Parker stepped in between the death glares Endgame and I were shooting at each other. “You know he’s a huge, huge douchebag, right?”

I bobbed my chin up and down. Oh, I knew the hell out of that information.

And yet I wanted him still. I wanted to fix him. I wanted him to prove that I was so valuable to him—he should never cheat.

It was toxic and it was apparently cyclical because that night in the club had been over a year ago and Endgame still had a place in my apartment, and a place in my life.

Taylor might be what I needed to move on, if my family didn’t kill me for having her pretend to be my girlfriend.

* * *

The rest of the week, Endgame made himself scarce. In the group texts, he didn’t respond when we made plans to eat at a restaurant. Night after night his bedroom stayed empty.

Taylor was a good roommate. She made sure to keep up with the cleaning and we helped each other cook. She didn’t leave hair in the drain and made sure to run the vacuum a few times a week.

Roberta had been delusional. She had a jewel of a person to live with, and instead, she had scared Taylor away.

On Friday as Taylor and I were packing for the weekend to visit my parents, she showed me a text from Roberta and the resident director at the dorm.

“Mr. Peachpower wants Roberta and me to do a mediation.” She poked at a link in the words and it launched her Google calendar.

It auto programmed an appointment with Peachpower on Monday morning.

“So you have to be back for that?” I pointed at her phone.

“I guess. I don’t know what she thinks is going to happen. I’m not going back. I don’t trust her, and I hate the nudity and the Post-its. It's just not happening.” She tucked her phone into her pocket.

“I think that’s the college trying to protect their asses. They have to make sure they offer all options so they can charge her more money.”

“Well, now I feel bad. I mean, she’s an asshole, but having her pay extra for a single is rough.” Taylor added a pair of Converse to the front pocket of the suitcase.

“That’s college, baby. If she wants the privacy, she has to pay for it. Not torture sweet girls until they run screaming in the middle of the night.” I added a layer of packing cubes that included some of my more useful pieces.

“I guess.” She added her hair dryer.

“No ‘I guess’ about it. She was making you pay emotionally, and that’s not a currency you want to deal in.” I added a pair of boots to the pocket with her shoes.