Chapter One

"Why is he here?" I grumble to my friend Bethany. I cast a discreet look across the living room and—yup. Mark is still standing there. Still sipping his spiced rum and coke. Still breathing and existing. I groan. "He never slums it here."

"Excuse me." Bethany turns to me, green eyes sparking fire. "Coming to my party is slumming it?" Her loud voice draws many eyes to us.

I stand there, hyperaware of every single one, with my hands buried in my pockets. I have a lot I'm hiding right now, for reasons, and I don't appreciate the attention. My mouth dries, and my heart palpitates. I'll have to tell that to my therapist…when I get around to going to those paid-in-full sessions.

"Maybe I used the wrong word," I say, hoping my face hasn't turned bright pink. I hide my anxiety in what I hope is a casual, teasing tone. "You always say you want to throw the parties everyone talks about all week. Besides," I hesitate. "I know you cheated on me."

A girl who clearly doesn't know either me or Bethany gasps. Bethany rolls her eyes. "Talking to Tommy is not cheating. You two are the ones hosting your own pity parties. Besides, I know you've been banging a Californian blonde supermodel all summer…" She trails off, eyeing my pale and not at all sun-kissed skin. Her lips tug down into a frown.

"I was busy," I say back evasively. "Did Tommy say that?"

"You're as bad as he is," Bethany scoffs. She thrusts her half-drank cup against my chest. It sloshes onto me. I'm not upset. I know better than to wear nice clothes to Bethany's parties…except I am wearing a nice shirt. In fact, I'm wearing all new clothes. I've had to replace my old ones after…well, I dropped condition since summer break started, and I expect that downward trend to continue.

Point is—new shirt.

I remove my hands from their safety pockets to take the drink from Bethany. I know if I don't, she'll drop it on me; she's a bit drunk right now, and she moves at a million miles an hour as soon as she's had one. I love her a lot. Even after cutting everyone out, Bethany wormed her way back in.

"You see?" I gesture to the stain. "Slummy."

Bethany releases a groan of utter frustration. "Why won't you just call him, Kyle?" She snags a napkin from the table next to us and presses it to the wet patch.

I don't get the chance to try to convince her to somehow make Tommy forgive me, because Mark walks by directly behind her. Mark cocks his head to the side, and his eyes—those judgy, superior, stuck-up, gorgeous black eyes—lock on mine. His top lip curls back like he's just glimpsed something he wished he hadn't, and my blood curdles in my veins. I love when he looks at me like that.

Any notion I had about being over my obsession poofs into oblivion.

I still want Mark to date me, and it is still as impossible as last semester. Actually, it's even more impossible now. I'm abruptly self-conscious about how I'm standing. I've practised it so many times, staring in a mirror, but I'm worried that I'm tilting heavily to one side, and everyone thinks I'm drunk.

I break eye contact first, coward , and take a step back to redistribute my weight and steady out. All good. I think.

Bethany lifts the tissue from my chest. "It won't stain, it's just vodka."

I am very aware of Mark pouring himself a drink within earshot. He's not looking anymore, but I can tell he's listening. And, okay, it makes me need to act like I don't care that he exists even though I do. Far too much. I can't help it; Mark has been my obsession since first year.

Not looking at Mark (only the corner of my eye, I swear), I nudge Bethany's chin up. "I missed you," I tell her. "And your messy parties." It's not an insult; Bethany loves a messy party.

Mark is definitely paying attention. I can tell because of the disgruntled look that crosses his face again.

"I missed you," Bethany says, her eyes softening from that earlier anger. "And you better not tease me because everyone is still pissed at you." She turns to free-pour herself a drink to replace the one she'd given me. Because she's giving me her full attention, she still hasn't noticed Mark.

I am still noticing him.

"I was busy," I say again. And I'm pretty sure my friends no longer exist. A summer of ignoring every text and call would do that. At the time, I couldn't handle contact with anyone. Even Bethany hadn't got anything from me, but she'd waltzed into my class, chattering like I hadn't been an asshole all summer. Thus, she went from friend to the love of my life.

But Tommy, who had left more worried messages and voice mails than everyone else combined, refuses to even look at me now.

"During the summer that work. But you're not going to any group sports, even though they've been running for a few weeks now. Unless you want to be a lonely, lonely man, maybe stop avoiding everyone and play a game of ball with them? I'm sure there will be much testosterone-fuelled shoving and tackling, and they'll all gang up on you, but after, you'll have friends again." Bethany abandons her drink to give me the very serious dressing down.

She is hitting all the sore points. And Mark is still here, listening, but Bethany is being so earnest I can't just dismiss her. "I've texted them." I shrug. "I'm on the naughty list still."

"If you play even one round of something—pinball, even!—they'll forgive you. That's how you jocks function. Talking? No. Football? Yes."

I wince. She's right, and it stings. I feel the gaping desperation from the summer looming over me and try to push it away. It's a fierce struggle, but I prevail. I think.

Bethany sees my expression and she groans. "You guys are so frustrating! I have Tommy harassing me to tell him everything we talk about, and you being all silent and stubborn, and—ugh! I'll be right back. Just get drunk and call him." She storms away, shouldering her way through the crowd.

I track her path across the room with my eyes, but I hesitate to follow. The crowd has thickened, and people are stumbling around. The thought of someone knocking into me tightens a knot in the pit of my stomach. I sip my drink—am unceremoniously reminded that it is Bethany's lethal drink—and pretend not to notice…I don't see you…I don't see that we are, for some reason, standing next to each other. Wait, hang on, why is Mark standing so close now? Hardly a foot away. Is that him that smells good? Spicy and alluring?

"I thought you dropped out," Mark says. He's not looking at me. He's looking at the drink he's been pouring for five minutes now. An excuse to talk to me? Why?

Everything about Mark's tone says, I don't give a shit about you . This is already the friendliest encounter we've ever had.

I wish my mind would give me something clever to say. "No," my oh-so-clever brain spits out. Thanks for nothing, brain. I lick my lips. Try again. "I thought you didn't slum it at sorority parties." My voice comes out mocking. Antagonistic. Fuuck. One time, one time, I would like to say something friendly to Mark. Thanks to my stupid brain, pretty much every interaction we've had has been bloodshed in sports clubs. I picked a fight, Mark engaged, and we've spent the past two years joining every club and competing until one of us wins. Wins were judged by who was the best, who was put into the most important spot on the team, who was the most popular with other members.

Well, Mark. You win.

"It's my friend's birthday," Mark says, voice level and unreadable as it always is.

"I didn't realise you had friends," I say while knowing all of them by name.

"More than you from the sounds of it," Mark quips back.

It catches me off guard. I hesitate. Mark looks at me, then his gaze sweeps down, making my blood sing. His brow furrows as he looks at me; like something's wrong with what he's seeing.

And, fuck. There sure is. My weight—is it all off-balance? Askew? I knew I should have practised more before going out in public. My brain goes haywire. I take in a panicked breath.

"You swap to swimming?" Mark asks, catching me off guard again.

The surprising question throws my breathing back into alignment. "No," I answer. Somehow it comes out normal.

"Running?" Mark asks next. He nods at my shoulders. "You've leaned out."

The word Mark means is: deteriorated.

I grimace. Mark sees that.

I look away quickly. "I've been hitting the books."

There's an awkward silence. When I gather the courage to peek, Mark is just standing there, staring. I can see a hint of emotion on his face; something troubled.

"You'll have to find someone new to compete with," I say.

Mark stares intently at my face. I think he's trying to read me. It's a bit unnerving, and a bit stimulating.

My leg aches. I flinch, shoulders drawing up, and I instinctively try to shake out the pain. Mark grabs my arm. "Are you okay?" He's looking at my leg.

Don't look there.

"Fine." I shrug him off and step back, wincing again but I try to hide it this time. "Later. Give Eddie a birthday beat on my behalf." I escape into the crowd, braving the knocking bodies, and almost cry at how off-balance I feel. It's the front door I get to first and I don't hesitate a second before going out. My legs tremble as if I've been running.

I take a second to steady myself. It's dark out, unusually warm for late autumn. I see lights on in most houses, but the pedestrian streets are empty.

I dig out my phone and my hands shake as I request an Uber. They're steadier when I text Bethany that I'm heading home. She'll wonder why, and most likely be annoyed with me. This is the first social event I've been to since coming back to college, and I'm ditching an hour in.

I may have to accept that I'll soon be down to zero friends.