I squeeze the back of my neck, my thoughts a chaotic tangle. For a moment I think maybe I have her all wrong. Maybe she isn’t as bad as I’ve made her out to be in my head. Maybe I am just jealous.

Then I remember the way she first looked at me at that ball. Like I was her enemy.

The way she hugged me, as if she was so happy to meet me when we both knew she wasn’t. And that strange, manufactured smile that seemed to be hurting her face, stretching her beyond her limits.

The way she hugged Nate, a little too tight and a little too long, and how she gawked at him when he walked into the living room naked earlier. Sure, she was surprised—I was too—but friends don’t look at friends like that. She was straight-up ogling his dick like it belonged to her. I almost expected her to reach out and stroke it—that is, if she didn’t get drool on it first, in which case I’m sure she would have been glad to drop to her knees and suck it.

She’s not fooling anyone. Her performance is solid, but I know she’s not as innocent as she wants me to believe.

I don’t trust her. I can’t trust her.

“Because I want to help you out,” I finally say, and I barely recognize my own voice. It sounds far away, like a memory.

There is a long pause, then I hear someone speaking, but it’s not Taylor. “I could probably get a pinch of fat tissue from your arms, but it’s not much,” a deep male voice says in a formal tone. “Taylor, I really don’t think this is your look.”

“With all due respect, Dr. Burgess, you’re a plastic surgeon, not a psychologist. I just want to know how much it’ll be, ballpark.”

Another pause.

“Eight thousand,” he says.

I can hear the static of Taylor’s agitated sigh on my end.

“Can you give me a minute?” she says to the doctor.

I don’t hear a reply, but seconds later the door shuts.

“Keep going,” she says in my ear.

“I’m willing to keep my mouth shut, but you’re gonna have to do something for me.”

There’s a pause. “What?”

“I just got this letter from my school. My tuition went up...and I can’t cover it. It basically says if I don’t make the full payment by the end of the month, I can’t return in the fall.”

She doesn’t hesitate. “How much?”

“Eight thousand.” The words leave me, and I all but hold my breath, ready for her to fully go off on me.

“Eight grand?” Her voice is hushed, and for a second I can’t tell whether this amuses her or angers her. “What’s your Zelle?”