Everyone laughs. My eyes come to rest on Kaitlyn as she passes the bong after her puff. My evil roommate is looking up at Dylan with stars in her eyes.

It’s hard to blame her for that, because I probably look at him the same way. It’s literally the only thing we have in common.

Kaitlyn gets to her feet as he wraps up his story. She takes the beer out of his hand and takes a swig. It’s a way of claiming him, I guess. It makes me want to smack her. “Come on, Dyl,” she says the moment he stops talking. “You said you’d let me play something for you.”

“Yeah, okay. Cool.” They both take a step in my direction. That’s when Dylan lifts his chin and spots me. “Chastity! Hey!” He pulls me in for a Shipley-style, full-body hug—the kind I’m never quite ready for. “God, I’m sorry about this afternoon. Rickie said you waited.”

Ouch. I wish Rickie hadn’t mentioned that.

“It was f-fine,” I stammer as his arms encircle me. There’s a quick press of his hard chest against my body. The flannel shirt he’s wearing doesn’t disguise the muscle underneath.

His hugs always fluster me. I count to three and then step back, so I don’t find myself awkwardly patting his back for too long. That happens sometimes.

It’s been two years since I came to Vermont, and while I’ve figured out a lot of things—like Netflix and nail polish—these little interactions still tie me in knots. On the compound, no man ever hugged a girl who wasn’t his wife. We didn’t even shake hands.

These days I’m a decent hand-shaker and there are several people I can hug without difficulty. But Dylan isn’t one of them. I’m so attracted to him that each hug makes me flush like a nervous loser.

“I called,” he says.

“W-what?”

“I called the land line in your suite. Kaitlyn said she’d leave you a note.”

“And I left it,” Kaitlyn snaps. “On the desk. Weren’t we going upstairs?” She gives Dylan a little tug.

“Hang on.” Dylan untangles himself from her and puts a big hand on my shoulder. “Come into the kitchen a minute. Did you eat? Mom sent me home with lentil soup.”

My stomach growls, but the party is too loud for anyone to hear, thank God. With Dylan, I turn toward the kitchen. I can almost feel Kaitlyn’s anger radiating toward me.

It’s weird, but I feel no guilt. Guilt and I are usually very close friends. But when it comes to Kaitlyn, I live for these little moments of irritating her. Probably because I know they don’t matter. She has what I want, and there’s a zero percent chance that I’ll ever get it.

“Look who’s here!” Rickie says from the stove where he’s stirring a pot of steaming liquid. It smells like heaven. “The cider is ready, guys. Who’s in?”

“I’d love some,” I say. That’s the scent of Vermont—apples and cinnamon. And weed, I guess.