Chase: You’re a journalism major, right?

Bailey: I am. Why?

Chase: Does that mean you’re good at editing?

Bailey: What’s your angle, Carter?

Chase: My history paper is a fucking tire fire.

Bailey: Wish I could help, but I don’t know anything about history.

Chase: Turns out, neither do I.

Chase: Help me, James. I’m just a pretty face.

Bailey: I guess I could read it over and make sure it flows smoothly. Email it to me - [email protected]

Chase: I owe ya.

Chase: In fact, I’ll give Morrison an extra hit next time we play the Bulldogs. I’ll crush him for you. Like a bug.

Bailey: Oh my god, don’t do that. Still Team Bulldog here, remember?

Chase: For now.

Bailey: Forever.

Chase: We’ll see.

Bailey: We really won’t.

* * *

Bailey

Turned out that texting with Chase before bed was recipe for insomnia. I was way too keyed up to sleep. Given that I had an early class on Tuesday mornings, this was a highly problematic development. I pulled out all the stops—reading a boring textbook, rewatching comfort shows, even chamomile tea, but nothing could calm the buzz in my body.

Finally, I took some melatonin and fell asleep sometime around midnight, only to be startled awake by a loud crash, like something falling over and hitting the ground. Probably the neighbor’s cat, who loved to prowl around on our fire escape. I sighed, rolling over in bed to find the glowing red letters of my alarm clock staring back at me—3:12 a.m. Might as well go pee while I was up.

After sliding out from under the covers, I shuffled to my door and down the hall with my eyes half-closed. As I reached for the bathroom door, it swung open, and I ran smack into a large male body.

I jumped back. It was probably Paul or Eddie.

But in the dim moonlight streaming in, I caught sight of a familiar face. It was my brother.

“Geez!” I put a hand to my chest, my heart racing like I was watching a game in overtime. “Derek, what are you doing here?”

“Shh,” he said, grabbing my arm. “Keep it down.”

“You’re in my hallway in the middle of the night, and you’re shushing me?” I whisper-yelled. “I want an explanation.”

Derek bent closer, his voice low. “Can we go downstairs at least?”

“Fine,” I hissed.

He turned and headed down the steps. I followed behind and flipped on the light over the stove. I poured a glass of water while he sank onto a stool at the island, slumping over the laminate counter. I could pee later; right now, I needed to know what the hell was going on.

“Explain.” I rested both elbows on the counter, pinning him with my stare.