Philip’s expression softens somewhat.

“Did you tell Thomas?” I question. “Or Julie and Steve?”

“No,” Philip replies. “I didn’t see any reason to worry them too.”

“I’m sorry.”

He nods in acknowledgment. “So, what’s the deal with the football player?”

“There’s no deal,” I reply. “It was just a stupid drunk thing.”

“How does he know you live in Kennedy Hall?”

“I don’t know,” I lie.

Philip’s jaw tightens again. “He didn’t try anything…” he starts.

“I’m fine, Philip.” I cut him off, eager to stop discussing Jace. “Can we please just act like last night never happened? I have a bad headache and I just want to take a hot shower and eat some breakfast.”

Philip complies with my request and remains silent for the rest of the short drive back to my dorm. I thank him for the ride, apologize for last night again, and head inside. I smile at the tired woman sitting at the front desk. She eyes my disheveled appearance critically, although she doesn’t comment as I head down the empty hallway.

I enter my room and am relieved to see Katie fast asleep in her bed, her brown hair barely visible under the navy comforter. I quickly grab my toiletries and a fresh set of clothes before heading to the bathroom.

Twenty minutes later, I emerge feeling somewhat refreshed. My headache is mostly gone thanks to the steam from the shower and the two painkillers I swallowed before it, and I’m dressed in my favorite pair of leggings and a cozy fleece pullover.

I toss the suede skirt and wrinkled top into my laundry hamper and stand there, staring at the gray t-shirt I’m holding for a long moment. My pride is screaming at me to throw it in the trash can, but something stops me from actually doing so. I finally toss it on top of my dresser before leaving the room to go get some breakfast.

The dining hall is practically empty at this hour. The only other students are either athletes dressed in Lincoln sports gear or overeager academics in neatly pressed clothes. I load a plate high with eggs, bacon, and an array of fresh fruit, grab a mug of fresh coffee, and make my way to one of the many empty tables.

I’ve just sat down and taken my first bite of fruit when a tall, muscular black guy saunters up to my table and takes a seat across from me. I don’t recognize him, but he’s wearing a long-sleeved shirt with the outline of a football and the words Lincoln, suggesting he’s a member of the football team. I eye him curiously as I hastily swallow.

“So, what’s your deal?” he asks, as though it’s entirely normal to interrupt a stranger’s breakfast early on a Sunday morning.

“Excuse me?” I question, affronted.

“What’s so special about you?”

I’m completely taken aback. “What are you talking about? I’m flattered you think I’m ‘so special,’ but it would mean a lot more if I knew who you are, what you’re talking about, and why you’re interrupting my breakfast.”