I thought I was finally indifferent to his existence. The acrobatics in my stomach as I flick my gaze between the phone in my hand and the mirror I attached to the back of my bedroom door this morning say otherwise. I’m overreacting. Slightly. Okay, a lot. I’m close with my brother and ecstatic about being able to see him more than once a year, which became the norm. His worst offense today is the six-worded text I’ve spent the past ten minutes staring at.

Noah: Running late. Picking up Gray first.

There’s a slim possibility Noah isn’t referring to the Gray who’s been his best friend since the Phillips family moved in next door. Noah started work at a new architecture firm a month ago; he could have made a new friend. My older brother could become best buddies with a brick wall.

And Gray isn’t that unusual of a name.

But it’s him. It has to be him. And it shouldn’t matter he’s in Charleston instead of deployed who knows where. I’m an adult now, not a starry-eyed kid. A doctor. Who cares if the only guy I’ve ever really wanted has never shown any interest in me? I gave up on the fantasy of having a fairy-tale romance with Gray a long time ago. My younger self envisioned it all—candy-heart deliveries in homeroom, going to homecoming together, making out under the bleachers, trips to the beach. I could picture it happening so clearly, watch it like a movie in my mind. And it all did happen…just not with him.

I’ve dated other guys. One of them turned into a serious relationship. Unfortunately, I’ve yet to encounter a single guy who has ever elicited a tenth of the emotion in me Gray Phillips does by simply existing.

Growing up, I was the girl who arrived home ten minutes before curfew. Who was the designated drunk driver for most of high school. Who took every advanced placement science course Charleston East High offered so I was ensured a spot in Boston University’s uber-competitive seven-year medical school graduation program. At twenty-five, I have a bachelor’s degree and already took the Hippocratic oath.

I’m accomplished. I’ve done everything right. I’ve always been the girl who does everything right.

But one text mentioning his name, and I’m reassessing my entire outfit. It’s infuriating. Pathetic. I’m back to being the twelve-year-old girl who biked two miles to peruse Charleston Surf’s flipper collection just because Gray worked there his freshman year. It could be considered sweet, I guess.

Or stalking.

I yank off the green T-shirt dress I was wearing and swap it for a pink cotton one that’s tight in the torso but flares at the waist.

“Evie! You ready?” Sloane calls.