The buzzing of my cell phone snaps me out of my poetry classinduced dazed. This is one of the smaller lecture rooms. It fits about a hundred people but there are only fifteen in this class.

I pull my cell phone from the front pocket of my jeans as discreetly as possible.

Miles: How about a picture of your wound?

My palms are slick with sweat. It's not the temperature. It's nerves. Doesn't help that Kara is sitting next to me, sipping a can of black tea, scribbling notes with her purple pen.

She shoots me a knowing look. "Who is that?"

I clear my throat. "Shouldn't you be hungover?"

She certainly doesn't look any worse for wear. Her hair and makeup are perfect. Her wrinkle-free blouse does amazing things to highlight her ample chest.

"Lucky me, my friend reminded me to hydrate." She pulls a can of green tea from her backpack and places it on my desk. "I know how to repay the favor."

Yes, sweet caffeine. I pop open the can and down half of it in one sip. It's a sencha green tea—crisp, nutty, ever so slightly grassy. Damn, it's good. With my next sip, I finish the can.

My eyes meet Kara's. She cocks a brow as if to say don't play dumb.

Okay, I won't play dumb. But I won't admit it either. Kara and I have an unspoken policy of not prying. Or at least we did, before everything with Rosie, before I spent the summer locked in my room with sad songs on repeat.

Now, she asks questions. She makes a point of dragging me out of my misery. I appreciate the concern, I do, but I'm tired of the kid gloves.

I wait until she turns her attention to her notes to text Miles.

Meg: Something tells me sending you pictures is a bad idea.

Miles: Suit yourself. I was going to send you something very nice in return.

Meg: Nice how?

Miles: A picture for a picture.

A blush spreads across my cheeks. He can't mean a picture of that.

Kara clears her throat. "How is Miles?"

I shrug and slide my phone into my lap.

"Sweetie, whatever story you're selling, I'm not buying it." She taps her pen against her paper. "Did he keep flirting after you dropped me off?"

The professor is explaining some poetic device with absolutely no enthusiasm. You'd think a guy who devotes his life to a romantic art form would have a little passion, but no.

"It was a total non-event," I say.

"What happened to your knee?" She points to the bandage on my leg.

"I fell. No big deal."

"Swear he didn't give you a hard time."

If only. The image of him naked on the bed, hard and ready, flashes through my mind. Dammit. I don't think about guys during class. I don't text during class. Medical school is competitive. I'll never make it if I get derailed this easily. That's not an option.

I have to make it. For myself and for Rosie.

I slide my phone into my backpack and turn to Kara. "Miles is fine. He's not going to be my best friend, but I won't cry if you want to do something with him and Drew. Not a double date but—"

"We're just friends." She looks at me carefully, examining me. "You know he's a player."

"I figured." I adjust my t-shirt. "You know I'm twenty-one, right? I can handle being alone with a man."

"He goes through three girls a week."

"I get that he's a slut. I can handle that. I'm not a child."

She shrinks back, wounded. "Just want to help."

"I know. But I'm doing better than I was in June." I look to my notes before the uncertainty in my eyes will give me away. "Would it be so wrong if I did have sex with him?"

"Not wrong, no. But do you really want to—" she lowers her voice to a whisper "—lose your virginity to a manwhore?"

"Maybe."

"If you're sure it's what you want, I can help."

"I'm just thinking out loud."

"Maybe think about it when you're in bed alone tonight." She winks.

My cheeks flush.

"Did you already?" Her eyes light up. "He is hot. Super hot."

Okay, maybe I did. Masturbation isn't a crime. Last night was the first time I enjoyed myself in a while.

It was the first time I fell asleep thinking about something besides losing my sister.

It's scary, actually, like I'll lose her all over again.

I change the subject to something less embarrassing. "Jurassic Park is playing at the Nuart Friday at midnight."

"I'm there."

* * *

All day, my phone burns a hole in my pocket. It taunts me during lunch. It taunts me during my bio test. It taunts me during the lulls of my shift at the ER.

I write a dozen text replies in my head but none of them are right. I can't care what Miles thinks of me. Writing papers, studying, my job—it doesn't pay well but it's great experience—those come before guys.

But when I get home and collapse on my bed, I keep thinking of him.

I want his hard body pressed against mine, his soft lips on my skin.

How the hell does this flirting thing work?

I take a picture of my skinned knee and send it to him.

Meg: Don't complain if you think it's gross.

He replies quickly.

Miles: Right back at you.

There's a picture message attached—the back of his hand. His knuckles are battered and covered in scar tissue. He got into a lot of fights once upon a time.

Meg: That's not what I thought you'd send.

Miles: Imagining some place a little lower and lot more exciting?

Vividly. I change into my pajamas in an attempt to buy myself time to think.

It's been easy avoiding complications until now. Guys never interested me. School took precedent. Period.

But then I never felt like this. I never craved someone's hands on my body.

I certainly never hoped a guy would send me a naughty picture.

I play with my phone. Maybe it's a good thing that Miles is experienced. He'll know what he's doing. Know how to make sure I enjoy myself.

Or maybe he'll be all aloof and cool and I'll be a nervous, tongue-tied mess.

Dammit, I don't know.

Meg: No, I wouldn't expect you to send a picture like that unless I asked.

Miles: Accurate.

Meg: I'm not going to ask.

Miles: Good. I'd say no. You have to earn that.

Meg: No, I have to go study.

Miles: It's almost eleven.

Meg: Just got off work at the ER. No time to waste.

Miles: You work in an ER?

Meg. Yeah. Why do you ask?

Miles: Your reaction times are a little slow.

Meg: I don't do much in the ER. I'm a scribe. Means I write down Dr's orders, put information in the computer, that kind of thing. Don't need fast reaction times.

Miles: Uh-huh.

Meg: I have to go. I have a lot of homework to finish before bed. Goodnight.

Phone on silent, I devote my next two hours to my bio textbook. When I'm finally done, my cell is sitting there on my desk, face down, taunting me.

I turn it over.

Miles: Sweet dreams.

That's what he said when he left last night.

Was he thinking about me in bed?

It's too late for me to contemplate this. He's already becoming a complication. Guys are trouble. Rosie was smarter, stronger, and more relationship savvy than I am and that asshole Jared still ruined her life.

I get ready for bed and collapse under the sheets. I repeat my manta mantra—medical school acceptance comes first—but it does nothing to chase away the mental image of Miles naked on my bed, his hand wrapped around his hard cock.

Dammit. I don't know how to handle this. Rosie would. She was so good at this kind of thing.

My heart sinks. My arms and legs are heavy. Hell, the entire world is heavy.

It still feels impossible, doing this without her, doing anything without her.

I didn't think about her last night. I didn't think about her when I was with Miles. Maybe that's worth the risk of the complication.

It can't be worse than this. Nothing is worse than how badly this hurts.

I grab my phone.

Meg: Did you mean what you said in the car? About sleeping with me.

Miles: Is that an invitation?

Meg: Just a hypothetical question.

Miles: Hypothetically, I can be at your apartment in twenty minutes flat.

Meg: Would you really come right now? It's the middle of the night.

Miles: That's the usual time for a booty call.

Damn. He makes it sound simple. Is he really that casual about everything? It doesn't seem possible. The guy who sings In Pieces is tormented. He's hurting. He's committed.

The Miles who's texting me is flirting, sure, but that's as far as his investment goes.

Meg: Nevermind. I should go to bed. Forget I said anything.

Miles: I'll be your first.

Meg: I didn't say I was a virgin.

Miles: You are.

Meg: And you know that how?

Miles: It's cute you're so defensive about it.

Meg: It's not cute.

Miles: Why not admit it?

Meg: What's it matter to you? Trying to hit a quota of "virginities taken"?

Miles: Don't have a fetish for it. But I would like to fuck you, Meg. I'll make sure your first time is good. That it doesn't hurt. That you come. But only if it's what you want.

* * *

All week, my phone is silent. There isn't a peep from Miles. No new texts when I wake up. No new texts when I check my phone at lunch. None during my study break between class and work. None when I get home from a shift at the ER.

His last text sits there, that smooth, confident offer to take my virginity. Like it's no big deal.

To him, it isn't a big deal.

It's not like I've been waiting. It's just that not dating makes it difficult to have sex.

I don't want a boyfriend. I really don't. But I don't want to be a notch in someone's bedpost either.

Miles is a slut. There's nothing wrong with him being a slut, but I don't want to lose my virginity to a guy who goes through three women a week. Not if he's going to forget my name the way he forgot that other girl's name.

The ball is in my court. I keep it there. Miles and I are friends by association. That's all.

Late Thursday night, I get home particularly exhausted. I don't have the energy for homework. I collapse in bed and turn on the radio instead.

KROQ does its usual Nirvana, Smashing Pumpkins, 90s and 00s rock thing. Then it's his song, In Pieces. It still tears me apart. It still presses every single bruise.

Three weeks now.

Can't sleep.

Gaping hole in my chest

shows no signs of recovery.

That word, a joke, you laugh.

"Running away again, kid?"

A minute here

and then you're gone.

I close my eyes, willing my thoughts to go anywhere but that awful memory.

It doesn't work.

I'm in that hospital room, watching doctors try to save my sister. I can see her blue lips, feel her cold hands. They're freezing, no grip, no signs of life at all.

Lights out.

Can't sleep.

Heavy head,

but no one else can see.

(No one ever did).

A lost cause still,

worse than before.

No signs of recovery.

She's dying. I watch her die again and again. The same stupid dream I have every night. The reason why I can't allow myself a single minute of free time. Because my thoughts go back to her and all the ways I failed her.

An opiate overdose.

I had no idea.

How could I have had no idea?

That word, a joke, you laugh.

"Running away again kid?"

A minute here

And then you're gone.

Four weeks now.

That hole, that dread.

I can barely breathe

Anywhere but here.

Anything but this.

I want to take your lead.

She's gone. It's been three months. Just like the song goes, the gaping hole in my chest shows no sign of recovery. I can't sleep. I can't breathe.

How is it possible that Miles went through something like this and came out calm and unaffected?

I try to study but I can't focus. The question eats at my mind. How is it possible that Miles, the cocky player, is the same guy as Miles, the wounded poet?

I have to know.

Meg: Can I ask you something?

Miles: You're up late.

Meg: Always am.

Miles: Shoot.

Meg: Do you write the lyrics for Sinful Serenade?

Miles: All but one song.

Meg: In Pieces?

Miles: Nope. That one is 100% Miles Webb.

Meg: Really?

Miles: You getting at something?

Meg: It's hard to imagine you going through something like that.

He doesn't reply. Five minutes pass. Then ten.

Meg: I only mean, because you're so casual about everything.

Miles: What do you know about how casual I am?

Meg: You're casual about sex.

Miles: And?

Meg: You're aloof and unaffected.

Miles: Says who?

Meg: Says me. The guy that wrote that song. He's affected. He's tortured. He hurts deep down inside.

Miles: And I don't?

Meg: It doesn't seem like it.

Miles: Are you this rude to all your friends or only me?

Meg: We're not really friends.

Miles: Apparently not.

My cheeks flare. That isn't how I mean it.

I stare at my screen. That heaviness is back. I feel awful.

If someone tried to convince me I didn't know what pain felt like, that I wasn't wrecked by losing the person I loved more than anything...

I'd punch him right in the face.

I don't talk to anyone about Rosie, not really. And here Miles went and wrote a whole song about losing someone. He told the whole damn world, and I accused him of making it up.

Meg: I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that.

Miles: I've heard worse.

Meg: I didn't mean any offense. I swear.

Miles: I'm sure you'll find a way to make it up to me.