Salvatore is obviously curious because he asks, “When did you two start dating anyway?” He casually sets the open Fizz Life on my desk. My phone lets out a warning beep. Shit. It’s dying. I walk around the bed to find my charger.

“Over the summer.” Tess hooks an arm around her girlfriend.

“We met at orientation,” Sheetal adds, her English accent thick.

“And you said you’re from Liverpool.” Salvatore notes like he’s trying to remember our introductions from earlier this week.

“Is right.” Sheetal smiles.

Salvatore looks to Tess. “You’re from Georgia, the state not the country. And you…” He’s definitely looking at me—or at least trying to—but I’m on my knees, the bed blocking me as I plug in my phone. “…I can’t remember what you said.”

I’m not surprised. I am unmemorable, and I never told any of them my last name. I don’t think they’ve recognized me, so they could just not be into tabloids or celebrity gossip. It’s a checkmark in the yay I can still be just Willow category. A major plus.

I pop up from the floor. “I’m from the States. Specifically, Pennsylvania. But I grew up in Maine.”

Salvatore meets my eyes. “Yeah, that’s right.” He says it like he’s suddenly remembered, and I’m not sure how I feel about that. On one hand, I’d like to drift into the sea of forgotten people, but on the other hand, I do want friends in London. Or at least acquaintances. Really, I only need one acquaintance. I’m not picky.

Sheetal shuts the door. “Now that your memory is sufficiently jogged, Salvatore. Let’s get to work.”

We start brainstorming different products that we could advertise for the project. Everything from shampoo to laptops. An hour later, we’ve made a snack run and have narrowed it down to three options. Whatever we choose will determine exactly how we’re going to market it and what demographic we’ll be marketing to, so it’s the most important step.

Though, what’s concerning me has nothing to do with this project—Garrison still hasn’t texted or called me back. Not that I’ve been checking. Okay, I have checked. Once or twice. Maybe five times.

I send him another quick text: Call me when you get this. I’m worried about you.

Footsteps from students running down the hall cut into our silence, all of us flipping through various magazines to grab more inspiration.

Tess stares longingly at the door. “I can’t believe I’m doing this on a Friday night.” She sighs. “Please wake me up.”

Sheetal pinches her.

“Ouch…but thank you, babe,” Tess says.

Sheetal smiles and tosses a pretzel in her mouth. “A third-year fella said that this project is legendary for business students. Mostly ‘cause whichever student has the worst marketing plan ends up being a total whopper of the Fall semester.”

A whopper?

Off my confused face, Tess clarifies, “They look like giant idiots.”

Sheetal nods. “Last year, the worst in class created a toothpaste ad. Bright red paste for the holidays.”