It’s Wednesday night. Well, actually, the wee hours of Thursday morning. And for the third night in a row, Tyler’s dropping me off in front of my dorm after yet another amazing night together. Tonight’s activities? Well, sex, of course. In a variety of positions and locations in his bedroom. On his desk. On his bed. On the floor. We also watched a little porn. That was kind of odd. And in between all that, we also worked on our Shakespeare project. Fleshed out our Social Psych experiments. Oh, and then I sat on Tyler’s face.

And now, here we are, once again. He’s straddling his motorcycle with the engine off, wearing a T-shirt that reads Maintain Swagger at All Times. I’m wrapped in Tyler’s soft sweatshirt, kissing him goodbye and feeling like I’m floating on a cloud.

Tyler pulls out of our kiss and lets out a long, mournful sigh.

“What?” I ask.

Tyler slides his palm on my cheek and rests his forehead against mine. “What am I gonna do with you?”

“Anything you want. Literally. Please. As soon as possible.”

He laughs. “You’re enjoying your miseducation, are you, eager beaver?”

I want to tell him the word “enjoyment” doesn’t come close to encapsulating what I’m feeling right now. That I feel addicted to having sex with him. To just being with him. To simply gazing at him. I want to tell him he makes me laugh—that I’m not normally this giggly, I swear. I want to tell him he makes me swoon. And flutter. And feel like I can do anything I set my mind to. But I don’t dare say any of it. The last thing I want to do is make Tyler think I’ve morphed into a Stage Five Clinger, especially this fast. “Yes, I’m enjoying my miseducation a lot, professor,” I reply.

Tyler sighs again. “It’s not that I don’t want to see you again before Monday. It’s that I can’t figure out how to make it happen.”

Well, that came out of left field. He said that like we were in the middle of a conversation about seeing each other before Monday—like I’d asked to see him again before then. But, um, unless I’m having a psychotic breakdown, I’m pretty sure I didn’t say a word about that. “You told me right from the start we’d be seeing each other on Monday through Wednesday,” I say. “I have zero expectation of seeing you otherwise.”

“If we were playing a home game this week, I could maybe squeeze in some time to see you on Friday. But this week’s game is in Texas, and we’re traveling on Friday. And Sundays are my only day to rest up, catch up on my reading. My roommates and I go out to breakfast together on Sundays and then hang out and watch football. It’s our thing. Relaxing on Sundays is sacred to me.”

I’m flabbergasted. What on earth have I said or done to make him think he needs to explain all this to me? “Tyler, I’m super busy, too,” I say. “Freshman theater majors are basically slave labor for the mainstage production. I’ve got to build and paint sets and sew costumes for, like, fifteen hours a week. I’ve got a research paper due for History of Theater. A bunch of reading for Anthropology. Plus, I’m going to a couple parties this weekend and—”

“Parties?”

I cock my head to the side. What on earth am I seeing in his face? He looks tense. “Yeah, a dorm party on Friday night. It’s a pizza-and-movie-night thing to help us get to know each other. And then a theater party on Saturday night. I’m going with a couple girls I met in slave labor. Oh, and Clarissa and I are going to Dimitri’s on Saturday afternoon to watch your game with him and his roommates.”

“Who’s throwing the theater party?”

I bite my lip. Is he…jealous? Is that what I’m seeing in his face? “This guy who’s starring in the mainstage production. Hamlet. I guess the guy is the Tyler Caldwell of the theater department. Everyone says he’ll be a huge star one day. One to watch.” I somehow keep myself from smiling. I’m telling him the truth about all of that, actually. No exaggeration whatsoever. But that doesn’t make it any less fun to say in this moment, when Tyler’s so clearly not pleased to hear it.

“Cool,” Tyler says, but his jaw is clenched. He takes a deep breath. Bites his lip. Furrows his brow. He looks like he’s hosting a wrestling match inside his brain. “Hey, will you do me a favor? Text me Saturday morning before my game and wish me luck? My dad and sister always do that for me on game days. It always helps me get my ‘Tyler Caldwell’ going if I know certain people are watching.”

“Your ‘Tyler Caldwell’? You’re referring to yourself in third person now? Not good, babe.”

He smiles. “Just on game days. I think of myself as this kind of Tyler Caldwell machine on game days. So will you text me?”

I try to keep myself from smiling too big at this latest surprise. I’ve been assuming texting would be off-limits on our days off from each other. I figured me texting Tyler would make him feel smothered.

“Sure,” I say casually. “I’ll text ‘Tyler Caldwell’ on game day. No problem.”

“Well, I mean, not just on game day,” he says. “Feel free to text me any day. Check in. Say hi. I mean, don’t light up my phone like crazy or turn into a stalker on me, but don’t be a stranger.”

I cock my head to the side again, trying to understand the bizarreness that is Tyler Caldwell. He looks tortured right now. “I’ll try,” I say. “But don’t be offended if I’m pretty much MIA until Monday. Like I said, I’m going to be pretty busy the next few days.”

Tyler squints at me like he’s trying to decide if I’m pulling his leg or not.

I remain stone-faced. “But feel free to text me if you’re thinking about me or want to say hi. I mean, don’t light up my phone like crazy or anything—like I said, I’m going to be really busy. But, yeah, feel free to text me occasionally to say hello. But don’t stalk me.”

We stare at each other for a long moment.

Tyler grins. “I’ll be sure to text you,” he says. “I mean, not too much. I wouldn’t want you thinking I’m a Stage Five Clinger or anything.”

“God, no. Text me just enough to let me know you’re thinking of me. Not too much to scare me off.” I wink.

“Got it,” he says. He bites his lip again. “Okay, my little beaver. Have fun the next few days discovering the joys of college life. Just promise me you won’t do shots, okay? It’s too damned easy to get shitfaced from shots and make terrible decisions.”

“Thanks, Dad. But I don’t drink. No need to worry about me.”

Tyler breathes a sigh of relief. “Good. Neither do I. At least, not during the season.”

“You said you were drunk the night I met you.”

“Oh, yeah. That was the exception, not the rule for me. Once in a blue moon.” He pulls me to him and nuzzles my nose. “Hey, make sure you get plenty of sleep this weekend, okay? I’ve got all sorts of exciting plans for your hot little body for Monday night, and you’ll need to be ready to go all night.”

I salute him. “I’ll be ready, sir. See you on Monday in Social Psych.”

“See you then. I can’t wait.”

“I’ll be counting the days,” I whisper.

“Hours. Minutes.”

My heart skips a beat. But, somehow, I manage to keep my composure and play it cool. “Okay, well, I’ll see you Monday, Tyler,” I say calmly. “Have a great game on Saturday. I’ll be sure to text ‘Tyler Caldwell’ and wish him luck.” I give him a soft kiss on his cheek. “Thanks for a great three nights this week. I’ll never forget them.”