1. Get nails done sans Trixie who equates a nail salon with false imprisonment and sans Serena who has clearly imprisoned my sanity.
2. Avoid the Black Bear in order to avoid Serena and, more importantly, avoid He Who Shall Not Be Mentioned for reasons certain raw and slow to heal orifices would rather not discuss.
3. Stock up on all products that promise the aforementioned orifice relief from injury.
4. Research cat breeds for an upcoming future that bars men with weaponized joysticks from ever entering any residence I might take up in. Spinsters are the new black. I’m calling it.

I’ve spent New Year’s Eve in just about every kind of way. My father, being the unofficial baron of New York, made sure that as children, my brothers and I spent that raucous night having many a misadventures down in Times Square amongst the chaos and the all-around revelry that takes place. I’ve also spent New Year’s Eve at home and knitted a scarf, gone to the movies with friends—so weird to be in the middle of a dull monologue while the rest of the world is screaming their heads off—I’ve done the party scene, the curling up on the couch and watching it unfold on TV thing, I’ve pretty much covered most of my New Year’s Eve bases—and tonight I’m pretty sure I’m covering the last one. A wedding. My brother, Nolan, older by far too many years to remember, is marrying his longtime love, Misty Baker. Misty teaches at Whitney Briggs University in the English department and has earned the esteemed title of Professor Baker—soon-to-be Knight. I’m thrilled to be gaining a sister. In fact, Misty has felt like one all along. And in an odd way, I’m glad to welcome Seth into the fold as well, even if he has always felt a little like family to me anyway.

“This is the place,” I say as Serena and I stare up at the giant pink bird atop The Sloppy Pelican Bar and Grill. The Sloppy Pelican is pretty much a knockoff of the Black Bear, only for the older set—underclassmen and graduate students need not apply.

“Come on, let’s do the obligatory selfie before we head inside.” Serena snaps a quick pic of us making crazy eyes with the bird in the background and quickly uploads it to all her social media sites before we head on in.

It’s warm inside, noisy, no thanks to the house band blaring away, and there seems to be just as many bodies here as there are back at the Black Bear. The floor is covered with peanut shells—per management’s wishes. Each table gets a bucket full of peanuts and is encouraged to toss the shells aside for the hell of it. I’m starting to understand why Serena chose the Black Bear over The Sloppy Pelican since the staff is required to clean this mess up each and every night. A waitress whizzes by with a giant, glibbery steak, and the heavy scent of garlic and onions trails behind like toxic fumes.

“Oh, gross.” My stomach does its best rendition of a spin cycle at the putrid smell. I’ve never been big on red meat, but something about that onion stench—and, my God, did they harvest every garlic on the planet just to douse that poor dead cow with it? I’ll be happy if I never get near any of the aforementioned quasi-edible fare ever again.

“It’s not gross,” Serena is quick to correct. “It’s beautiful in here. Lex and her friend turned this place into a goldmine, no pun intended.” Lex is Serena’s older sister, and for all practical purposes both of our mothers. She’s practically raised us as her own, being that my mother is dead and theirs walked out on them way back when.

We take a few steps into the cheery establishment and pause. The Sloppy Pelican was once an old mining-themed restaurant and the new owners chose to keep the rustic look of the plywood floors and tables. Mason jars are used instead of glasses. Lex, my psychotic cousin, means well, and I love her as if she were my mother more than my cousin or sister. She’s always been there for me no matter what. But she’s a straight shooter and a little rough around the edges so she takes a bit of getting used to. And, of course, there’s Marlin, Serena and Lex’s older brother, who is now a proud member of the Jepson Police Department. He’s always been there for me too in a brotherly way. A brother with a loaded pistol at his side at all times. I’m pretty sure for the sake of everyone’s safety I shouldn’t even whisper Eli Gates’ name or the acts that may or may not have played out in private.

Serena leads us into the oversized banquet room in the back decorated with bright red roses and baby’s breath as far as the eye can see. Each table has a crystal vase filled with their glory, and there’s an arch in the rear with a makeshift altar covered with a bed of wisteria where the knot will officially be tied. Lex and her new husband, Axel, were married here just over a month ago. There’s a violin quartet playing classical music from the stage, and there are enough bodies milling around to contest Nolan’s promise of having a small wedding. I’m not surprised. Misty and Nolan are well-loved by everyone.

“Ladies.” Seth appears from among the crowd, and my head inches back a notch. My God, does he ever clean up nice. Black, slicked hair, eyes the color of the deep end of the ocean, and that broad chest is stretching taut the dress shirt he’s wearing. Seth in regular clothes is enough to command the girls’ attention. Seth in his basketball uniform for damn sure does the job. But Seth in a dark fitted Italian suit is enough to make even the toughest girls swoon. “Serena.” He nods before looking to me, and his eyes widen a notch. “You look stunning.”

Serena does a little mock bow. “Thank you. And by the way, there are other girls in this room other than Sunday.” She gives a hard wink my way before heading into the crowd. “Have fun, nerds!” Serena has always teased the two of us as if we were a couple. Insert eye roll. She knows very well that Seth is destined to become brother number three in less than an hour—four if you count Marlin.

“Thank you,” I say, making a face in Serena’s direction. “For helping run an extension with the shelter.” It was Seth who calmly called and explained that I would need a little more time to get the money to them, and they assured him that they always provide a grace period for these kinds of things. Four months. I have until May to make the monetary magic happen. Not that it’s any better—more like a slow slide into my soon-to-be disgrace.

“You’re welcome.” He tips his head back and his lids hood low, making my stomach squeeze tight. I glance around the room immediately for Rush or Nolan. I always feel guilty for having a smidge of attraction to Seth. Okay, so it’s more than a smidge, but nobody on the planet needs to be apprised of that. “And I mean it. I’ll be helping you get every last dime long before the deadline. Don’t you worry.”

“Why are you being so nice to me?” It comes out far snippier than I meant it to, but I can’t help it. I’m exhausted beyond reason. I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep in weeks. It’s as if sleeping with Eli reset my body clock for one-night stand mode—minus all the fun I supposedly had. I’ve never felt lousier in my life than I did waking up to that naked body beside me—a gorgeous body but nevertheless. I’m never touching a drink again in my life.

“I’m always nice to you,” he counters.

“Ha! You just said nice as if it were a four-letter word, and before you correct me, I’m quite aware it is, smartass. Besides, we’re not nice to each other. It’s our thing, remember? I see you coming and I go the other way. You see me coming and you amp up the rude remarks. It’s our safe zone, and I’m not comfortable any other way, so boot scoot your way to that crowd of vixens eyeing you. I’m sure you’ll rustle up a skank to take back to your place before the night is through and ring in the new year the right way.”

“Boot scoot? Rustle up? Do I look like I just got off a cattle ranch?” He holds out his arms, and my mouth waters as his shirt struggles to shift along with him.

“You look like you’re about to do a hit for the mob. You’re not packing any heat, are you?”

“Honey, I’m packing heat every single night.” He gives his belt a jiggle, and I gasp and swat him with my purse as all the heat in my own body dive-bombs to that sugar hole Eli invaded like a Navy SEAL.

“What’s this?” a deep voice strums from behind, and we turn to find Rush and Trixie looking dapper and downright gorgeous. Rush is a preppy by nature, so he pulls off the dapper thing far more often than necessary, and Trixie is always a beauty, but tonight she turned up the volume in her bright blue off the shoulder dress. I’m a bridesmaid, so Misty chose a rose gold sequin gown that makes me feel like an awards statue. It’s above the knee, long sleeve, square neck, and it looks both elegant and chic. She swears I’ll be able to wear this again and again, but I doubt I’ll find another rose gold-worthy event to attend. After that whole Eli Gates vaginal debacle, I’ve sworn off parties unless there’s a nuptial agreement attached to it.

“Rushford.” Seth slaps him five and nods to Trixie. “You both look great. What’s up with that long shot arm? You feeling okay?”

The last game before Christmas break Rush pulled a muscle in his shoulder. Trixie confided in me that it wasn’t exactly sports-related, or at least not a commercial sport. It turns out their bedroom shenanigans involved some acrobat-worthy stunts that I assured her I wanted zero knowledge of.

“I’m great.” He winces at me because he’s unsure whether or not I’m apprised of the truth. Trixie made me swear I wouldn’t let on. That’s the pickle she’s in. She can’t divulge any dirty details my way because they happen to pertain to my brother. Disgusting. And just like that, my stomach does another unexpected toxic spin.

Hey, that’s two for two. My mind does a quick roll call of all the unsavory food I’ve put in my mouth in the last twenty-four hours. It couldn’t be food poisoning. All I’ve eaten for God’s sake is a steady diet of those chocolate balls filled with fudge that Trixie’s mother sent home with her by the crateful. I was, however, in the Student Union this morning filling out paperwork on some last-minute classroom assignments. And everyone knows that place is a hotbed for bacteria, what with all the freshmen suckling off the free wifi while secretly drooling over one another, spreading their germs from sofa to sofa. If I get the flu, I’ll shoot a video from my deathbed, and as soon as the school’s legal team gets wind of it, I’m sure the janitorial staff will be forced to pressure wash the campus with bleach. God forbid I get another bout of norovirus like I did in tenth grade. I had it coming out of both ends like a corn littered fountain. I’ve never in my life clung to a toilet while fighting the urge to drown myself.

Trixie pulls me aside while the boys talk b-ball. “What’s with the green face? You look as if you just licked the bottom of a shoe that just stepped in—”

“Please stop.” I hold up a hand. “My stomach is upset, that’s all. Probably just nerves.” I glance back and spot Nolan at the altar speaking with the minister, looking so handsome my heart melts through the floor, and just like that, it stops because that’s no minister. It’s my father.

“Daddy’s here!” I chirp to Rush as we speed on over. I’m the first to wrap my arms around my father. Even though he’s pretty much persona non-grata, it doesn’t mean I love him any less. My mother died when I was young, so he’s been the only DNA-bearing parent I’ve got left on this planet. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you.” He pulls back, and I can’t help but think he looks young enough to be another brother. He shares Nolan’s and Rush’s caramel-colored hair and has the same smiling eyes as my brothers. For some reason, whenever he’s around, it feels as if we’re a family again. It sounds absurd, I know, but with him gone so much of the time, we’ve never quite felt like a family. But Lex stepped in early on and made sure we were just that, a family of sorts.

“My God, who gave this girl permission to grow up? Would you turn down the beauty already?” He dots the top of my head with a kiss, and the scent of his pickled cologne sets off nausea roll number three in me.

This cannot be happening. My brothers and father engage in chitchat while I do my best to gauge an exit strategy. There’s an opened door to the left that looks as if it leads to the parking lot, and for a fleeting moment I entertain heading that way for some fresh air. But a frantic wedding planner corrals me and the other bridesmaids to the back. I recognize the other bridesmaid from the Black Bear, Izzy Edwards, one of the owners’ wives. She and Misty have been longtime friends, so I’m not surprised to see her taking the coveted position. What I am surprised to see is that bulge in the front of her dress. Izzy is expecting.

“Wow, I hope Holt knows about the new development.” I give a little chuckle as I pat her belly, then quickly withdraw my hand as if it were in a fire. “Sorry. I bet you hate that—strangers touching your body all the time.”

“I don’t mind at all.” She grins down at her baby bump lovingly. “We just told our friends and family at Christmas, and no sooner did we announce it than my stomach popped out the next day. I guess we had good timing. I’m only four months along, but I couldn’t even fit into my jeans at six weeks. Can you believe it? I’m going to be the size of a house by the time I pop.”

“I’m sure you won’t. And how exciting! You’re going to have a baby in just a few short months. Hey”—a brilliant thought comes to mind, and I take a minute to do a little happy dance—“I’m doing a bunch of new tutorials for my beauty vlog, and I’d love to feature you. Your skin really glows, and I know all of my viewers would love to coo over your upcoming bundle of joy. How about a free makeover?”

“I’m in. But you might regret it. My face has been breaking out nonstop, and half the time I’m so sick I’m actually emerald green in the face. I hope you have a magic wand that can cure the Wicked Witch of the West look I’m stuck with.”

Green. That word rings out like a buzzword in my mind. Trixie thought I looked green, and just the mention of the word makes me queasy.

An instrumental melody begins, and Izzy heads down the aisle first with Rush by her side and then me with Seth. I can’t help but wrinkle my nose at Serena as we pass her looking every bit the regal couple. I know what she’s thinking—that our wedding will be next. We hit the end of the aisle, and suddenly it feels as if the world is swaying in these sky-high heels I’ve pressed myself into. The room feels far too stuffy. And, my God, why did Nolan and Misty cram the room with enough people to populate a small island nation? There is clearly a fire code violation happening here.

The music stops then restarts with a bit of drama as the entire lot of us turn to the double door entry where Misty arrives looking every bit the princess in white. She is so stunningly beautiful my eyes tear up in an instant. Her hair is swept up, and, of course, her makeup is on point. Misty has never needed any tips from me, although I know firsthand a professional was on site today. Not that she needs it. Misty has that fresh scrubbed, girl next-door appeal. Nolan told me that’s what first attracted him to her. I can’t believe how lucky my brother is. I only wish my mother could be here to witness the event. I’d like to think she is anyway.

Misty makes her way down with her father. Mr. Baker, Phillip, looks like an older version of Seth, handsome to a fault—much like his son—and yet refined—unlike Seth—and his womanizing days are far behind him. I take a moment to frown over at Seth himself. Fine, he’s not a womanizer to the extent Eli is or even my brother used to be, but he has a fairly-riddled reputation nonetheless, and for whatever reason it irritates the hell out of me. Come to think of it, this entire night is irritating the hell out of me. It’s eight o’clock, a perfectly indecent time for a wedding if you ask me, but Nolan and Misty swear the hours will fly by and we’ll all be chiming in the new year together.

It’s probably worth it to note that Mrs. Baker, Seth’s mother’s, name is Elizabeth. So, in fact, when Elizabeth and Phillip reference themselves as the royal we, they would be correct in just about every sense. She’s a Pilates fanatic who likes to bake and keeps an immaculate house. I don’t know why, but I’ve always felt as if the Bakers have turned their noses up at the unruly motley crew the Knights have unraveled to. Mr. Baker is a retired electrical engineer who once worked for the aerospace industry. And even though collectively they have far less in the way of finances, they’ve made up for it with their refined snobbery, something it appears that money cannot buy. My father doesn’t care about them one way or another. After this wedding, I’m sure he’ll be back on his jet on the way to his penthouse with who knows how many women warming his bed for him. You could say the promiscuous apple didn’t fall far from the tree where my brother Rush is concerned, not that Rush is still employing those naughty bedroom tactics.

Misty hits the front of the altar, and the ceremony gets underway. It feels as if someone just put a lid on the Dutch oven this shrinking room just morphed into. My God, it’s sweltering. Can it get any hotter in here? And wait just a minute—what in the heck is that disgusting odor? My nose bounces as I sniff the air. Holy crap. Is that garlic? What in the hell are they doing with that stinking root? Bathing the staff in it? Ugh.

My stomach does a hard roll, and I can’t help but give a little moan.

Seth shoots me a look, his brows bouncing with curiosity, and I take a moment to scowl at him. There. The simple act of gifting Seth a dirty look has made me feel better.

The minister’s voice suddenly sounds like gibberish as the room takes a solid spin. My stomach pinches with heat before twisting into an undeniable knot the size of a dinner plate.

“Oh,” I groan, and the room breaks out into titters because obviously I’ve timed my bodily malfunction to something cute Nolan just said to Misty. My brother turns to me and gives a slight wink before his eyes grow wide.

I’m quick to wave him off until he turns back around. I just need a little air, that’s all. I shove the bouquet of blood red roses into my nose as if I were slapping myself in the face, and I try my hardest to take in their fragrant beauty, but—oh my shit. Who the hell doused this poor red pompom in a vat of raw onions? And why does the entire world suddenly smell like feet?

Rush looks my way and shakes his head just enough to let me know he wants me to knock it off. Nolan turns around once again, and I open my mouth to say something—say anything in order to excuse myself, but all I manage is a long, horrid belch that sounds as if I’ve channeled my inner cruise ship and I’m honking my way into harbor.

The bride turns around and gasps, as does the crowd behind me.

Dear God. Kill me.

That horrific feeling deep within me takes over, and my body bucks with a revolution as I projectile vomit a river of what was once a bucket full of chocolate balls between Seth and me, and at least twelve different people scream as if I’ve just unloaded an AK-47 on the crowd.

“Oh God,” I bubble through another round of heaves. I turn and make a run for the exit, and wouldn’t you know it, the crowd parts like the Red Sea as I dart past them like a projectile vomiting missile. I can’t help but note the terror on their faces. Damn cowards.

“It’s just a virus!” I shout as I hit the exit. “Probably noro!” Like that makes it any better. Why don’t I just go back in there and tell them the cake is laced with anthrax? God, I’m such an idiot.

A handful of people run out the back right along with me and make a beeline for their cars.

“Crap,” I whimper as I stagger toward a couple of old barrels set out front. “I can’t believe this.” I’ve singlehandedly ruined Nolan and Misty’s wedding. Before I can properly feel sorry for myself, Seth pops up, panting and clearly alarmed. I can’t help but note there’s a bit of splatter on the shin of his pants, and I’m secretly hoping he won’t notice, because if Seth is forced to leave the wedding, Mr. and Mrs. Baker will forever hate my family. Oh hell, I probably cinched that by a landslide when I belched out the alphabet without meaning to.

“Sunday.” He jogs in close and warms my bare arms with his hands. “Let me take you back to Briggs.”

“Noooo—” The word stretches out in one horrific burp and, dear God, why am I suddenly possessed by a drunken frat boy? My body does its best rendition of a bucking bronco, and I upchuck right on his dress shirt, another brown river of chocolaty delight. I’m beginning to think Trixie’s mother secretly hates her.

Hey? Maybe the bonbons were laced with anthrax? And sadly, the thought actually makes me feel better. Once my organs begin shutting down, people will feel sorry for me. Nobody hates the dying girl. And this whole vomiting-my-insides-up-at-the-wedding fiasco will be considered an act of bravery rather than a one-woman biological attack.

Seth groans as he takes a solid step back, “You really do hate me.”

“Only on days that end in Y.” I wipe the slobber off my chin as we make a run for Seth’s truck. It’s safe to say I may never gain entry to Serena’s pristine Honda Civic again.

Seth drives us back to Whitney Briggs with the windows rolled down partway, and even though it’s a balmy thirty degrees out, I don’t seem to mind the fact my face is freezing solid in a grimace. My insides grind. They bubble and brew, percolating all the way back to Cutler Tower, and I vomit up any digestive acids I might have left just before we hit the elevator.

Seth is kind enough to see me all the way into my room, and I fall onto my bed in a heap. Thank God Rush disassembled those birth control loft beds Trixie and I had started out last semester with. Mostly it was to help him cozy up with Trixie while I was gone, but it’s made going to the bathroom a lot less of a midnight hazard.

“Leave,” I groan.

“Not until I get you some water.” He has the audacity to pluck my shoes off and, oh wow, it feels like I’ve died and gone to foot heaven. Seth takes a water bottle from the mini fridge and places it carefully on the bed next to me. “You want me to—”

“You’re not undressing me.” I drool onto my pillow, and I can feel that coma-like sleep that’s been after me all day, ready to knock me out like a heavyweight fighter coming in for that final TKO. And am I ever welcoming it.

“Goodnight, Sunday.” His voice is soft, and a cool whistling breeze snakes in as he opens the door to leave.

“Seth?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

“Any time. I owed you one anyway.”

And with that, the door closes, and I’m left drifting off to a blissful slumber wondering what in the heck Seth meant by he owed me one?

As much as I hate to admit it, I owe Seth one.

Big time.

* * *

Who knew the flu had a propensity to linger for three weeks straight? February has just peeked over the horizon, and thanks to Cupid I’m about to enter into my busy season—vlogging that is. I’ve just received six boxes—giant boxes—stuffed with every blusher, mascara and beauty sponge under the sun. Usually I’m orgasmically excited on D-Day, but this delivery doesn’t seem to be agreeing with the flu I’ve nicknamed Fred. Rush once had a turtle by that name, and the sight of it made me sick, so it seemed only appropriate that this lingering foodborne, virus-culled monster inside me be aptly named with the same moniker. Fred here obviously dislikes these boxes because the scent of the corrugated cardboard is literally making me want to find the nearest bush and heave.

Trixie and Harley step onto our floor at Cutler Tower, laughing it up over God knows what—probably the fact they seem to be cleverly evading Fred’s best efforts to infect them. How I wish I had their immune system superpowers. It’s becoming painfully clear my DNA was slapped together on a Friday before my chromosomes took off for hormonal happy hour. Have I forgotten to mention I’m a tad touchy? I’m giving the Wicked Witch of the West a run for her green bitchy money in more ways than one. Look at me sideways and see if I don’t pick a fight.

“Let me get that,” Trixie volunteers as she takes the bundle of packages from me and lets us into the dorm. “The last thing I need is you puking on my new highlighter combo eyeshadow palette that smells like marshmallows.”

We spill the boxes onto the floor, and I’m quick to slice them open with my keys. Just as expected, these juicy little packages are filled to the brim with an entire beauty counter’s worth of treasures. A delivery like this only happens at the holidays, and since the biggest heart-shaped holiday of them all is almost upon us, I seem to have scored twice the haul.

Trixie has been freely digging into my stash, but only because I heavily encourage her to do so. I’m so exhausted lately with trying to keep up with my classes, and doing a giveaway a week is taxing me on the back end. Leaving all these goodies to rot in boxes is tantamount to brandishing cheeseburgers and fries in front of starving frat boys. I can’t let that happen. It’s best Trixie and I put them to good use.

“You’ll take some, too, Harley,” I’m quick to make the offer. “And take something for your sister. Valentine’s Day is just around the corner. I’m sure she’ll appreciate it.” Her sister, Harper, is dating Trixie’s twin brother, Knox. It’s all a little incestuous here at WB, but I don’t really mind. Everyone seems beyond thrilled with the crisscrossing of family trees. My stomach twists as Serena pops to mind. “Maybe we should give Serena an entire box,” I tease. “Now that she’s dating Eli, she’ll have to disguise herself as a different woman every night just to hold his interest.”

Harley belts out a laugh. “Please. The guy is a douche. Serena can do better.” She wrinkles her nose as she pulls out a hot pink sponge. “Besides, they’re not dating. Trust me on that one. He just so happened to be seated all by his lonesome at the Black Bear, enjoying his burger when Serena suddenly found herself on a fifteen-minute break. I’d hardly call that dating.” She holds up a Stila lip gloss for my approval, and I nod.

“That’s a good color on you.” I can hardly get the words out as a hard roll of nausea razors through me, and I moan as if I were about to give birth to a black bear myself. That’s exactly what it feels like, a two-ton beast trying to claw its way out of my intestines every freaking morning—afternoon and evening on some days, too.

“Geez!” Trixie screeches as both she and Harley back up to the door. “If you keep puking like that, I’m going to start calling you Old Barfing Faithful. I told you, all you needed was to take a couple of sick days and knock this thing out. But no”—she tosses a used sock at me while plugging her nose with her free hand—“you have to be the ridiculous brave one who toughs it out.” She grabs her backpack off the floor. “I’ve got a media club meeting in ten minutes. When I get back, I’m going to tuck you in, and you’re not getting out of bed until the color comes back to your cheeks, sweetie. Don’t go anywhere. I have mad topographical skills, and I will hunt you down and find you.” She bats her lashes at me as she takes off.

“I’d better get going, too.” Harley stands, holding a couple of glosses and what appears to be a full-sized sample of my favorite Better Than Sex Mascara. My wimpy little lashes are forever indebted to that magical stuff—so much so I’m beginning to think the moniker is aptly given.

“Enjoy it all. I know it’ll look great on you.” My mind wanders back to that infamous frat party. I can’t believe I had sex last December. It’s just something I can’t seem to wrap my head around. Mostly because I can’t seem to remember it. I guess that means it was pretty uneventful. Honestly, I had no business throwing myself at Eli Gates of all people. He’s a notorious womanizer who probably bedded a long line of girls that night. No wonder he has no problem looking me in the eye whenever he’s around. He’s not the least bit ashamed of what we’ve done. Having sex to someone like Eli is equivalent to a bodily function. I was nothing more than an extension of his toilet seat that night. Disgusting. The thought makes me feel ten times more nauseous than the smell of those boxes did, and I moan my way to the bed while holding my stomach.

“Hey, are you okay?” Harley comes over and lands her cool hand over my forehead.

“Oh, that feels good,” I groan and do my best to hold her captive there.

“You don’t have a fever. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were knocked up. My best friend in high school had a similar extended flu.” She says flu in air quotes. “And nine months later, she had a bouncing baby girl. Brought her to prom and everything.”

“Nice.” My chest rattles at the thought. “But I’m not knocked up.”

“Oh, I know you’re not.” She gives a dark laugh as she hits the door. “Serena doesn’t call you The Holy Virgin Born on a Sunday for nothing.” She gives a little wink. “We V’s need to stick together. By the way, I’m convinced Serena is one, too!” She shuts the door as she takes off, and I give a little chuckle. As much as I love Serena, she can be a pain in the ass. She’s not a virgin, is she? She swore up and down she slept with Heath Hathaway last year at the quasi-high school reunion beach bash that lasted three solid days. Huh. But I didn’t believe her then, and I don’t see why I should now. Serena has a long history of making me believe she’s ahead of the curve, only to later discover she’s not even in the driver’s seat or in the right race.

Harley’s words come back to me. Knocked up. I roll over, and my insides beg to ingest themselves. I can’t be knocked up. I spent one lousy night with a guy, and I had a condom with me.

I suck in a sharp breath and sit straight up. “My God, my God!” My voice hikes into its upper register. I have no clue if we used a condom that night. I reach for my phone and peel the case back, revealing the purple foil packet still firmly in place. Trixie is the one I snagged it from. God knows my brother has a never-ending supply, and now, apparently, so do I. My heart drums into my ears as I stare at it blankly.

“It doesn’t matter.” I laugh to myself like a madwoman. “He probably had his own.”

God. He had better have had his own. I bet a pro like Eli glides one on before he ever gets to the party.

My stomach twists and turns as if I were on a roller coaster with a never-ending loop. Besides, I just had my per—

“Oh. My. God.” I pull up my period app and note it’s been suspiciously inactive since November thirtieth. “WHAT?” I scream so loud the girls in the next room pound on the wall. “Oh, screw you,” I say, only I don’t have the energy needed to deliver it properly.

I can’t be knocked up. That’s not something that happens to me—it’s not on the list—hell, it’s not on any list I’ve ever made. A tiny laugh bubbles from my throat because it happens to be true. When and if I do get knocked up, I will be firmly in a loving stable relationship, preferably with a giant rock on my left hand and living in the Hamptons. Getting knocked up will be very much on the list at that point in my life, but until then, this is a nonstarter for me.

“It’s just the flu,” I whisper, picking up my purse and heading out the door. “Everyone gets the mothereffing flu,” I say as I make a beeline for the parking lot.

I drive like a bat out of norovirus hell and head straight to the farthest pharmacy in the seediest part of Jepson, buying up every makeup counter in sight, buying an industrial sized box of tampons, two boxes of pads that qualify as diapers, and one measly—and, my God, is it ever overpriced—pregnancy test. There. The cashier won’t suspect a thing, and I’ll finally catch some long-sought-after Zzz’s tonight once I reassure myself that the last place I’ll be visiting is the motherhood.

An outwardly bored teenager rings me up and bags my copious purchases. She waves the box that holds my future in its hands and winks my way. “Pro tip—wrap it up like a used maxi pad when you’re finished with it. That way your nosey ass mother won’t find it on the sink and call you a ho at the next family dinner.” Her affect grows increasingly hard as if she were reliving a memory, and I’m pretty sure she is.

“Duly noted,” I say, snatching the box and sinking it deep inside my purse. There’s no way I’m risking it to tumble out as I schlep half of CVS up to my dorm.

Besides, my dead mother won’t have to worry about calling me a ho.

I’m not knocked up. This is just the damn flu.

Pro tip—never sleep with Eli Gates again.

* * *

My God. My God! My life is suddenly nothing but a blur. The drive back to Whitney Briggs, crawling back up to my dorm, spilling all my panicked purchases at my feet as I sit on the floor, examining that silly box with its incessant death rattle—I remember none of it. Instead, I shove that silly cardboard box and all the crap I’ve incurred because of it on the shelf behind me and get back to work. I have a vlog to tend to, giveaways to flaunt before my faithful followers. I need to focus on what’s real in my life right now—school, my beauty biz that I plan on extrapolating into a mini cosmetics-based empire, and being happy. It feels as if I’ve done nothing but wallow in misery ever since that fateful night at Beta Kappa Phi. Deep down, I knew I would regret the decision to let down my hair and pretend I was Serena. And my God! Serena doesn’t even sleep around. What the hell was I thinking?

I shake it all off, take a deep swig from my water bottle, and get to doing what I do best—live streaming my very next vlog.

“Hey, guys! It’s Sunday Knight, and I’m super excited to share all of the delectable delights that were sent my way this afternoon! I can’t wait to try some of these delicious new treats. I feel and look like crap, so you’ll really see a transformation happening today.” The comments feed is running like ticker tape, and it momentarily distracts me. I cast a quick glance their way.

Real transformation! Crying and dying!

Sunday! OMG! Congratulations!

Aw! What a way to tell us! You are so freaking funny!

Can’t wait to see the cute clothes. No wonder you’ve been so sick! Feel better! Ginger ale helps!

Flu SMH. I called it.

True colors. I knew that goody two-shoes routine was all an act. Congrats, girl!

So sly! You win the internet!

“What the heck?” I whisper while holding up a facemask that I’m about to start the party with. Usually I never read the comments. Sure, my eyes wander every now and again, but in order to avoid the one-off troll trying to throw me off my game, I hardly ever go there. But this? What the actual f—

Wait. It’s like they know what I’ve done. Crap. I bet that girl at the store recognized me. How stupid of me to think I didn’t need to don a disguise for a covert operation like that. I look up, stunned, at the pinhole of bright red light capturing my every movement. “And so I thought I’d start with a mask to cleanse and—”

It’s no use. My eyes dart right back to those bizarre comments exploding to life one after another like popcorn. I can’t help but look. It’s like a runaway train at this point.

Are you taking the test live?

“Test? What test?” I shake my head into my laptop, and why does it suddenly feel as if I’m speaking to a Magic 8 Ball?

LOL! You are a freaking riot! #Fanforlife

The comments roll in, hot and heavy, and it’s as if time stands still. That white-hot witch’s cauldron in my stomach boils over, spilling throughout my entire body as it hits me.

“Shit.” I turn around stiffly. The entire universe seems set in slow-motion as I zero in on the box sitting face out screaming at home pregnancy test for all the world to see.

And then, just like that, the universe whips right back to warp speed. I snatch the box from the bookshelf and turn around with a manufactured smile. “You mean this? Ha!” I tip my head back and laugh like a woman who’s long since seen her sanity. This is it—do or die. I take a quick breath and glare back at the camera. “My next guest happens to be the beautiful Izzy Edwards. You may have seen her a time or two at the Black Bear Saloon? She’s the one who’s knocked up—and her skin is amazing because of it. But because she’s hardly showing (my God, that girl has a bowling ball tucked under her shirt, if not twelve) I thought it’d be prudent to make her pee on a stick to prove it. Just a little naughty fun, my pretties.”

That fake smile falls from my lips as I spastically look to the comments feed.

Nice cover!

Izzy? She’s freaking HUGE!

PEE ON THE STICK!

“Eew.” And they go on and on. No one believes a word. I glance to the invisible watch on my wrist. “Would you look at that? I’ve got an American history study group in five. All in a day’s work. I’ll be back. Stay beautiful!” I slap my laptop shut and look to the bathroom in fear.

As far as I can tell, I’ve got two options.

And I’m shooting for the latter.