The stairwell door bangs shut behind me, and then bangs again, other students pushing through, voices echoing up and down the stairs. I’m still wrestling with my sweater, yanking it down, finally just dragging my coat on and tugging it across my chest. I refuse to cry. This is ridiculous. I don’t care what he thinks of my body, if he had second thoughts when he saw me up close, looking exactly like who I am, not wanting to touch me. When I swipe notifications up on my phone, trying to distract myself, I see Gavin’s name on top.

i don’t think i’ve ever really seen you dance, he’s written, this boy who keeps flirting with me, and before I think about what I’m doing, I’m typing where are you and hitting SEND, and before a half second has gone by, the reply pops up—he’s in his room. He’s got a test tomorrow. Do I want to come give him a study break, winky emojis.

I’m stopped on a landing in the stairwell, my back pressed against the cinder block wall, and I stare at the screen and that history of texts from him, the flirting that has made me smile despite myself. His slow-motion pursuit. Why I never told him to stop. Or thought about why I don’t just delete the texts. Or really blocked him.

I can’t deny that these texts, these ridiculous texts I should have deleted, were good for my ego. I remind myself he flirts with everyone. He likes everyone. He claims to like me. He says he wants me, right up front, no bullshit. And he’s really hot.

be there in five, I type, before I can stop myself.

21

Gavin is leaning against his doorjamb when I arrive at his room. He smiles when he sees me and says in a low, teasing voice, “So have you finally come to give me my private show?” as I move past him, into his room, a double with a shared bathroom that I covet.

I shove down the immediate thought of Jack as the emcee, watching our show. Watching me dance. I don’t want to think about Jack right now.

“Yes, I’m here to dance! There’s just so much room,” I say.

I gesture to the small space. It’s so familiar. His cologne—his soap? Wherever it comes from, slightly woodsy but not overwhelming. Theater posters cover all four walls, classic musicals and Shakespeare dramas and Broadway hits. His bed is made, the comforter the same navies and grays he wears. The pile of pillows. Why do you need so many pillows? I asked him once, and he pulled me back into the nest of them so we were lying on our sides, face-to-face, sinking down. This is why! he said, and kissed me.