But did I want to return to a place where I was otherwise failing at every turn because I had a huge crush on a boy? Sure, there was the tiniest chance he maybe liked me, too; I was starting to think there was a possibility. At the same time, I adamantly didn’t want to be the kind of person who made massive life decisions based on my feelings for a cute boy.

I hadn’t done that for Brody. Which had been at the core of our breakup.

There were other factors, of course. Our fundamental incompatibility, for instance. As far as Brody was concerned, though, I hadn’t taken him into consideration when I decided to apply to Barrington and especially once I had accepted admission.

Which wasn’t true. I had thought about him. I thought of what life would be like if I stayed here in Christmas instead of going to the elite boarding school, and I didn’t have to look beyond my own mother.

But now here I was, six months later, pondering the same decision only in reverse, and once again there was a boy in the mix, muddying my perspective when what I needed most was clarity.

The only thing I knew for certain was I wouldn’t find the answers going around in circles in my own head.

Which is why I went upstairs. Not necessarily in search of Ayisha, but not not in search of her, either.

My non-search found her in the last room at the end of the second-floor hallway, in the room rented by the Yablonskis. I was grateful to find it wasn’t either Chakrabarti room. That would’ve been too close to boundary-crossing.

Fortunately, the door to the room was propped open by the maid cart and I saw Ayisha in the middle of stripping down the bedding. Her braids hung loose and her movements were slow. Not perpetually on autopilot, like Val. Rather, she seemed exhausted.

I lightly tapped the door then entered, not waiting for her permission as I grabbed a couple of disposable gloves from the cart because there was too good a chance permission wouldn’t be forthcoming.

“Hi,” I said, as I went to the other side of the bed to help unhook the fitted sheet from the corner. There was a protocol for cleaning a guest’s room and it started with removing all the bedding.

She frowned at me. “What are you doing?”

“I thought I’d help.”

“I already told you I didn’t want help.”

I released the sheet and it sprang back at her. She caught it and I caught a glimpse of her drawn expression. Damn, she was tired.

She must have felt it, too, because she held out the old bedding.

“Take these,” she said.

Which was what I did.