Who Breaks First (Clearwater University)

I’m trying to move us away from the house, because I sense that the guys might try to follow. Peter seems more than willing to walk away, so we head down the street, walking through the quiet neighborhood back toward campus. It’s only about a five-minute walk, and by the time my dorm building comes into sight, my heart rate has gone back down.

“We don’t have to go to parties if you don’t want to,” Peter finally says as we come to my door.

My eyebrows lift a little at his use of the word we. He makes it sound as if we’re already a unit somehow.

“It’s fine.” I shake my head, deciding not to comment on it. “I really did have a good time.”

Peter catches my hand before I can turn to go inside, and then he slides his arm around my waist, pulling me a little closer. He smells like whiskey and aftershave, and my heart beats harder as he pushes a lock of my light blonde hair behind my ear with his free hand.

He’s going to kiss me, and I want to want him to.

I want my pulse to be picking up from excitement, not from confusion and nerves. I want to be thrilled by this, giddy about it.

I’m not, but I let him kiss me anyway. I wrap my arms around his neck and press my body against his and let his tongue delve into my mouth. His lips are warm and soft, and it feels… nice. But I don’t feel that crazy buzz of electricity I feel with three other men who set all my nerve endings on fire just by standing near me.

Our kiss deepens for a second, and it feels like I’m trying to start a fire with nothing but wet paper and a single match. I pray for a flame to ignite inside me, but the harder I wish for it, the colder my insid

es seem.

When we break apart, Peter smiles down at me.

“I had a great time too,” he murmurs, and I have a feeling he’s talking more about the last few minutes than the entire time we were at the party.

“Goodnight.” I press one last peck to his lips. I don’t feel a spark, but I do like him, and I did genuinely have fun. At first anyway.

“Goodnight, Emma.” Peter squeezes my hand once more before stepping back.

As I enter the door to my building and head up the stairs to my dorm, I can’t help but be grateful for what a nice guy Peter is.

If, God for-fucking-bid, I ever kissed Reese or Trent like that, there would be no escaping what would happen next. It’d be like tossing a match into a barn full of dry hay and gasoline. What happened between me and West in high school proved that. I couldn’t have stopped it if I’d tried—and as often as I try to convince myself otherwise, I didn’t even try.

As I push open the door to my dorm, I feel a moment of pride. I went out with a guy, I went to a party without the comforting backup of Leslie, and I survived. But from now on, I’m going to stick to my resolution to not date guys while I’m in school. I’m going to focus on my future and make something of myself.

The overhead lights are off, and the only illumination comes from the strings of Christmas lights that glow dimly, casting shadows around the room. I let out a low chuckle when I see Leslie lying on her bed with a box of pizza in her lap, totally asleep.

This is the kind of thing I need to come home to at night. Not some guy’s bachelor pad.

The Icons make no mention of what they saw at the party—which was honestly nothing but me standing next to another guy—but I can feel the memory of it coloring every interaction we have for the next week.

I fucking hate it. I don’t even know what they’re so mad about anyway. Are they just pissed that not everyone in the world despises me as much as they do?

It makes me feel a lot warmer toward Peter. I might not feel much spark with him, but at least I feel normal. Balanced. Sane.

The entire week seems to drag, and I feel constantly on edge, like I’m waiting for some disaster to strike.

And on Friday, it does.

I’m in Anthropology 101, fidgeting in my chair like always as I struggle not to react to Reese’s presence beside me, when Professor Sykes drops a bomb.

“You’re going to be teaming up for an important assignment,” he says, writing names on the whiteboard. “Keep in mind that this is the most vital task of the year, and your performance will constitute half of your grade this semester.”

My heart begins to pound as I watch him scratch out names on the board. Fuck, no. He already made my life hell by trapping me in a seat surrounded by my worst enemies. There’s no goddamn way he’ll force me into doing a group assignment with them too. Professor Sykes isn’t that cruel. Fate isn’t that cruel.

Well, Professor Sykes doesn’t actually know what he’s doing.

But Fate?

She’s a fucking bitch.