He studies me for the longest time. “You flew five hundred miles to talk?” he says finally, and for a moment I can’t tell whether he is angry or amused. His voice sounds like an ambiguous blend of both.

I narrow the gap between us. “Fine. I didn’t come here just to talk.” My eyes drop to his chest, then back up. “I wanted to see you. Do you...have a sec?”

Nate’s eyes don’t leave mine. He’s still trying to figure this out. He inhales loud enough for me to hear the air invade his nostrils like he’s going to refuse, but he changes his mind at the last second.

“Let me rinse off first.”

I watch him grab a dark gray towel from a hook on the back of his closet door. He doesn’t say anything else before he slips out, doesn’t look back at me like I hope he will. The door shuts with a loud click. Not a full slam, but it’s a statement.

I blow out a breath. This is going to be harder than I thought. I’m here, though. I’m fucking here. I sit back down on his bed and slip my heels off.

Nate’s phone buzzes on the dresser. I ignore it and the call goes to his voice mail.

Two more calls come back-to-back. I get up and check the caller ID. It’s an unsaved 212 number. I stare at it, debating whether I should answer, then slide my finger across the screen. “Nate’s in the shower. Is this urgent?”

I hear someone breathing. Then a faint click in my ear. “Hello?”

Silence.

I drop his phone back on the dresser. “Asshole.”

My eyes float around the room again, mind drifting. Then my feet are drifting, too, and I’m peeking into his closet, smelling his clean clothes, sitting at his desk, flipping through notebooks, smiling at his scraggly handwriting, remembering when he stuck a Post-it note on my locker saying he wanted to take me out after one of his home games. Then I see it. Right in the corner of my periphery: a Polaroid of Brandi. She’s smiling and pretty as always, but I don’t flinch or recoil. I’ve got him. I know I do. It’s only a matter of time before Nate has a pic of me on his desk. I’m so close.

The door clicks open.

Nate steps in, towel around his waist, hair still dripping, and I ache to be in his arms. I watch him as he slides open the top drawer of his dresser, then ease behind him.

“What happened? You used to be King of the Freeball.”

He flips around to face me, no humor in his expression. “Taylor, what do you want?”

He sounds annoyed now, and inside I start to panic.