The fifth soggy photo hits the bottom of the trashcan, making a wet slapping sound as it lands on top of the others. Another memory come; another memory gone. None that I care about.

As I continue to go through the open album, searching for more water-damaged photos, my roommate, Chelsea Anderson, walks to my side of the dorm room.

Chelsea, a photography student, is a curvy African-American woman with curly, jet-black shoulder-length hair and an easy smile. Her outgoing nature makes her my perfect opposite.

At twenty-one, Chelsea is two years younger than me, but brings so much more to the table in terms of life and college experience. Claiming to be an old hat at romance both good and bad, she’s determined to help me find my perfect match. She has her work cut out for her, since men are not on my agenda. My only plan was to get as far away from Boston and my stage mom as possible, and pursue my dream of becoming an interior designer.

Chelsea and I hit it off the moment we met at the end of August, and were inseparable during new student orientation. She’s my best friend in Oaklow. Oaklow, the place I plan to start again.

The second I flipped open a random catalogue in a travel agency and laid eyes on the breathtaking university town in South Florida, with its narrow, palm tree–lined streets, whitewashed and red-brick houses, and vibrant yet laid-back culture, I wanted to be there. At first I felt ashamed to be starting university later than most, but Chelsea has helped me fit right in.

“Ivy, I think we deserve a break, don’t you?” Chelsea raises an open bottle of champagne and two clear plastic champagne flutes, then slumps onto our black-and-white striped couch. She crosses her legs. I’m surprised at her outfit today—a classic red plaid top over taupe linen shorts with a drawstring and elastic waist. Her go-to clothes are jeans and a t-shirt, unless she’s going on a date.

“Sounds good to me.” I slap the heavy album closed, breathing in the musty smell it releases into the air, and drop the whole mess into the trash. I rise from the floor and sit next to Chelsea on the couch.

The golden blond liquid crackles and fizzes as Chelsea pours it into the tulip-shaped glasses. She hands me one and it cools my palm instantly.

“Thanks.” I lean back, watching the bubbles rise to the surface before bursting, and revel in the fruity bouquet of aromas.

“To hell with burst pipes. To us.” Chelsea taps her glass against mine and takes a sip, briefly closing her dark eyes. “I hope you didn’t lose all your modeling photos. Though, does it even matter? You’re all over the Internet. You can always print them out again.”

“I don’t care about those photos.” I sip my champagne, washing away the bitter memories of my modeling days.

Chelsea and I shared a different dorm room before—until we were flooded out. On the positive side, we’ve been rewarded with a killer view. Our previous room faced the street, which was lined with the local post office, a few cafés, the Pansy Blooms flower shop, and the small Costas grocery store. Our new abode overlooks the Dunkin Hall gardens, and if I squint enough, I can make out the distant sea. Sometimes I can even fool myself into believing I hear the crashing waves.

Nothing calms my mind like the sea.

The sound of wind chimes fills the air. We both turn to look at my phone on my desk, tucked away underneath my loft bed. My own little personal space. Chelsea has personalized her side of the room by hanging her three landscape photography posters on the wall above her bed.

“Are you going to get that?” Chelsea drains her glass and pours herself another.

I shake my head. “Nope. I don’t think it’s important.”

Chelsea shrugs. “I can’t believe you’re not pissed that your modeling photos are damaged. I would be.” She glances at her thighs, then back up at me with a resigned sigh. “But I don’t think I have to worry about that in my lifetime.”

“Modeling isn’t as glamorous as you think.” I blink at the slight dizziness brought on by the alcohol. “It was nothing more than a job for me. A career I was forced into.”

“You baffle me. Who wouldn’t enjoy getting dressed up for a living and smiling for the cameras… oh, and having hot guys drool over you.”

I slide a hand through my wavy red hair and rest an elbow on the arm of the couch. “I admit, there are some models who enjoy being in the limelight, being admired by strangers. It wasn’t for me.”

Chelsea’s breath—a mix of booze and minty mouthwash—sweeps my cheek as she leans into me. Curiosity has turned her brown eyes from weak tea to dark chocolate. “I’m sure you had so many guys hitting on you, though. Look at you, even in that crappy man shirt, you look camera-ready. I wish I could hate you right now.”

I lower my glass onto the varnished mahogany coffee table. “There were several interested guys.” More than several, I want to add, but I bite my tongue. What does it matter? “Not the kind I was interested in.”

“Have you ever dated a famous person?”

I smile. “Jason Singer. Ever heard of him?”

“The actor?” Chelsea blinks furiously. She places her glass on the table next to mine. Stories from my rejected life of glamor excite her like nothing else.

“Yep.”

“He’s like the best thing since sliced bread. God, I grew up wishing I could lick his dimples.”

We both crumple into laughter.

I pull my legs up and underneath me on the couch. “He certainly likes to think he is.” Since I came to Oaklow, I held back a lot of details about my previous life—the life that suffocates me just to think about, the life I wish would dissolve into the past and remain there. Maybe it’s the champagne or the comfort of Chelsea’s presence, but I open up. “You know what? Jason was an experiment. One that flopped.” Truthfully, I wanted to see what the big deal was.

“No.” Chelsea’s eyes widen. “Come on, spill the beans. Did he suck at kissing or something? Don’t you dare leave any juicy bits out.”

I laugh until my eyes water. “I’m going to have to disappoint you,” I say when I catch my breath. “There aren’t any juicy bits. We only went on two dates. The kiss killed it for me.” A shiver runs down my spine at the memory. The moment Jason pushed his too-big tongue into my mouth, I almost gagged. I knew then, even with my lack of experience, that there had to be more to kissing than choking on someone else’s tongue. “Trust me: he’s not all that.”

“That’s a damn shame.” Chelsea returns to her champagne. “He looks so delicious on TV. He looks… he looks like he knows how to use his stuff, you know.”

“We both know looks can be deceiving.”

“Let’s move on then. Goodbye, Jason. Any other famous guys?”

“Not really. There might have been, if I’d had more time for going out and dating.” As a homeschooled pageant child, and later as a top model, I didn’t have much time left over to be lived. Now’s my chance to hopefully recapture the time I lost running from one photoshoot to the next.

The corners of Chelsea’s mouth quirk up in a sad smile. Her warm eyes tell me she feels my loneliness. “Well, forget the past. You’re here to start again, to have fun.”

“Damn right.” I rise from the couch and glance out the window at the blanket of night. “I better make up my bed. I’m exhausted.” I approach the corner with the rest of my unpacked belongings and lift up a see-through bag filled with my bedding—various shades of red, lavender, and blue butterflies scrambling for space on a snowy white background.

Chelsea stands as well. She’s a little unsteady on her feet. “You did more than me today.” With a deep sigh, she eyes her overflowing metal platform bed. She prefers it to the loft-style bed, which makes me feel on top of the world. “It’ll be a long night for me. And I still have to finish a presentation on human emotions for Friday. I haven’t even edited the pics yet.”

“You better get to it, then.” I toss my freed bedding onto my bed and climb up after it, only to throw it all down again. The individual pieces land on the couch. I proceed to flip over the old mattress, determined not to think about what the previous occupant did on it. As I lift one end, something catches my eye: a small package tucked under one corner of the mattress. Careful not to fall from the ladder, I stretch to reach it. It’s not actually a package, but a stack of letters held together by a thin ribbon the color of pink cotton candy. I turn the stack of letters over in my hand, lips pursed.

“What’s that?” Chelsea calls out. I glance at her. She’s holding one of her many pairs of jeans in her hands, about to fold them.

Before I can answer, curious Chelsea is up on a chair and next to me. “Love letters. What fun.” She snatches the letters from my hand.

“You don’t know that.” I finish flipping the mattress.

“They have to be love letters. No one hides innocent letters under a mattress.” Chelsea frees one of the folded pages. “Let’s find out, shall we?”

I can’t help myself. I lean in to see. Both our eyes scan the hand-written note.

I’m a complete failure at trying to forget the feel of your body in the circle of my arms. Your heart plays the most perfect song. One written just for me. My blood still hums to the rhythm of your tune. I miss the sound. I miss all the sounds of you. Your screams, your moans as you moved underneath me, fill my mind every night. Do you remember, Jen? Does your body still hold the memories of me pulsing inside you? Until we’re together again, I hope you also fail to forget the love we’ve made. Hold on to me. I’m yours forever.

J.D.