As a junior, I get two of them, and seniors get four. We’re supposed to use those days to take tours of prospective universities, but the local community college isn’t really worth the trip, so the CCCC college day basically functions as a mental health day that doesn’t count against your attendance record.

“Well, then, stay out of trouble.” With that, Doug gets back into his car with my slim jim and drives off, leaving Jake and me mired in an uncomfortable silence.

“You really broke into my car to embarrass me?” he says at last, holding up the sex manual.

No, the box full of his things was just my cover. “I was looking for something.”

“For what?”

I consider an evasive response, but I’m already caught, so … “Proof that you’re cheating.”

A misplaced earring. Empty condom wrappers. A bra kept as a souvenir. Anything that will confirm for my head what I know in my heart. That he cheated. That I wasn’t imagining the signs. That I wasn’t out of my mind when I broke up with him last night. Because I don’t know how to reconcile my suspicions of betrayal with the guy who just opted not to press charges against me, when I damn well deserved it.

“Beckett.” Suddenly Jake looks very, very tired. “For the thousandth time, I’m not cheating on you. But if you have to look, just look.” He gestures at his open passenger’s side door.

“No.”

He’s right. Whether or not he cheated, I went too far this time. “I’m sorry.”

Maybe I can get out of here with a sliver of my dignity intact.

“It was important enough to you that you broke into my car. So just look.”

He’s practically daring me. Which means that even if he was cheating, I won’t find evidence in his car. So I shake my head and pull my backpack higher on my shoulder.

“Beck.”

He reaches for me, and I let him pull me close, because my body doesn’t care about what my head knows. My body cares about this. The familiar fit of his hands at my hips. The comfort that his smile brings. The memory of hundreds of hours spent curled up on my bed, sharing a set of earbuds while we watch movies on my hand-me-down, second-gen iPad.

“What can I do to convince you that I’m not lying?” he whispers, his breath on my earlobe, his chin grazing my cheek.

“You could show me the texts.”

“I couldn’t, even if I wanted to. I deleted them.” Jake exhales, clearly frustrated. “Beck, they have nothing to do with you. With us. Why can’t you just trust me?”

“I don’t know.” I wish I did know.