“She’s helping me with college. Her mom is a dean at Columbia,” I tell her, but coming out of my lips, it sounds wrong. Nothing I said is a lie, but it feels like one. That’s not why I’m hanging out with Corinne . . . Is it? Corinne is funny, Corinne is smart, Corinne’s mom is a dean at Columbia. Why does that third thing never completely leave my brain?

Hooper gives a nod of understanding, slow and wide, before taking another long sip. “That makes a lot more sense.”

“Why?”

“You don’t take an interest in people. I mean, not really.” She doesn’t sound angry, per se, but there’s a sharpness to the comment.

“It’s really not like that,” I recover, managing a casual Smile, leaning into the marble counter. “She’s into your boy Marvyn anyway.”

“Hm.”

“What?”

“She appears to have a type. Although, I probably shouldn’t talk.” She grins, leaning into the side of the counter to kiss me. “Off the record.”

Evie kisses me again. I’m trying to focus on her, on this moment, but I can’t keep the image of Corinne and Marvyn out of my head.

“He’s not going to get pervy on her, right? Marvyn.”

“What? No!” She frowns, sounding genuinely offended. “He’s not like that. I wouldn’t be friends with him if he was, H!”

Good. That’s good. I could shut up, then. I really could. I know that shutting up would be the best way to continue the make out here but . . .

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend,” I say. “She’s just, y’know, not very experienced with this crowd, that’s all.”

It’s Evie’s turn to stop the kiss. “This crowd?”

“You know,” I say, twisting my hand in the air, trying to find the right words to mercifully lighten the mood. “Rich kids with unlocked cabinets looking for thrills that might, y’know, take advantage of her.”

She tosses her hair behind her shoulder in a way that normally only happens in slow motion around the hallways, and it feels like a force field has been activated. “Well, no offense but if Corinne is interested in opportunists, I think she can scratch that itch without leaving her building lobby.”

The comment feels like a quick shiv between the ribs, delivered without a hint of acid in her voice.

“Ouch,” I say.

“You . . .” She exhales as if to calm down. “You never answer my texts. You fall off the face of the earth at the drop of a hat except at these parties. I have to catch you running around school to even invite you to a party. You’ve never even tried asking me out on an actual date.”

I feel totally blindsided. “I thought this was what you wanted,” I say, back stiff and hand on the counter. “I thought you didn’t want anything serious.”