“I’m … I’m not at home.” Her teeth are chattering. “Not at all.”

I know that I should ask where she is, but I continue driving—letting a silence stretch between us.

“Are you still there, Hayden?” she asks.

“I’m waiting to hear why the hell you’re calling me at three o’clock in the morning.”

“I need a ride home. Can you pick me up?”

“Come again?” I pull into the emergency lane. “Did you stay at the arena to practice or something?”

“This drunk couple stole my Uber and the closest one is two hours away.” She avoids my question. “I can give you gas money since I’m kind of far. Please.”

“Where the hell are you?”

“The Avis Dorm at Central University.”

Huh? I’m certain that I misheard that. “That’s an all-boys dorm.”

“I’m aware.”

“Then what are you doing there this time of night?”

“I was studying. With a boy.”

“Right.” I make a U-turn. I consider telling her to stay on the phone with me until I arrive, but I don’t owe her anything. She’s never once said, “Thank you” to me for anything.

“Are you coming to get me?” she asks.

“Unfortunately. I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

I hang up and drive fifteen miles under the speed limit.

She can wait.

When I pull up to the Avis Dorm, I can see Penelope arguing with a security guard through the lobby’s windows. Her face is beet red, and she’s shaking her head back and forth, looking as if she’s refusing to leave.

Dressed in silver stilettos and a thin, red dress that leaves little to the imagination, she was clearly here for anything but “studying.”

I honk the horn a few times, cutting her argument with the guard short.

She snatches something from his pocket before rushing outside, and the guard throws up his middle finger.

Where the hell is her coat?

She flings the passenger door open, and I turn up the heat.

As she buckles her seatbelt, I can’t help but notice the tears streaming past her cheeks.

“Studying is supposed to be pleasurable, not make you cry.” I pull onto the street. “Was your boyfriend that bad in bed?”

“You know what?” She wipes her eyes. “Can you drop me off on the highway? I think I’d rather wait for another Uber.”

“Too late.” I make sure the doors are locked. “Not that I give a damn, but please tell me that you used a condom.”

“I didn’t use anything, okay?” She glares at me. “Because nothing happened.”

“That’s not what your dress says.”

“My dress is a costume that I’ve worn on the ice before, but go ahead and snap a picture. I’m sure you’re itching to send it to Travis and tell him all about this.”

“I’m not telling your brother shit.” I look over at her. “Your sex life is none of his business. It’s not mine either.”

“That may be the smartest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“No, offering to get you condoms is. Do you need me to stop and get you some?”

“Are you dense? I just said that nothing happened. And nothing happened because my so-called boyfriend ruined Valentine’s Day the moment his real, college-girlfriend showed up.” The words rush out of her mouth. “He’s been cheating on me this entire time, and I can’t believe I was naïve enough to trust that a college guy would ever be faithful to a high school girl. That he was ever worthy of being my first.”

Yeah, you definitely should’ve known better than that.

“Would you like me to give you some boyfriend advice for the future?” I ask.

“Ha! I’ll pass.” She shakes her head. “I doubt that I’ll ever need your advice on anything. Then again, the moment I want to know how to be an asshole or a man-whore, I’ll give you a call.”

“Leave a voicemail.” I turn on the music, preventing any further conversation.

I drive fifteen miles over the speed limit this time, and I don’t stop at any red lights.

The quicker I can drop her off, the better.

Twenty minutes later, when I pull into her driveway for the second time tonight, I consider getting out and opening the door for her. Until I look over and see that she’s changing my name in her phone again. I’m not listed as “Ugh: Cocky Bastard,” anymore.

I’m now Unsympathetic Asshole (Do Not Call Ever Again).

On the one hand, it’s an improvement from the names “Fuckhead Hayden (I Hate Him)” and “Definitely Has Syphilis” from last week, but not worthy enough for me to be a gentleman.

“Okay then,” I say. “You can get the hell out of my car now. I’ll pick you up on Saturday for practice, unless you find a new study buddy by then. Try to make sure that he doesn’t have a girlfriend first.”

“That’s a low blow,” she says. “Even for you.”

“I can say much worse than that, trust me.” I point to the door. “Only one of us has attempted to be cordial these past six months. Spoiler alert: It hasn’t been you. Double spoiler alert: It won’t be me after tonight.”

“There’s no need to be cordial when you’re a huge part of the reason why Travis agreed to leave me here,” she says. “The fact that he was ever willing to take any advice from someone who flaunts ‘bros over hos’ as his personal motto has never made sense to me.”

“I’ve never said ‘bros over hos.’” I lean over and push the door open since she’s not moving fast enough. “I may have said, ‘Put me over pussy’ a few times, but that’s none of your concern. Once again, now is the time for you to get the hell out of my car.”

“Gladly.” She steps out. “I need to hurry up and shower in case I caught one of your STDs during this ride.”

“You know what?” I’m done playing nice. “That’s exactly why your boyfriend cheated on you. He got tired of your bullshit in the bedroom since you probably kept asking about STDs every time he fucking breathed on you. I bet he wanted to date someone who actually knows which hole his cock goes into, someone who doesn’t have the body of a twelve-year old boy.”

Her jaw drops to the ground.

“Let me know if I need to pick up a Sex 101 book for you the next time I’m at Walmart. I’ll even highlight the important anatomy parts if you like.”

“Fuck you, Hayden.” She slams the door shut.

I roll down the window, feeling a sudden need to get the last word. “You’re welcome for the ride home, Penelope.”

“No, thank you.” She glares at me. “I’ll never call to ask you for another one.”

“That’s more than fine. I’ll never pick up the phone for you this late again.”

“In the meantime, try to clean out your car. It smells like unsatisfied pussy.”

“How would you know? You can’t even find yours.” I roll up the window a bit—ready to pull off and leave her standing there fuming, but her lips begin to move.