Maybe I’ll wake up, and this will all have been a dream. I won’t have thrown up in front of the people I’m trying to make my new friends. I wouldn’t have told the most attractive guy to ever show any interest in me that I’m a virgin.

Maybe I’ll wake up to find that this whole list thing was a long, elaborate dream, and I can go back to being blissfully weird and antisocial and . . .

Alone.

Somewhere between one forced sip of water and the next, I must fall asleep, because I wake up after what feels like hours to the sound of my door closing. Probably just Dylan checking on me, but I’m struggling to find the motivation to move my head the six inches it will take to confirm this suspicion.

Eventually, my bed shifts, slanting to one side, and my head ends up turning of its own volition. I decide I’m dreaming when I see who’s seated beside me, because there’s no way Torres would be in my room after everything that just happened. I’m sure Dylan wouldn’t even let him in. I decide that this must be my subconscious, trying to give me one last good-bye, unreal though it may be.

“I brought you some food,” he says.

I groan. My dream can’t even do me the courtesy of giving me a pleasant last memory. Or is it normal to be drunk in your dreams when you’re drunk in real life?

He breaks the corner off a bread stick and holds it up to my lips. I don’t open.

“Trust me,” he says. “I know you’re tired and probably miserable, but this will help. And the more food and water we get into you now, the less you’ll hate yourself in the morning.”

“Already hate myself,” I say, but I take a bite of the bread stick he’s offering. It takes me forever to chew it, and when I’m done, he holds up another. Grudgingly, I eat it.

“That’s my girl.” And now I know it’s a dream.

He offers me water, and I take it, if only to wash down the bread.

“What happened to our deal?” he asks, and he sounds almost angry. “If you’d waited for me, I could’ve taken care of you. Made sure you didn’t drink too much.”

Since it’s a dream, I don’t see the point in being dishonest.

“I don’t want you to help me with the list.”

“Why not?” Yeah. He’s definitely angry.

“Because I don’t want you to think I’m a loser.”

“Damn it. I think a lot of things about you, Nell. Some of them are certainly not nice, but trust me, they’re all complimentary.” I shake my head, too tired to pick out the meaning of his words. “You’re not a loser, Nell. And I’m going to help you with that list whether you like it or not. I didn’t like coming into your apartment and seeing you with that guy. I don’t like that he’s the one who you shared this first with. I want your firsts.”

I force my eyes open, and try to look at him with as clear a mind as I can manage. Is this the part where my dream stops being miserable and starts being wish fulfillment? Is that what I wish? That Torres would be my first?

But I can’t read anything in his expression, and he doesn’t say anything else. No sweet words. No assurances. He doesn’t even touch me. He just feeds me a few more bread sticks and some water, and then leaves what’s left of the food beside my bed before he turns off my lamp and plunges us both into darkness.

Chapter 14

Mateo

I want your firsts.

Christ.

I’m still thinking about it the next morning. About how she’d looked in bed, her hair spread across her pillow and her expressive mouth drawn down in frown. She’d been so miserable, and I’d hated seeing her like that. If I’d been there, if she’d called me, I could have taken better care of her. I could have watched her to make sure she drank just enough to get the experience she wanted, but not too much that she’d regret it.

But still . . . what in the world had I been thinking when I said that to her? Regardless of what I want, that V-bomb she dropped is the number one reason I have to stay away from her. It was one thing to use her to forget Lina when I thought it could just be some mutual fun. Hell, even a short-lived relationship.

But to be her first? That’s some next-level shit, and I’d be a first-rate asshole if I let it happen. I probably should have guessed, but once she’d gotten into our kiss, she’d been anything but shy. Wishful thinking, I guess. I already feel like an asshole for taking things as far as I have. But every time I think back to those moments in the pool, I don’t feel guilty. I feel possessive and greedy and territorial, and I can’t help but think that I do want her firsts. Even if I don’t deserve them.

When I shake off those thoughts, I catch Brookes looking at me from his position on the recliner. I’m lying back on our couch, drinking a protein shake after my morning run. I don’t like the expression on his face, like he knows exactly what I’ve been thinking.

As if proving my point, he says, “So . . . Nell.”

“Is this a new game where we just say random people’s names? I’ll bite. So . . . Beyoncé.”

“Don’t play dumb, Teo. I’m not an idiot. There’s something going on there.”

“It’s called flirting. You should try it sometime. It might turn that frown upside down every once in a while.”

He rolls his eyes. “Give me a little credit, bro. I know you well enough by now to tell when you’re deflecting. There’s something different about this one for you.”

Knows me well enough. Bullshit. Brookes has always been like this, even when I’d known him a week. The guy has a gift for reading people. Comes in handy on the field or in the occasional pickup basketball game. In a roommate? It’s annoying as hell.

“So I like her. Do I really have to fucking sit here and analyze it with you? We gonna paint each other’s nails next? We could both get weaves and then braid each other’s hair. Maybe watch some My Little Pony. We’d make decent Bronies.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You done yet?”

“Not really. We could watch Titanic. Lament about how there was totally room for Jack on that door with Rose. He didn’t have to die, damn you, James Cameron!”

He sighs and stands. “Okay. I get it. You’re not going to talk about it. But do me a favor and think about this one. She’s not your usual type. You don’t know how to deal with girls like her.”