Daisy nods and bites on the end of a Twizzler. “Yes, I like this idea.”

Courage emblazons my bones. I am a Gryffindor for a reason, right? Like Neville Longbottom, I can put myself in situations that seem daunting and out-of-my-element. And I will succeed—if I can try to believe it.

So I text the group: My hall is pretty quiet. You all can meet at my dorm. 301. Bishop Hall.

Tess: Sweet. See you soon.

Sheetal: Brilliant!

Salvatore: I’ll be there in twenty

Did I just invite people over? I did. Pride overcomes me, followed by an intense wave of worry. Shit, I don’t even have snacks or sodas. How am I supposed to host people here? And my room—oh God. Two bras are on the floor and my hamper overflows. This is about the time I’d love to have some woodland creatures come help me. Yeah, if only my life were a Disney movie.

I carry a stack of Fizz Life cans and redial his number. Garrison just sent me a video and he looked different. He mumbled out words and had dark circles under his eyes.

I heard all about his pizza disaster and how his roommate has been acting oddly friendly. As a result, Garrison has been spending longer hours in the office just to avoid his apartment.

I worry he’s not sleeping.

And we’re both shitty at confronting insecurities head-on, I realize.

Running away and ignoring them is easier.

But I’m not going to ignore him. “Pick up…” I tell my phone. I only have a five-minute window before my groupmates start arriving. I make it back to my dorm when the call goes to voicemail. Shit. Struggling, I pocket my phone and fumble with my key. I lose balance and an aluminum soda can falls off the four-can stack. It rolls down the hall, and before I can chase after it, a guy places his shoe on top of the can, stopping it.

I take a quick note of the person who saved the soda. Dusty brown hair, squared jaw. Deep brown eyes and tanned, olive skin. He wears this navy tweed sports coat on top of a plain burgundy T-shirt, and it shouldn’t match. But it does.

I also know this guy.

Salvatore Amadio. AKA one-fourth of my Intro to Marketing group. We only briefly met in class, but he’s now five-feet in front of me. Bending down to snatch the Fizz Life off the floor.

“Thanks,” I tell him.

He appraises the stack of cans in my arms. “Getting drinks?” His Italian accent is thick on the words.

He’s from Naples but came to Wakefield for university. International students make up eighty-percent of the school, one of the main reasons I chose it over other colleges. Most people here are far away from their homes like me.

“Yep, can’t have a group meeting without Fizz—crap.” I drop the key and bend too quickly to pick it up. Another can falls off my tower and rolls down to Salvatore.