“Okay, I got takeout. The point is you don’t have to.” I chuckle because whenever I do go to James’ apartment, I cook a week’s worth of meals for him because he really does survive on takeout and Red Bull.

“What did you get?”

“Chinese from the place we like.”

My stomach grumbles at the thought as I think about the fact that the Adderall I’d taken is starting to wear off and I am actually kind of hungry now.

“Okay, I’m at Milstein,” I tell him, referring to the undergrad library that’s closest to my dorm room. I start packing up my stuff and he chuckles.

“I knew it. Okay hurry up, I’m outside.”

“You’re here?”

“Yes, I worked late and knew you had a final tomorrow, so I thought I would swing by just in case. Come on, I’m hungry.”

I throw the rest of my books in my backpack and slide my computer into its case before moving towards the exit.

“Okay, see you in a second.” I end the call and immediately turn my camera on selfie mode. My hair is down, but I put on one of those headbands I typically use to work out in to keep it out of my face. It’s a little longer than my shoulders and I always keep it straight and sleek as opposed to letting it go natural. I know I should be prouder of my naturally curly hair, but more than likely years of growing up in Connecticut has me apprehensive about letting my wild tresses go free. Every once in a while, during the summer, I’ll wear it curly if I’m at the beach or the pool or on vacation, but for the most part, my flat iron is my best friend.

I pull some Chapstick out of my bag, swipe the cherry balm over my lips, and pop in a piece of gum as I enter the elevator and begin to descend to the lobby.

I make my way out of the elevator and into the massive lobby and nod at the guard before making my way towards the door. “Gabrielle!” I hear just before I get to the door and turn to see Miles Carson, a junior in one of my business classes, coming towards me. He’s wearing a Columbia lacrosse hoodie and a pair of sweatpants that really doesn’t do much to hide what he’s got going on underneath. I avert my eyes instantly and feel the embarrassment creeping up my neck; I hope it’s not one of the few times you can see a faint blush tinting my cheeks.

“Hey, Miles.” I wave. Miles looks like Zach Morris from Saved by the Bell if he spent way more time at the gym and less time fighting with Slater and half the guys at Bayside over Kelly Capowski. So yeah, in short, he’s hot—and evidently packing.