He moved his face toward hers with more care than she thought he was capable of. Summer met him halfway. His lips were fuller than she was used to, his mouth was warmer. She hugged his big head. His hair was rough, it curled around her fingers. She liked him, she trusted him—even though she never knew what she was going to get with him. It was always pretty good. It was already better.

Benji pulled away a little. They were both laughing. Sort of. Softly. Summer blinked away a few tears. She stroked his head with her thumbs.

“Yeah?” Benji whispered.

“Yeah.” Summer nodded.

He grabbed her waist again and spun her around. “Yeah!” he shouted.

There were problems.

Summer had already ruined her room with Charlie. Ruined her bed with good and terrible memories. She didn’t want Benji in there.

So she stayed in Benji’s room most nights after their ten o’clock curfew and had to sneak back to her own floor whenever she needed to use the girls’ restroom, and then sneak back to Benji again.

She was bound to see Charlie someday, while she was sneaking around, and it was going to be awful. (Summer was over Charlie, but she didn’t want to see him. She didn’t want him imposing his gaze on her. On Benji.) (Benji didn’t care if Charlie saw them. “Fuck that guy.”)

Benji’s room was a mess. He hardly owned any clothes, but every inch of space was filled with books and papers and computer components—and stacks and stacks of CDs. (He was only sort of big into Napster.)

His bed was always full of hemp seeds—he munched them like popcorn—and broken mechanical-pencil leads. The mattress wasn’t big enough for the both of them together. It was just barely big enough for Benji alone.

And they couldn’t both listen to music on his headphones, so they argued about how loud to turn the volume and whether the music would bother the girl who lived below him.

They lay on Benji’s bed, Summer tucked between his chest and the wall, with his arm around her waist. Whatever terrible tank top he’d been wearing would get thrown onto the floor; Summer couldn’t abide them.

They listened to music that reminded Summer of things that hadn’t happened yet.

She was afraid to tell him that she loved him.

How could she say to him the same words she’d said to Charlie? Knowing how much different this was, between them. How far superior.

Summer hadn’t been magic with Charlie. She’d only gotten glimpses of how good she could feel.

Benji was bigger than life. He was too loud. His face was too red. Benji told Summer that he loved her. In words. And music. And fierce looks on the elevator.