Emma sighs. “I said we had a party last night and hadn’t tidied up.” She surveys the room. “Thanks for cleaning.”

“Like you were going to do the dishes,” I reply.

“I would do the dishes! You won’t let me do the dishes!” Emma responds.

“Because you always leave—”

“Could you guys argue about this later?” Cressida interrupts.

“Fine. I’ll go hide upstairs in my own house,” I say, heading into the living room. Cressida and Emma trail behind me. Beck’s leaning against the back of the couch, still jabbering away in German. When I hold a hand out, he wrinkles his brow in confusion, but he lets me pull him upright, then lead him up the stairs, down the hall, and into my bedroom. He looks around curiously before taking a seat in my desk chair. I make a series of hand gestures I hope convey my plan to shower and head across the hallway to do just that.

I stand under the pulsing spray and try to figure out what the hell I’m going to do about Beck. I can’t give him a garbled I don’t know this time. I owe him a yes or no. But what should be a straightforward affirmation or dissent is anything but simple.

I know I have feelings for Beck.

I stopped viewing him as a mere hook-up a long time ago. I just don’t know what these feelings are. I was hoping they’d just disappear, and they haven’t. But Beck was right earlier. I never would have done anything about it.

Never would have flown halfway around the world and shown up at his apartment.

Never would have pressed him on his feelings for me.

I have no idea if I’m ready for a relationship, or how to know if I am. Does me not knowing mean I’m not? I had friends with “boyfriends” in middle school, but I’ve never called a guy my boyfriend. Not even close. I’ve had no interest. I either friend-zone a guy, or I sleep with him. Beck was supposed to remain in the second category, but the lines got blurred.

I let them blur.

There’s no easing into anything when it comes to me and Beck. Not only because of who we are as individuals, but because he’s Adler Beck. There may be some interest in me at Lancaster or among the niche few who follow women’s soccer, but even if I hadn’t spent two months in Germany, I’d be well aware that the mania surrounding the European football league is a different beast entirely.

Surrounding Kluvberg.

Surrounding Beck, its most notorious player.

The one measly article with a photo of us at CFOC is nothing compared to the media circus that would erupt if it came out that we were in an actual relationship.