“Maybe I could come in?” he tried.

Nat had a double futon. They could sleep comfortably side by side. But no. Way too coupley . . .

“Sorry,” she said. “My roommates.”

“I promise I won’t flash them again.”

Nat giggled, which Miguel seemed to take as encouragement. His hands slid under her coat and encircled her waist. She stepped back.

“Don’t.”

“Come on,” he said, moving toward her. He found her belt loops and tugged her closer. Something flared inside of her: anger, revulsion. Her mind flashed back to Cole, his possessiveness, his neediness. She remembered the barrage of texts he would send if she didn’t respond to him instantly, the harassing phone calls if he didn’t know where she was. She was not ready for another relationship.

“I said no.” It came out harsh and angry.

Miguel stepped back, holding his hands up in surrender. “Sorry.”

“Just . . . Back off, okay?”

“Jesus, Nat.” He shook his head, exasperated. “One minute, you’re into me, then the next minute, you want nothing to do with me.”

“I told you when we first hooked up: this is casual.”

“We’ve been seeing each other for three months, sleeping together a few times a week. That’s not casual. That’s a relationship.”

A cruel laugh erupted from within her. “That’s the last thing I want.”

She saw the hurt in his warm brown eyes, but his voice was cold and hard. “Fine,” he snapped. “I’ll leave you alone.”

“Perfect.”

As she watched him walk away, her anger dissipated. Her rejection had wounded him; she could see it in his slumped posture, in his ambling gait. A twinge of guilt tickled her belly. Miguel was a decent guy, undeserving of her ire. She had enjoyed her time with him. Maybe they could have had something, if she’d wanted a relationship. But she didn’t. Not after things with Cole had turned so sick and creepy. And she was not going to be pressured into a romance just because the guy was nice.

She entered her darkened apartment, tiptoeing to her room. The environment was still tense after her roommates had freaked out over Nat’s late-night pasta party, had accused her of promiscuity before a naked Miguel had strolled into the kitchen like exhibit A. Nat had kept a low profile since then, avoiding the apartment as much as possible. When she was home, she fastidiously cleaned up her messes, had lightning-fast showers, and ensured no overnight guests. Her roomies may have disliked her, may have looked down their noses at her, but that was not just cause for eviction. As long as Nat kept her head down, they were stuck with her.

The door to her bedroom was shut tight (hiding the chaos from obsessive Mara’s judgment). She opened it and slipped inside, picking her way through the mess of clothes, canvases, books, and coffee cups, to the bedside lamp. Flicking it on, she allowed her eyes to adjust to the light. Her bed was unmade, the fitted sheet having popped off one corner, revealing the bare mattress (there was something so crack den about a bare mattress). Amid the tangle of sheets was a cereal bowl, an empty can of Coke, a scattering of pastel crayons. Her private space was an unequivocal disaster, but it was her private space. Toni and Mara would not dare to enter it, would never know the squalor in which she lived. That’s when she spotted the folded piece of paper propped against her pillow.