I started typing “I was kidding,” trying to
explain. But my fingers hovered over the send
button. I’d waited all evening, and he just hangs
up on me? I deleted the message and typed,
“Are you mad?” Sent.
His reply was instant: “Can’t you tell?”
He wanted me to grovel, like always. So I
replied just as fast: “Be mad then.” Then I
blocked him. I opened my vocabulary app. Men?
I’ll learn a hundred new words tonight.
Two hours later, almost finished with my word
<
list, my phone rang again. Ethan.
“Hungry?”
“Nope,” I said flatly.
“Come downstairs, I brought you some clam
chowder.”
I peeked out the window. Sure enough, his
black car was parked in front of the dorm. He
was leaning against the door, looking
effortlessly cool in his long coat, his skin pale
against the dark fabric. He caught my eye,
smirked, and lifted a steaming container of
chowder. It was the same kind I’d gotten him
when he had the flu.
As I walked downstairs, I overheard two girls
talking. “Isn’t that Ethan Miller from pre–med?”
“Who?”
