And then there’s my algebra homework which is in my backpack still incomplete. If I turn up now, Dylan is only going to feel guilty for missing our session.

There are two things powering me uphill, though. The first is guacamole. I’d never seen an avocado until I became a nineteen-year-old runaway to Vermont, and I’d been seriously missing out. The second thing is morbid curiosity. In the four weeks since I came to Burlington U, I’ve had only glimpses of College Dylan. And I want to know more.

The Dylan I know from Tuxbury is Family Dylan. He milks goats and cows. He whistles in the orchard while picking apples. He takes off his shirt to stack hay. He eats third helpings at the dinner table. He spars with his siblings and takes his mother to church.

And? He’s a good friend to me.

College Dylan is different, though. And—fine—even more intoxicating. College Dylan drinks and smokes pot and has (from what I can guess) a lot of sex. Some of it with my evil roommate.

None of it with me.

THIRTY-FOUR

The Whole Catholic Thing

Chastity

The temperature has plunged since nightfall, so by the time I reach the house, I’m shivering.

Still, I stand on the front walk for a minute or two, acclimating. It’s a beautiful house on a treelined street. There are three floors and several roofline peaks. Dylan says he’s lucky to live here. Rickie doesn’t charge much rent. Tonight the house is lit up like a Halloween pumpkin, with yellow light glowing from every window.

The windows are closed, but the sound of voices—lots of them—reaches me on the sidewalk. And some music. The sounds of people enjoying themselves. The longer I stand here, the harder it gets to imagine myself walking in there. I won’t know anybody besides Rickie and Dylan. And Kaitlyn, who won’t talk to me anyway.

I spot Dylan in the bay window. It’s not hard. I’m tuned in to the Dylan Shipley channel, and have been since the day I met him two years ago. I’d know his big frame anywhere, and his familiar head of thick, wavy hair. All the Shipleys have brown hair, but Dylan’s is kissed with lighter highlights. As if the sun loves him just a little bit more than it loves everyone else.

His back is to me, so I can’t see his laughing eyes. But he’s gesturing as he speaks, a beer bottle waving wildly between two fingers, half forgotten. All you have to do is glance at him, and you know he’s a fun person.

Fun, and also nice. And warm. And hilarious.

Okay. I can do this.

I march up the porch steps and open the big oak door, where I’m greeted by shiny old wooden floors and an arched doorway leading to the living room. Dylan still stands in front of the window wearing his signature outfit—worn jeans and a tight T-shirt. And since it's October, he's pulled a flannel shirt on over it, the cuffs rolled up over his muscular forearms.