All of a sudden, my brain flashes back to the first time I spotted him, to my assuming—before his flirting with me made the clear implication he was single—that he was maybe, potentially involved with the girl at his side.

The girl with the French braid.

“Heather? Please tell me it’s not Heather. Please tell me I did not just make out with the boyfriend of one of the nicest people I have ever met.” Please tell me I did not just potentially hurt someone exactly the way my sister hurt me, sending me here in the first place. Even though I had no way of knowing, the very thought makes me sick to my stomach.

“You’re not going to tell her.” I can’t tell if it’s an ask or a demand, and I don’t know how to reply. I’d rather die than tell Heather. But she’s also a really fucking nice person, unlike the inhabitants of this room, and doesn’t she have a right to know who she’s getting into bed with, literally and figuratively speaking?

Apparently, my silence is unbearable, because he snaps. “You’re not going to tell her.” This time, it’s definitely a demand, but I’m too frozen in shock and disgust to acknowledge it. The whole reason I don’t have a best friend anymore is because mine didn’t see fit to tell me when my boyfriend was screwing around on me, and while Lucas and I only kissed, he sure as hell tried to do more.

He must read into my silence that he needs to try a different approach, because his face softens into something resembling friendliness. “Everett. Heather is a really sweet girl. You wouldn’t want to hurt her, would you?”

God, I don’t know who I’m sadder for—Heather, for having a boyfriend this two-faced, or me, for being stupid enough to bring this guy back to my room. But I think about how Heather’s eyes shone as she told me and Sabrina how much she loves it here, and I can’t be the person to take that away from her.

“You’re right, I don’t, but that means you have to keep your mouth shut too. If I hear a single word about your having seen the inside of Rumson Girl’s room—”

“You won’t,” he says, hand over his heart. “You have my word.”

“Like that means shit,” I shoot back, walking toward the door and holding it wide open. “You can see yourself out, I’m sure.”

I wait until he’s long gone, and then I get in the shower and sit on the floor with a hand wrapped around the safety rail, watching my tears mingle with the spraying water and roll down the drain.