. These girls outed you. Said you just walked in here."

Traitors. I make a mental note to steal all of the good snacks in retaliation.

"Come on, Hannah. Just talk to me."

Silence, then the sound of something sliding under my door. A note?

"Fine," he says after another minute. "I'll try again tomorrow."

Footsteps retreat down the hall. I count to thirty, then cautiously emerge from the closet, feeling both relieved and oddly disappointed. I cross to the door and pick up the paper he slid under it.

It's not a note. It's a restaurant receipt. From the ice cream place where we had our cones. He's circled the date and time and written underneath: First date. Looking forward to #2.

Despite myself, I smile. Then I unlock the door, intending to peek out and make sure he's really gone.

The door swings open to reveal Sanderson leaning against the opposite wall, arms crossed, a triumphant grin on his face.

"Knew you were in there," he says.

I try to close the door, but he's too quick, wedging his foot in the gap. "Not so fast, Hannah Banana."

"Don't call me that," I say, my voice an octave higher than normal. "And I was about to take a shower, so…"

"With all your makeup freshly applied?" He raises an eyebrow, and I curse myself for the lip gloss.

"What do you want, Sanderson?" I almost plead.

"To see you," he says simply. "You've been avoiding me."

"I've been studying," I correct him. "Some of us care about our GPAs."

"You've been hiding," he insists. "And I want to know why. Was our date that bad?"

"It wasn't a date," I say automatically.

"Then what was it?"

"An ice cream consumption event."

He laughs, the sound rich and genuine. "An ice cream consumption event? That's what you're going with?"

Despite myself, I smile. "Stop."

"Can I come in? Your neighbor is recording this on her phone, and while I don't mind the audience, you might."

I glance down the hall to see a girl quickly hide her phone behind her back. Great. Just what I need—to be the subject of dorm gossip.

"Fine," I say, stepping back to let him in. "Five minutes."

He saunters into my room like he owns it, taking in the obsessively organized desk, the color-coded bookshelf, the precisely made bed. Then his eyes land on the closet, still partly open, a shoe poking out where I didn't have time to arrange things properly.

"Were you hiding in the closet?" he asks, his eyes dancing with amusement.

"No," I lie. "Absolutely not. That would be childish and ridiculous."

"You were totally hiding in the closet." He walks over to it, peering inside. "Isn't this a bit ironic, considering how we met?"

"That's not what irony means," I say, but I can feel heat rushing to my cheeks.

"What were you going to do, wait until I left and then pretend you were never here?"

"Yeah," I confess.

He turns to face me, his expression softening. "Why are you avoiding me, Hannah? For real."

I sigh, sitting on the edge of my bed. "Because this—" I gesture between us, "—is a bad idea. You know it, I know it. Even the girl recording you on her phone knows it."

"How do you know if you won't give it a chance?" He sits beside me, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from him but not so close that we're touching.

"Because I'm responsible. I am the person who thinks things through. And everything about you screams 'impulsive bad decision.'"

"Ouch," he says, but he's smiling. "But fair."

We sit in silence for a moment, and I find myself studying his profile—the strong jaw, the slight crook in his nose (probably broken at some point), the length of his eyelashes, which is frankly unfair given that he's a guy.

"What if we just try?" he says finally. "One real date. Not an ice cream consumption event. A proper date."

"God, Sand Man?"

He smiles. "Banana, I know you like to be around me."

"You can’t do that." I twirl my finger at his smirking face.

He turns to me, his eyes surprisingly serious. "We can figure it out as we go. No pressure, no expectations. Just two people who like each other seeing where it leads."

It sounds so simple when he puts it that way. So reasonable. So not like hiding in a closet to avoid him.

"You hid in a closet to avoid me," he adds, as if reading my thoughts. "I think you owe me a yes just for that entertainment value alone."

And just like that, the tension breaks. I laugh, covering my face with my hands. "Oh my god. What’re you doing to me?"

He does something with his mouth. Is he biting his tongue? I track the movement because it’s ridiculously hot. "So? One date? In public?"

I look at him—really look at him—and my heart does that ridiculous flip again.

In public?

He watches me. His gaze dropping to my lips, so I lick them.

"Okay," I agree. "But we're not calling it a date. It's an…extended social interaction."

"An extended social interaction," he repeats, grinning. "You're weird, Hannah Banana. I like it."

And despite all my better judgment, I think I might like him too.

Then the thought crosses my mind…we aren’t considering Cade at all.