ONE

IT’S OKAY TO be single at this point in my life. I’m twenty-one. With Evie as my roommate, I don’t need a man—she gives me all the emotional support I need. Sure, I can’t have sex with my bestie, nor would I want to, but that’s what Bob is for. He’s good people. If by ‘people’ I mean my battery-operated boyfriend. He can be a real dick sometimes. Get it?

It’s still better than pining away for the guy I fell for two years ago—Sebastian Moore. He gave me a heart-on something fierce. And he’s coming back today. Back to Michigan College. Back into my circle.

I closed my laptop, finishing the journal entry for my women’s psych class. Taking notice of the red numbers glowing on the microwave, I jumped off the couch and slipped into my boots. Shit. My three-hour break between classes had flown by, and if I didn’t haul ass, I’d be late.

After double-checking the lock on my apartment, I flew through the convenience store adjacent to campus to pick up an afternoon sugar fix. Without it, I was a basket case. It was common knowledge in my friend circle that if I wasn’t hopped up on caffeine or sugar, there was a high probability I’d walk into something and hurt myself.

Taking another sip of the icy slushie, I moved with purpose toward my next class. Why is everyone looking at me funny? Sure, it was fifty degrees outside, but in Michigan, that was practically flip-flop weather. Shrugging off their dubious looks, I crossed onto the grass to cut across campus. Catching my reflection in the windows of the science building, I stopped and did a double take.

Before rushing out of the apartment this morning, I hadn’t stopped for a second to check my appearance or my choice of shirt. “I’m not weird—my mother had me tested” was written in large block letters over my chest.

Okay, maybe this particular choice of outfit plus the slushie in my hand are a strange combination.

Whatever. I was lucky I woke up in time to shower and put on real pants. I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night. It’d be easier to blame the insane amounts of caffeine I’d consumed, or the late-night Internet scrolling, but those were mere distractions from the real reason.

I was about to see Bash for the first time in nearly two years.

The sunlight warmed my bare arms as I glanced back one last time, smoothing the flyaways off my forehead and back into my messy bun. It sucked that this was quite possibly the last nice day of the year. I shaded my eyes with my hand, bummed to see some of the trees lining the sidewalks had yellowing leaves. Michigan College was gorgeous when the trees transformed into bursts of fiery reds and bright oranges, popping against the contrasting green knolls between buildings. I shook the contents of my cup, collecting the rest of the sugary goodness into the straw. Once I’d successfully made the telltale empty-slurping noise, I chucked it in the garbage and moved toward MacArthur.

MacArthur Hall was a two-hundred-year-old monster of a structure that held theatre classes, dance studios, and music rooms. Plus, it was home to my favorite place in the world—the Julian Theater. At least a dozen accomplished entertainers had once graced those halls, and some of their energy remained, inspiring future hopefuls like me.

It was also where I was about to see the guy who’d been giving me panic-induced sweats since I’d heard he was coming back.

Wiping my hands down the front of my distressed jeans, I pulled the double doors open and was met with the cool breeze of air conditioning and the musty smell that only old buildings can provide.

I can’t see him. I’ll vomit. No guy wants a girl who can’t keep down her fluids.

“That’s when I had to pull out my emergency accessory. I’d rather be caught dead than wear a tie with the same pattern as Professor Jenkins—that crotchety old man can’t even handle a proper Windsor knot.”

“Hey, Tucker,” I sang, rounding the corner. “Playing your version of who-wore-it-better again?”

He nodded in greeting, ending the call and shoving his phone in the pocket of his chinos. He kissed each of my cheeks before opening his arms in a hug, enveloping me in welcome before he pulled back and sighed.

Tucker was one of few people I’d stuck to like glue freshman year. With him, I had an endless supply of laughs and a lifetime cheerleader and friend. I gave him a once-over, and as per usual he was perfectly polished at all times. From his pomade-styled blond hair to his boat shoes sans socks, he was the epitome of preppy-chic. He wore his horn-rimmed glasses with pride, and I’d been sworn to secrecy that they were non-prescription. “It’s all about the look,” he’d told me once. “It’s like my mating call to attract the kind of men I want.”

“I’m not judging, Callie. I’m simply verbalizing my disappointment in elderly men who can’t pull off paisley. Besides, Jenkins wouldn’t notice my insults even if I stood two feet in front of him with cue cards.” He scoffed, placing a fist on his hip and jutting it out. “He literally can’t hear or see that far. He needs to retire.”

“Aw, but he’s so cute hunched over like that. You know I love little old men.”

“That’s creepy, girlfriend.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” I replied, sticking out my lower lip. “All old people are cute, with their wrinkles and suspenders and anti-slip shoes.”

Okay, maybe it is weird.

“Well, discounting your love of the elderly, his tie matching mine is enough reason for him to retire. He can spend all that free time sitting on his porch yelling at kids to get off his lawn.”

Out of nowhere, Tuck let out a high-pitched scream. Heads turned as he jumped up and down, clapping his hands together.

“Bash, my lovely fellow, how are you, darling? Get over here before I cry!” Tucker yelled down the hall, hands flailing dramatically.

A spike of nerves creeped from my stomach to my chest.

He’s here. Right now.

My body wasn’t ready for the instant reaction, anxiety peaking and shooting sparks down my arms and legs. Sebastian ‘Bash’ Moore had held my heart since I’d met him three years ago when we were both freshman. Inhaling a deep breath to calm my nerves, I lifted a hand to wave as Bash winked at a passing student. Crap, his head was still turned away. Nothing like waving like an idiot at someone who didn’t see you.

I stared as he walked in my direction, studying the changes in his face. A once smooth jaw was now covered in delicious, dark stubble, highlighting his plump lips. His hair was longer on top, cropped at the sides. The dark, shiny locks were mussed, like he’d just rolled out of bed. He walked with such confidence—that hadn’t changed. He wasn’t the boy I knew our first year of college; he was all man now.

Holy mother of hotness.

I suppressed a laugh as he clutched his chest over-dramatically in response to Tucker’s outburst. Bash jogged the last few steps, enveloping his best friend in a bear hug. Those two were a pair, all right, inseparable for as long as I’d known them—until Bash was offered an opportunity to study abroad in England for a year. When he left, it wasn’t on good terms, and he broke my heart by not saying goodbye.

Tucker hadn’t been aware of my crush, but he knew I’d taken the loss just as hard as he did. I encouraged Tuck by creating a countdown until Bash came back, insisting that everything would go back to normal when he returned.

When Bash decided to extend his abroad program for another year, I wanted to die. I wanted to curl up into a ball and wallow in my loss; a loss that was one-sided. I wanted to be dramatic and lay my emotions out for all to see. Instead, I succumbed to Tucker’s idea we mourn through fashion. He insisted we wore all black for an entire week. Being a theatre major, it wasn’t difficult to oblige.

Now he stood in front of me, and all I could do was stare and act like I’d never seen a hot guy before. Good job, Callie.

“Oh, what a sight for sore eyes. Tucker, my man!” Bash spun himself and Tucker around so they were facing the groups of students in the lobby. “What was I thinking being away from this perfect specimen for two years?” he called out loudly, flinging an arm wide as he garnered stares. He chuckled, flicking Tucker’s bowtie off-center as he turned to greet me.

“Hey, Calliope, long time no see.” He smirked, the deep dimple on his left cheek emphasized even through his stubble as he took a step toward me. His gaze traveled down the length of my small frame, a slight grin at the worn red Chucks on my feet.

“Cheerio, old chap,” I said, punching his shoulder. Pulling my hand back, I rocked on the balls of my feet in revulsion as I questioned what in the fresh hell was wrong with me. I was completely horrified. I’d had two years to think of the perfect wow moment for the first time he’d see me again, and I gave him a shitty accent and a messy bun.

Rubbing his arm, Bash laughed. He must’ve seen the panic in my eyes. “You been working out all this time? I may bruise, Sweets.”

“Oh yeah, all that heavy lifting of scripts and props gave me some badass guns. Better watch out, mister, I haven’t eaten yet today and I’m feeling a little stabby,” I responded, flexing. My arms were toothpicks.

He reached forward and wrapped his hand around my bicep, stroking my skin up and down with his thumb. He moved closer, his worn black jacket brushing against my chest.

“You feel good to me, Callie,” he whispered, millimeters away from my ear. The heat of his breath sent a shudder down my spine. He pulled back, his green irises sparkling with mischief. I’m pretty sure my jaw fell to the ground.

Tucker cleared his throat, breaking my trance.

“Hello, still here.” He waved largely, almost smacking a passing student. Shoving his left sleeve up, he lifted his arm vertically and tapped the face of his watch. “Yeah, hi, hello. Tick tock, sweethearts.”

Bash pulled his phone out and checked the time as well. “Crap, you’re right.”

“If we’re late to Voice & Dialect, Jenkins will force us to speak in Callie’s weird attempt at Cockney the entire period.”

I rolled my eyes. Tucker’s snark wasn’t anything new.

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