There’s a thrum in my chest that unsettles me. Rae only talks like that, all cryptic, when Leila reenters our peripheries.

“What’d she say?”

“Just that she misses me and hopes we can hang soon.” Rae’s eyeballs nearly roll out of her head.

“Cool, cool. What’d you say?” I ask.

“I told her that I hated her face,” Rae deadpans.

“Shut up. You did not.”

“What do you think I said?”

“Knowing you, you told her you can’t wait to chill. Right?” I say. “Which is totally fine. Just because she was a shitty friend to me doesn’t mean you have to stop being her friend.”

Rae and I were a package deal before Leila entered the picture, but once she wormed her way into our tight twosome, we became an inseparable throuple. I mean, our ship name was Raeilachase for crying out loud. Rae is allowed to be friends with Leila without me. I don’t think Rae has figured out how, especially when she’s so fiercely protective over me.

“Whatever,” Rae says. “Time will tell.”

That’s Rae’s answer for literally everything.

There’s a click at the front door of the suite.

“Someone’s here,” I whisper.

“Oh, leave me on and prop me up so I can see,” Rae says.

“Okay, creeper. Get me thrown in campus jail,” I retort.

“Sounds hot.”

“You really need to stop watching bondage porn,” I whisper as the doorknob twists. I peep my head out of my room. “Okayloveyoubye!”

Just as the call ends, the door propels open with such force that it bounces into the rubber stopper against the wall and rebounds directly into the person who flung it. I hear a muffled “fungool!” followed by a throat clearing and a more controlled motion that allows the door to slowly open, revealing a tall, lanky, scruffy-looking Italian guy.

“’Sup, bros?” His voice is way lower than I expected, and it’s got this inauthenticity to it, the way a girl might imitate her meathead boyfriend. He walks with a kind of stiff swagger, chest puffed out like he watched some old John Wayne movies, but he’s way more Woody from Toy Story than the Duke.

He sees me and looks like a deer in headlights. His back straightens and shoulders pull back. The duffel bag hanging off him falls to the floor.

“Nobody’s here,” I say. “Just me.”

His gaze dips to my shirt, and a smile cracks his face wide open, the tension melting away. “Ohmygod, you must be Chase! That shirt is everything.”

Gone is the deep voice, replaced by a natural, higher pitch. He skips over his bag and flings his arms around me. He’s so much taller that the hug is a tad awkward, but it’s not entirely unwelcome. When he pulls back, he lets out a long breath and sticks his tongue out. “And your hair! It’s giving McDreamy vibes. Sorry, I obsessively rewatch old episodes of Grey’s Anatomy at night and cry. Fair warning.”

“Benigno!” I say as if he’s an old friend.