“Music. That you can listen to.”

“Are you critiquing the music I listen to when I’m grieving?”

“No!” He gestured when he talked—as if he wasn’t big and loud enough. “I get it. You’re upset. But if I have to grieve with you, I need a little variety.”

Summer looked down at the CD. He’d written Songs for Getting Over Dipshits on the case.

“I can’t believe you’re trying to dictate what I listen to while I cry,” she said, fully affronted. “You don’t even know me. This is such a guy move.”

“A guy move?”

“Yeah.”

“Hey, I’m not the one who dumped you.”

“He didn’t dump me.”

“If you dumped him”—he spread his arms—“why are you listening to suicide music?”

“It’s not suicide music! And it’s because I’m sad!”

The guy rubbed his face. He was also wearing weight-lifting gloves. Why couldn’t he put those on when he got to the gym? Was he trying to draw attention to how big he was? That was unnecessary . . .

You know how, in high school, there were those guys who already looked like grown men? Like their necks were already thick, and their beards were already full?

This guy was the college version of that.

He looked like a grown grown man. He was a head taller than most people and proportionately wider, and he always seemed to have five-o’clock shadow. He was too much.

“I understand that you’re sad,” he said. “I’m just saying—there are lots of sad songs.”

“I can hear your music, too, you know.” (He listened to very aggressive rap music. Charlie said it was the Judgment Night soundtrack.) “I’ve never come down to harass you about it.”

“If you ever need me to turn it down,” he said, “I will.”

Summer shook her head. She hated knowing that this guy lived below her. Now she’d be constantly thinking about what he could hear. “Just leave me alone,” she said.

“Fine,” he agreed.

“Fine.”

He walked away before Summer could close the door in his face. She swung it shut and sat back on her bed looking down at the CD. Who was he calling a dipshit?

Summer bought new headphones at the university bookstore for $7.99. She’d been saving up for a new pair of Vans, and now she’d have to wait another week. She blamed her downstairs neighbor for that. For the last day, she’d been more angry with him than she had been miserable about Charlie.

But then she saw Charlie at dinner—she’d just finished getting her food, and she’d walked out into the dining area, and there he was. In a Pavement T-shirt and a flannel shirt. Summer had panicked and whirled around. She walked the wrong way through the food line and out into the other side of the cafeteria, the north side.