The edges of the leaves are starting to change. In a few weeks, the street will be full of wild, chaotic color. Even the air this morning is crisp. It won’t be long before I’ll need to wear more than a light sweater or hoodie. The thought makes me frown because I don’t have money to go shopping.

When I reach for my mail, I see Student Accounting Services Office on the top envelope. My fingers hesitate at its edges. No, rip it off, like a Band-Aid. I tear through one side and pull out the letter. My eyes skim over the words until I find what I’m looking for. I have to take a deep breath when I see the amount because right now there’s no way in hell I can afford it.

Money wasn’t an issue when I chose this school. I loved the campus and the programs and the fact that it was so close to Boston College and Daren. Between a few academic scholarships and my track scholarship, I almost had a full ride. My parents seemed pleased with my plans when I told them I wanted to attend Boston University, so I never thought I’d be scrounging to pay tuition every few months.

But that was before my father left for that European merger and decided that living on another continent was better than living with us. Before my mother had that meltdown because I wouldn’t model her overpriced clothes. Before both of them forgot I existed.

The ache in my chest reminds me that I still care too much.

They taught me how to shut out people. How to be cold. Closed off. Distant. Apparently, being a bitch is my only inheritance.

When I get to work, I find a mountain of invoices to process. Somewhere in my dreary afternoon, I step out of the office and run down to Starbucks, which is nestled in the corner of the first floor, next to the Barnes & Noble.

The guy behind the counter is new. He reminds me of a cocker spaniel, all perk and happiness as he hunts and pecks on the register. When his trainer Sarah sees me, she pushes the kid out of the way to take my order.

“The usual, Clem?” Sarah asks, her ponytail bopping on her head.

“Yeah, thanks.” I reach over the counter to grab my coffee. “By the way, your team did a great job last week selling the promo drink. You’ll be entered in the raffle for the gift card.”

“Cool!” she says with a big grin.

“There you are.” My manager Roger waves for me to follow him. He has a major crinkle in his brow, so I’m wondering what got broken. I make sure the lid on my drink is secure and run to catch up, but instead of leading me to the home department that has the glass knickknacks that are always getting smashed by the dumber-than-fuck frat boys, he leads me to Barnes & Noble. When he stops, I do a double take.

On the new shelf reserved for indie favorites sits my novel. Until now, I’ve only sold ebooks, so seeing the actual hard copy in a store is making me drunk with glee, but I try to stay calm.

Running my fingers over the glossy purple cover of Say It Isn’t So, pride swells in my chest. I got it done, in print and in stores. Well, a few stores. I touch the book again, my thumb running over the letters like they’re little gold nuggets. I don’t care what people say online. I still love the cover. The broken heart locket was mine, and nothing can symbolize what happens in my story any better.

“I can’t keep these on the shelves,” he says as he taps on my book.

It takes me a second to realize he’s not just talking about my novel, that he’s referring to all of the titles in the indie section.

“This was a damn good idea, Clem,” he says. “I’m glad you suggested it.”

I had the good luck of tutoring Macy, the owner’s daughter last semester, and when we got talking about books, I mentioned the need for an indie shelf at the bookstore. And I might have shared my favorite titles with her, one of which maybe was my own.

But she didn’t know it was mine. And neither does my boss who’s staring at it.

Unease takes root in my stomach. Is it possible Roger found out?

My boss scratches his belly absentmindedly.

Trying to appear casual, I school my expression. “Um, how do you know I suggested it?”

He grins like he’s in on some big secret. “Because Macy’s dad told me.” He taps the shelf. “And since the titles are such a hit, I’d like to get a few of these authors to come for a book talk next month. I’ve heard back from everyone except the publicist for Austen Fitzgerald. With the best sales in the city, you’d think she’d give me the time of day.”

The frustration in his voice makes me feel guilty, but I can’t tell him the truth, that I’m Austen Fitzgerald, a pseudonym I came up with by combining the names of my two favorite writers, Jane Austen and F. Scott Fitzgerald.

My publicist hates me because I won’t interact with fans beyond Twitter and a few social media networks, but I’ve put too much of myself in that book to lay claim to it publicly. I figure that’s why I pay her, but apparently not enough because she should call Roger back or at least let me know what he wants.

I’m relieved it’s selling, though, because I have to scrounge up a crapload of cash to pay the tuition bill that threatens to kick my ass out on the street.

I motion toward my book. “Let me try calling her publicist. At the very least, maybe I can get some signed copies.”

“Good idea!” Roger is only forty, but he marches around here like a grandpa, always worried about sales and figures and schedules. “Corporate is crazy about you. They want you as a full-time manager when you graduate.”

“I thought they only hired MBAs for those positions.”

“That’s true, but they love all of your suggestions and how you incentivize the staff.” He tilts his head. “I’ve been meaning to ask why no one ever calls in sick on your shifts.”

I smirk. “I tell them if they call in sick, I’m going to fire them and they’ll end up working as a media assistant setting up overhead projectors and presentations for classes, but they’ll screw it up and everyone will laugh at them, which will eventually give them a complex that will require intensive psychotherapy.”

He crinkles those eyebrows again, obviously unsure whether I’m telling the truth. I shake my head and laugh.

“Roger, I buy them shit every month they’re on time. Out of my own pocket. Sometimes it’s from the gift cards I get from those efficiency rewards corporate sends out.”

I’ve had practice with that sort of stuff. Like the online raffles I do for free giveaways of my book and autographed bookmarks that feature the cover of my novel. I even write people personalized notes as some of the characters in my story. Fans seem to love those the most. One woman even sent me a new locket after I blogged about how my broken necklace ended up on the cover.

His eyes widen. “You spend your own money? Really?”

“Yeah, but usually the kids are happy taking home the crap we give away after a promotion is over, so it’s not so bad. It’s better than dealing with their bullshit when they have hangovers.”

He scratches his head. “Can I clone you?”

I pat him on the shoulder. “I’m not sure that technology is available yet, so you’re going to have to settle for a box of signed books from Austen what’s-her-name.”

Roger smiles, and the wrinkle in the middle of his forehead smoothes.

“How do you know so much about business and marketing?”

Debating how much to tell him, I opt for vague. “My parents own a few businesses, and I paid attention.”

“Hmm,” he says thoughtfully. “Anything I know?”

“No.” Um, probably, I think, watching a couple of sorority girls decked out in clothes from my mother’s fashion line saunter by with the brand name emblazoned on their asses.

On my way home, I’m still floating from seeing my novel in the store when I get a dirty text from Jenna. Relieved no one can see this over my shoulder, I laugh at her message: I’m hard for you, baby. Come relieve the pressure.

I have to think about this for longer than is probably necessary.

Finally, I write back: Should I use my hand or mouth?

Good lord, I can’t believe I sent that to someone. Where in the world did she learn how to play this stupid game? Out-Skank. We should box up this idea and sell it as a drinking game.

Gavin texts me, asking if I want to study later this week. Thinking about him turns my insides to liquid. Molten liquid. Those green eyes. Those damn long lashes. Ugh, those lips. I’m mid-fantasy about making out with him in the library when Jenna sexts me again. I’m so busy being aghast at her naughtiness that I nearly plow through a group of professors.

After a few apologies to the elderly gentlemen I nearly trampled, I write her back: I want to lick your body up and down.

A minute later, I get another text from Gavin: Really? And where would this licking begin exactly?

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

I just sexted Gavin.

I have to close my eyes to regain my equilibrium. Smacking my forehead with my palm for being such an idiot, I rifle off a quick text to Gavin to explain my roommate’s insistence that we play this stupid game.

He writes back: Haha. I didn’t have you pegged as a sexter. But if you need practice, baby, I’m always available ;)

Mental note: Must not space out when sexting.

* * *

Being surrounded by the smells and sounds of the library makes it difficult to concentrate. All I can think about is making out with Gavin in the stacks. His lips on mine. His hands running along my back and in my hair. The way he tastes. How I ache when he presses his body against me.

“Earth to Clem!” Harper whisper-shouts. My eyes shift to her, and the look of exasperation catches me off guard.

“Sorry, I can’t seem to focus here.” I give her an apologetic smile. Right now, I don’t even think I can spell my name.

“You love studying in the library,” she says, her face twisted in confusion.

I’m usually the epitome of efficiency when I’m here, but now that I’ve groped Gavin among the books and felt his hands all over me, homework is the last thing I want to think about. God, he’s so—

She snaps her fingers in my face, making me jump.

“There you go again. What’s going on?” She taps her pen as she waits for my answer.

Before I can respond, I hear a familiar voice behind me that makes my heart race.

“Hi, ladies.” Gavin places his hands on either side of my chair and leans in to kiss my cheek. Oh shit. My stomach does a free fall out of my body.

Harper says hi as a wide smile spreads across Jenna’s mouth.

“Hey, Gavin, just trying to help Clem with this problem,” Jenna says, pointing to my newest math dilemma, “but she can’t seem to concentrate. It’s like all of a sudden the library distracts her.”

I hear him chuckle behind me.

“Hmm. We got a lot of work done here the other day,” he says with amusement in his voice.

I brave a look at Jenna, and she raises one eyebrow. “Then maybe you should join us so she’ll pay attention.” I glare at her, and she smirks. “You should know that Clem doesn’t do public displays of affection, so if you got anything more than a hug out of this girl, you deserve an award.”

I kick her under the table, and she yelps.

Jenna is right, though. I don’t do PDA, or at least I never did before Gavin sauntered into my life. I never let Daren kiss me in public. In fact, I barely let him hold my hand.

Gavin squeezes my shoulder. “As much as I’d like to join you guys, I could use your editing skills.”

I momentarily forget my embarrassment and turn to find him looking unusually tense. His hair is in disarray as though he’s been running his hands through it all day. It reminds me of what he looks like first thing in the morning, which makes me think about kissing him. And having him press up against me in the stacks. And how I’d like to do that again. Soon.

He slides a few sheets of paper in front of me. “Would you mind proofing this? My deadline is in an hour, and I have another story to cover.”

It takes me a second to shake off my lust-filled haze, but I agree and reach into my bag for a pen.

“I need to make a phone call, but I’ll be back in a few minutes,” he says. I nod and turn back to his article.

Jenna and Harper are all aflutter about Gavin, so I tell them to shut up a few times so I can understand what I’m reading. He’s never asked me for anything, and he’s been supportive of me and all of my writing hangups. The least I can do is give him feedback.

The headline reads, “No New Leads In Missing BU Student’s Disappearance.”

I plug my ears with my fingers to drown out the chatter. The article describes how Olivia Lawrence was an English major, a senior who spent the spring semester abroad, and she had just returned for the Fourth of July when she jumped on the T and was never seen again.

The article quotes one of her friends who says she traveled to Europe because she was looking for inspiration.

“‘She loved writing Harry Potter fanfiction and was working on her own story that featured a young girl who was trapped in a mystical world,’ her friend Anthony Levine said. ‘Olivia thought the old-world charm of England would be the perfect backdrop for her book.’”

I jot down a few notes, and as I’m finishing, Gavin walks back up to our table.

“What’s the verdict?” he asks, brimming with an intense energy.

“It’s really good. Amazing, actually.” He smiles, and his green eyes warm with flecks of gold.

“How did you track down people in England?”

“Most of them are back now. Her sister hooked me up with some of Olivia’s friends online, and I did a little digging on my own to talk to two of her professors.”

“Your lead is really tight and everything flows well. The only mistake I found was this attribution,” I say, pointing. “I’m guessing it’s a copy-and-paste mistake.”

He reads over my comments.

When he’s done, I turn to the last page. “My other suggestion is to switch these paragraphs because this one is a more powerful way to end the article.”

He runs his teeth over his full lower lip. “You’re right.” He takes my pen and scribbles a few notes in the margin.

“Is that for the Free Press?” Jenna asks. If she leans over anymore, she’ll be in my lap.

“No, the Globe.” He’s still scribbling in the margin of his article.

“I didn’t know you still worked for the Globe,” I say.

“I wasn’t, but the editor from my summer internship was impressed with what I’ve been doing for the Freep this fall. So now I work for both.”

Gavin runs his hand over the back of his neck, his head obviously still in his assignment.

“Wow, that’s awesome!” Jenna gets a few angry looks from the people near us. I’m so impressed with Gavin I don’t know what to do with myself.

Kade walks up behind Gavin. “Dude, you done?” He doesn’t say hi. He doesn’t even try to be cordial. I roll my eyes.

Jenna greets the douchebag, and they talk about an upcoming gig.

Gavin checks his phone and leans down to me. “I’ll call you later, unless you want to text me,” he says with a wicked gleam in his eye as he kisses my temple. Remembering my embarrassing Out-Skank moment yesterday, I put my hand over my face to hide. I hear him laugh behind me as he and Kade take off.

I don’t know how long I sit there thinking about him before Harper clears her throat. She smiles briefly before a look of concern crosses her face.

“I have two questions,” Harper says hesitantly. “Have you had any panic attacks… about him?”

I shake my head, a small grin spreading. She smiles in return and reaches over and punches me lightly.

“Good. Now, for the really important question. Where can I find myself one of those? Does he have a brother?”

“Right?” Jenna might be in a relationship, but she appreciates eye candy when she sees it. And that boy is most definitely eye candy. Not to mention one hell of a writer.

* * *

Jenna and Harper run off to different study groups, and I head home, but when I get to the center of campus, my feet grind to a stop.

The crowd in Marsh Plaza is silhouetted by the setting sun as hundreds of candles wink in the breeze. It’s a rally for Olivia. A man in his early fifties, wearing khakis and a gray sweater, is standing on the second steps of the school chapel.

“She’s out there, and she needs your help,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “We want to get her home safely, and her mother and I want to remind you of Olivia’s story so you don’t make the same mistakes. Don’t walk around campus or this city at night alone. That was Livvy’s mistake.”

My heart breaks listening to Mr. Lawrence. The way he talks about her like she’s alive. Like she’s coming home when she’s probably long gone.

The man struggles to continue before he holds his hand over his face. His wife wraps her arms around him. I avert my eyes, feeling bad they have to share this heartbreak in front of what must be three hundred people.

On the other side of the crowd, I spot Gavin quietly interviewing a few students. He looks in his element. So commanding and compassionate. Pride swells in me as I watch him cover the story, one that means so much to him.

A few feet away from me, a small news crew has set up, and a tall, slender student with long, dark hair talks into the microphone.

I can barely make out her words over the sound of the wind.

“Authorities are asking the public for help. If you have any information about the disappearance of Olivia Lawrence, please contact the number on your screen. I’m Madeline McDermott for BU News.”

I’d never willingly stand in front of a camera like the broadcast students. That takes so much courage. I’m pretty sure I’d stutter or make some totally humiliating Freudian slip.

Turning to go, I stop abruptly when I come face to face with Brigit. We appraise each other briefly before I clear my throat.

“Hi, Brigit. How are you?”

She looks surprised we’re speaking, but then her eyes tighten at the corners.

“It’s Clem, right?” Her voice is cold and clipped.

I nod and give her a sympathetic smile. There’s no reason we should be enemies even though that’s obviously what Jason wants. She has no idea what she’s getting herself into, no idea who he is.

I should warn her.

I hoist my messenger bag higher on my shoulder. “How is the writing going? I had a hard time getting that first book done.” Okay, I’ve had trouble getting the second one done too. “Is your book fiction?”

She lets the question hang in the air and bites her cheek as her eyes shift to the ground.

“I’m, uh, a little stuck.”

I shrug. “I’m working on a romance novel right now, and I’m pretty sure it probably sucks. It would help if I liked romances.” I can’t exactly come straight out and tell her Wheeler might try to cop a feel between edits. “I got a C on my last assignment.”

The tension in her shoulders starts to ease with my admission, and she tells me her book is about something that happened to one of her friends when they went on spring break.

Talking to Brigit isn’t as hard as I imagined, but she reminds me of a sparrow, ready to fly away at the first sign of trouble, so I don’t push.

I offer to send her a pacing guide I got from one of my writing classes, and I scribble my email on a ripped corner of notebook paper and hand it to her.

“Thanks, Clem,” she says, smiling, looking a little surprised that I’m trying to help her.

“I volunteer in the tutoring center if you ever want a second pair of eyes to edit something.” Or need a few tips to avoid sexual harassment.