Samuel wraps one of my arms around his shoulder, and we make our way up the steep dirt path. I trip again, getting my shirt even dirtier. These stains are going to take so much to get out.

Once we’re on flat ground, it’s an easier walk, even with the uneven brick walkways all over campus. It shouldn’t be a long walk, but it feels like it takes forever.

“Come on, Neil. You’ve got to help me here.”

“Don’t want to,” I say. Because that’s the truth. I don’t want to walk, and I don’t want to go back to my dorm room. I don’t want to go to the wedding. I want to go somewhere far away, a cabin in the middle of nowhere with no one around. No Samuel, no Hoon or Julien or Mark.

No Fowler.

And no Josh.

“You had like three beers, you lightweight.”

“I didn’t eat lunch.” Or dinner, for that matter.

“That explains it. Do you have your keys?” Samuel asks me.

“I dunno.” Did I grab them?

“Check your pockets.”

“You do it.”

Samuel grunts, leaning me against the wall and running his hands along my pants pockets.

“Don’t touch my butt.” I push him away.

“Believe me when I say I want that even less than you do.” He stares me up and down. “You forgot your keys?”

“Probably,” I grumble.

“Fine.” Samuel knocks on the door to my room loudly, again and again and again.

“Shhhh.” I bat his hand away. “You’ll wake the RA up.”

“It’s eight thirty.”

I hear footsteps through the wood, and Wyatt unlocks the door, opening it slowly. “Yes?”

“Yes?” I mock his accent. “Why do you talk like that?”

I see his expression turn to disappointment.

“He’s your problem now.” Samuel wrangles himself out from under my arm and waves. “Bye, Neil. Have fun at the wedding.”

“Wait, you can’t just leave him here! Seriously?” Wyatt calls out, but Samuel is already down the hall with a spring in his step, his strawberry-blond hair bouncing while he moves. Then Wyatt turns to me. “You look awful.”

“Shut up.”

“You smell awful too.” He looks at my shirt. “And you’re filthy. Go take a shower.”

“You’re not my mom,” I say, stumbling into the room.

“You need to shower; you can’t go to bed sweaty and covered in dirt.” Wyatt claps his hands together. “Where is your shower bag?”

I point to my closet.

“Come on,” he says after he finds it.

“Where are we going?”

“To the showers, before curfew.”

“You don’t have to come with me,” I say, trying my best to stand back up. All I end up doing, though, is wobbling some more. Wyatt has to catch me. “I’m a big boy. I can do it.”