It’s so sudden, so surprising, that I don’t even know what to do, but if he notices that I’m not kissing back, that my arms are still at my sides, it doesn’t show. Finally, muscle memory takes over; after all, it isn’t all that different from kissing Craig. Lucas has similarly soft lips, uses too much tongue … it doesn’t take all that much effort to let my mind transport back to Craig’s basement, to a space I know well. And maybe it’s that or maybe it’s riding high on being chosen in the crowd that makes it easier to let go. To let him walk me back to my bed with his lips on mine.

It isn’t until I feel the zipper of my jeans slowly opening that I realize he hadn’t been toying with the button but opening it, and instinctively I trap his hands. Immediately, the kissing stops, and he pulls away with a frown.

“I’m not … ready for that,” I say, trying for confidence, though it comes out a mumble. “Can we go back to just kissing?”

He rolls his eyes. The asshole rolls his eyes. “I thought you were up for some actual fun.”

“Some actual fun like getting naked with a guy I just met?” I nearly choke on my tongue. “What the hell would make you think that?”

“Oh come on, everyone knows you pulled some weird bullshit with your application to get into Rumson and room with Archie Buchanan like some creepy stalker. Figured you’d be grateful someone still wanted you after he rejected you, but.” Lucas shrugs and braces his hands on his thighs to stand. “So much for that.”

“You must be joking.” I really might throw up on his shoes. I don’t think I’d even be embarrassed if I did; he deserves it. “I did everything right. It’s the school that screwed up, and—”

“Evie, chill.”

“My name is Everett,” I snap, because while my name may be the original root of all this trouble, a guy who came back to my room under gross pretenses and tried to push me to go further than I wanted to does not get to use my nickname. “Might want to let all your loser friends who insist on calling me ‘Rumson Girl’ know.”

I expect him to storm out, to yell something back, but instead, he says, “Everett,” with a confusing amount of calm.

Assuming there’s an apology coming, I take a deep breath and force myself to chill. “What?”

“You’re not gonna tell anyone about this, right? It was fun for a minute, but I’m kind of with someone, and—”

“Oh my God.” How does this keep getting worse? “No, I’m not gonna tell anyone; why the hell would I want anyone to know about this? And you’re with someone? What does that even—”