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Suddenly, John Mayer’s voice is filtered out as I think about that phone call. As much as I wish I hadn’t picked up, I did. And my heart did a silly little dance in my chest when I heard his husky voice as if he was trying to keep from people listening in.

Then again, he’d always sort of done that.

It wasn’t like he’d ever hidden me. People knew we had a thing.

A few of his friends even asked if I was ever going to come over to their frat house to hang out and watch the game or play video games with them.

I never did, but it made me feel…seen. Like I was important enough to be tied to Alex.

I wasn’t dumb. I knew a lot of girls were.

When a guy looks the way Alex does, it attracts attention. A lot of female, and gay male, attention. But he never made me feel like there was competition when we were together. It was him and me. Puck bunnies didn’t seem to persuade him, and neither did my brother being, well, my brother.

Maybe my brother’s off-limits warning made him more interested in getting in my pants.

I’d thought about that once. Long after our tryst started.

But I decided it didn’t matter because I wanted the same thing.

Fun. A distraction from classes and grades and life after college.

He was the perfect person to get the job done.

So why the hell did my heart get so damn attached? “Stupid,” I murmur, shaking my head as I turn into the parking lot next to my dorm building. “You were stupid for doing that,” I scold myself, killing the lights and taking my keys out of the ignition.

Blowing out a breath, I lean against the seat and stare at the brick building I’ve called home for the last three years.

I asked the housing department to stay in the same building instead of being moved, and with Lindon’s lower enrollment numbers over the last couple of years, they were able to fulfill my request.

I’d miss Babcock Hall and all the dirty jokes that came with living at the top of the cock. But I was also looking forward to…more.

Whatever the hell more entailed. An internship somewhere new. Or maybe somewhere closer to home. A job that didn’t make me scramble to pay bills or put food on the table would be nice. Not that there are many entry-level gigs that offer that kind of security.

The more I let myself think about what’s to come, the more pressure builds on my chest. It suffocates me—taunting me with the reality that I need to figure out.

I know the longer I stall, the harder it will be.

But every time I start to take life after college seriously, that weight begins crushing my chest over the possibility of failure.

I’m not my brother—something I know my father thinks about more than I wish he did.

I don’t have a clear direction or talent or money.

I don’t know how to live up to his success or step out of his shadow.

I’ve got no idea what to do with my life or the degree I’ve spent a lot of money to obtain besides trying to work for a newspaper or news station fetching coffee.

And that’s scary. Really scary.

As I gather my belongings, my phone lights up the otherwise dark car and I see the number flash across the screen.

It says unknown because I refuse to save it in my contacts. And for a second time, I find myself reaching for it on instinct before stopping myself.

Because Alex is still buried deep, deep under my skin. I blame John Mayer and his smooth voice for making me feel some kind of way.

It’s then and there, sitting in the darkness of my car, that I decide to make a pact with myself to stop being hung up on Alex O’Conner. To put myself first because I know he won’t.

I dump my phone in my bag, watching as the screen goes black. It fills me with a small sense of satisfaction. A baby step in the right direction of detoxing from the boy who has lived in my mind rent free since the first time I saw him play hockey at Lindon’s arena with my brother.

“You just need to get laid,” I tell myself, walking toward the building and scanning my ID at the back entrance. “Or buy a vibrator.”

I nod to myself at the thought.

“Definitely need a vibrator.”

A group of giggles sound from my right, and I sheepishly smile at the girls walking to the door I’m entering.

One of them says, “Get it girl.”

Another calls out, “Make sure it suctions!”

I don’t know what that means, but something tells me it’s life changing.

“Olive! I’m glad I caught you.” Cierra, the head room advisor of Babcock says, jogging around the front welcome counter with a box in her hands. “This came in today. I’m not sure why it didn’t get sent to the mail room, but it was addressed to you and your room number.”

I blink, accepting the plain white box. I’ve been known to order a lot of things, but I don’t know what this is.

It’s light. Makeup? I was contemplating ordering Selena Gomez’s new press powder, but it was pricier than I wanted to spend.

It wouldn’t be the first time I sleep-shopped.

I had to disable Amazon one-click when I’d wake up to notifications saying I ordered random things; like that laminating machine that was over two hundred dollars.

“Thanks,” I say, examining the box for details. I don’t recognize the company name or address.

“Next time, make sure it goes through the mail room,” she calls out when I head toward the elevators. “I’ll see you in the fall!”

There’s a very few select students who stay over the summer with the stipulation that we provide our own meals since the dining hall is closed down.

I’ll be splitting my time between here and Vermont, but since I’m bartending at Fishtail to get some extra money, I need a place to stay.

Lindon has classes that last for part of the summer, which is the only reason they signed off on me sticking around.

Plus, I’m ninety-percent positive that Sebastian made some sort of donation to the athletic department, which has been hurting bad since the football coach scandal. Money tends to persuade anyone. It’s the one time I’m not mad at him for helping me out.

When I get to my room, I open the package and stare at the box sitting in the middle of the tissue paper. Picking the note off of the vibrator, I gape at the handwritten letters scrawled across the torn scrap paper in black ink.

So we can both fuck ourselves.

Think about me.

#43

I gape at the note.

Forty-three.

Alex.

Setting the note down, I pick up the box and examine the extensive settings this thing has. Is he a mind reader?

“Touche, Alex,” I murmur aloud, shaking my head at the unwarranted present.

I look at my phone sitting beside the box on the bed. He expects me to text him, which is exactly why I’m not going to.

And I’m definitely not going to use it.

Biting down on my lip, I tuck the note into my nightstand. Right next to the box that I most likely won’t open.

Probably.

*

My hands grip the steering wheel as the sports anchors talk about the hockey highlights from the previous week.

I know I could easily flip it to something else, but apparently I like torturing myself.

“The Penguins almost made a comeback after their brutal 1-5 loss against the Detroit Red Wings. It’s too bad they slipped up on the final game.

We could have seen Pittsburgh advance for the first time in years. ”

“If it hadn’t been for Ritchie Rodrigez getting hurt, they might have stood a better chance. I’m sure everybody was glad to see him back on the ice against Winnipeg.”

“It was a risky move on Pelfrey’s part putting O’Conner in considering the rookie’s performance during his game against Tampa Bay Lightning. Maybe if they kept Rodrigez in until the end, they would have stood a better chance at—”

I turn the radio off until I’m bathed in nothing but my tires against the empty stretch of road.

“I should have made sure my damn AUX cord was in the car before I left campus,” I mutter to myself.

This is what I get for half-ass packing at midnight and choosing to leave the rest of it for this morning.

I slept past my alarm after snoozing it four times and then hastily got up an hour after I was supposed to.

I packed my clothes and other chargers, and possibly Alex’s gift, but not the damn AUX cord that would make this trip way more tolerable.

Blowing out a breath, I glance at the time and realize I have at least another hour and a half before I make it to my mom’s house outside of Burlington.

I’ve already stopped to pee twice thanks to the giant cup of coffee I decided to buy at Dunkin before hitting the road.

And I’d rather not say how many snacks I mindlessly consumed while jamming out to whatever Hot 100 song was blasting through my speakers.

A few cars driving by probably heard my tone-deaf versions of Adele and Taylor Swift, but I was enjoying myself so I couldn’t care less about my less than stellar performance.

After another twenty miles, my bladder demands attention by doing some karate-kid shit in my gut.

Only then do I pull into the closest gas station and take care of business.

And just as I’m opening the driver’s side door to drop the plastic bag of savory goodies into the passenger seat, I see the deflating front tire.

“Are you kidding me?” I squat down and spot a nail sticking out of it.

Standing up, I kick the useless piece of rubber and grab my phone.

I already know that calling Mom is out of the question because she’s at her book club for at least two more hours.

And since there’s usually a lot of wine involved with their colorful discussions about whatever smut they’re reading, I won’t be able to ask her to pick me up.