“I don’t want you to use sex to ignore your problems. You have to talk about this. It’s not healthy.”

“I don’t have anything more to say. Just give it up already.”

“No. I won’t give up on you. I don’t give up on . . .”

She trails off and instead of continuing, she slides out from between me and the wall and takes a few steps back.

“You don’t give up on what? A cause? I knew it. I f**king knew it.”

“No, that’s not it.” But she takes another step back.

“Jesus, just go, Dylan. I’m done talking about this. This is one cause you’re just going to have to let pass you by.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do. I may have anger issues, and I might not make the best decisions, but at least I know my own f**king mind. You’re too caught up in who you think you’re supposed to be and how you’re supposed to act that you’re like a f**king shell. You might as well go back to Henry. I’m sure he’ll be happy to make up your mind for you.”

Hurt flashes across her face, and I know I’ve stepped over a line, but I clench my fists and tell myself it’s for the best. I’ve saved myself from getting in any deeper than I already was. Because a few weeks with her pretty much rearranged my life, how I think, the way my heart f**king beats. If things go any further, if I give her any more time, there will be no coming back from that.

And if she stops and thinks about it, I’m sure she’ll realize I saved her, too.

Saved her the trouble.

Chapter 26

Dylan

I feel like the shell Silas accused me of being as I take a seat in the second row for Media Photography, my last class of the day.

I try to focus on school. On the things that matter. The things I can control.

The best thing about being a junior (and an overachieving one at that) is that I’ve got the majority of my basic requirements out of the way, so all my classes except two are within my major this semester. These are the things I love, what I want to spend the rest of my life doing.

I’m not a shell.

I’m not.

I always love any of my classes involving photography because photography isn’t complicated. It’s powerful and truthful and . . . simple. Not like words. Words can be bent and manipulated.

Pictures. I just try to keep thinking about pictures. Because if I break down and cry in the middle of this class, I won’t be able to show my face here for the rest of the semester.

Right as the professor is about to close the door and begin the usual first-day spiel, another person slips in the room. She adjusts a messenger bag slung over her shoulder and looks up for a seat.

I recognize her small frame and pretty face.

Stella.

She catches sight of me, too, and waves on her way to fill a seat at the back of the class. I try to smile in return, but my stomach sinks.

It’s not that I don’t like Stella. Really, I think she’s hilarious and confident and cool. But that’s part of the problem. She’s a hilarious, confident, and cool girl who’s slept with the guy who is no longer my . . . whatever we were.

So, not only does she remind me of him.

She reminds me of the fact that he’s going to be sleeping with other people soon. And more than that . . . I just get the feeling that she understands and identifies with him in a way that I can’t. I have to think about how he would react to certain things, sit back and try to pinpoint his motive and perspective, and she just always seems to know.

Stella walks into a room, and she’s automatically everyone’s favorite person. Even mine sometimes.

It’s hard not to be jealous of a girl like that.

But I try. Especially when she comes up and hugs me after class.

“It’s so cool that you’re in this class,” she says. “I figured it was going to be all stuffy, brainy, political types.”

I smile.

Stuffy? Sometimes.

Brainy? Definitely.

Political? Inevitably.

That’s me.

She shakes her head. “You know I don’t mean you. You’re awesome. I just . . . I’m only taking this because my art photography professor from last semester suggested it. I did a project about where artistic photography and media photography overlap, and ta-da! Here I am.”

“That’s awesome.” I sound pitiful, not even remotely believable. “I’m sure you’ll bring a really interesting and different perspective to the class.”

“And volume. I always bring a lot of volume.”

I force a smile.

“Listen,” she says. “I’m meeting Dallas for lunch. You want to join?”

I’ve only had minimal interaction with Dallas since the night she and Carson gave us a ride from the sheriff’s office. There’s some kind of bad blood between her and Silas, and since I’m always with Silas, we tend to usually end up on opposite sides of the room whenever I’m around his friends.

Except I’m not with Silas anymore. If it weren’t for this class, I probably wouldn’t have ever seen these people again.

“Um . . . I don’t know.”

“Oh honey.” Stella smiles at me. “I wasn’t really asking. You’re definitely coming.”

“What if I have class?”

“Do you?”

I should lie, but I don’t. I shake my head, and she says, “Great! Let’s go.”

I follow her to the Student Center, in the middle section of campus, and Dallas is already there at a table waiting for us. She’s got a salad already in front of her that she’s picking at with her fork.

“A salad? Really?” Stella asks her. “You can’t even live a little on the first day?”

“If you’d seen how in shape all those girls were this summer, you’d be telling me to eat a salad, too.”

Stella rolls her eyes and fills me in. “Dallas went to this super-elite dance intensive this summer, and now she’s got a bit of a complex about staying competitive.”

“I bet that’s stressful.”

Dallas throws up a hand. “Thank you! At least someone has a little empathy.”

Stella throws her bag down in the chair by Dallas and says, “You say empathy, and all I hear is empty. As in . . . empty stomach, which I’m about to fix with a big, greasy slice of pizza smothered in as much ranch as I can convince the stingy checkout lady to give me. Wait.” She pauses. “Make that two slices. First day back and all.”