Ivy?

I don’t know what it is, but I’ve been able to hold myself together until now. Tears are stinging the backs of my eyes.

Ivy? Everything all right?

Not really.

What’s wrong?

Someone was attacked. The police came.

When? Where?

Before I can text back, my phone rings.

“What the fuck, Ivy. Who? When? In the dorm?” Something crashes in the background.

I feel an odd weightlessness. Like I’m outside my body looking down at myself. “What was that noise?”

“Just my guitar. Goddamn it, Ivy, what happened?”

I need to stay focused. Jon is asking me a question. “A girl. In my dorm. I found her. Down in the laundry room. She’ll be okay. I…I got to her before he…”

My hands are shaking even more. I almost drop my phone.

“Where are you?” His voice is strong and commanding. A door slams on his end of the line.

“In my room.”

“Is Cassidy home yet?”

How does he…? Then I remember telling him earlier that she wasn’t here. “No, she went home for the weekend.”

He curses under his breath. By the way he’s breathing, I can tell he’s running. “Get your shit together. I’m coming for you.”

“What? No, Jon. I’m…I’m fine. I just…wanted to talk to someone. I came back to my room and—”

“You can talk to me in person in five minutes.”

“No, you totally don’t need to come. I’m fine. They have Campus Security stationed downstairs. They’ve got everything under control.”

“I’m serious, Ivy. You’d better be ready or I’ll pack your shit for you.”

Jon

I pull up to her building less than five minutes later and spot her through the glass doors. She’s with a guy and a girl in the lobby.

I kill the bike’s engine and sprint to the entrance. She comes out to meet me and waves goodbye to her friends. She’s wearing pajama bottoms and a PSU sweatshirt, and she’s holding a pillow and her backpack. I leap up the steps, crashing into her at the top and pulling her into my arms.

“Jon,” she gasps, dropping the backpack and pillow.

For a split second, as the momentum propels us against the glass, I recall her panicked reaction back at the bar when we were in a similar position. I don’t want to scare her or hurt her, like someone else has obviously done to her in the past. I’d die a thousand deaths if I ever hurt her.

She clings desperately, like I’m a life raft. The only one who can help her.

Her reaction shatters something inside me that I’ve been trying for weeks to ignore. Something I’ve been denying even exists. I want to be here for her. To be her rock, her support. I want to be everything she needs.

When I heard what happened, I couldn’t get here fast enough. And now, with her in my arms, I think about what might have been. What if it was her and not some other girl who was attacked? And then my head goes into a really dark place. What if I lost her?

“God, Ivy.” The words stick to the back of my throat. I can hardly speak as the gravity of the situation hits me hard.

She sniffs and grabs my hair tighter. I think she might be crying though there isn’t any sobbing. It’s like she’s keeping it tucked deep inside and won’t let it out.

“I gotcha, babe. Nothing’s going to happen to you now.”

“I know,” she whispers in my ear. And then, very quietly, “I’m glad you came for me.”

Her hair is sticking to her wet cheeks, but my mouth finds hers anyway. I roughly push the strands away, until it’s just my lips against hers. I kiss her too hard. Too desperate. She smells sweet and tastes even better. It’s as if I’ve been thirsty all my life but didn’t know it, and now I finally have water.

Someone whistles from across the street. Ivy stiffens in my arms, her lips still pressed to mine.

“Yo, dudes,” a male voice calls out. “Get a room.”

There’s a burst of laughter and someone else says, “That’s some serious goddamn PDA.”

“Yeah. Another minute and they’d be going at it against the wall.”

“Why’d you stop them, idiot? I’d have watched that.”

Reluctantly, I release her and pick up her things.

A Campus Security officer rounds the corner on foot and beams a flashlight in our faces. “What’s going on?”

“I’m picking her up and taking her to my place.”

“Is that correct?” the officer confirms with Ivy.

“Yes.” Her voice rings out in the cool night air, her breath fogging in front of our faces.

I grab her hand and head toward the bike. “Have you found the guy?” I ask the officer.

“Not yet, but we’re still looking.” He heads across the street to talk to the group of guys, then continues his patrol.

“Jon, I—”

I touch a finger to her lips. I can tell she’s tired. “We can talk about this later. I need to get you home.”

Jon

I survey the mountain of dirty dishes in the sink as we enter the kitchen. “Sorry for the mess. I’d have cleaned if I had known…”

“Don’t worry about it.”

I clear away someone’s soup bowl and the crust of a sandwich. “Care for a nightcap before we retire?” I use my best British accent, hoping to make her laugh and take her mind off what just happened, but it doesn’t work.

She looks dazed, like she’s in shock. “Tea? Hot chocolate?”

“Either one. I have both.”

She purses her lips. “Got any marshmallows?”

“Nope. But I do have whipped cream.”

“Okay, then I’ll have tea, but only if it doesn’t have any caffeine.”

Now that’s one I’ve never heard before. “You drink tea with whipped cream?”

“No, I hate whipped cream, but I only drink hot chocolate with marshmallows. Since you don’t have any, I’ll just have tea.”

I grab the tea container from a cupboard and slide it across the island. “How can anyone hate whipped cream? I’m pretty sure it’s against the law.”

The smile she flashes lights me up inside. “Guess you’ll have to throw me in jail then.” She thumbs through the teabags like files in a hanging folder, chooses one, and hands it to me. “I can’t stand the texture of whipped cream.”

I fill two mugs with water and put them in the microwave. “So I take it you’ve never done whip hits.”

She frowns. “I don’t even know what that is.”

I grab the whipped cream from the refrigerator. “Watch and learn.” I shake the canister a few times, tilt my head back and spray it directly into my mouth.

“Can’t say that I’ve ever done a whip hit,” she says, laughing. “My mom always bought the kind in the tub.”

I lick my lips. “The fake stuff? Well, you haven’t lived until you’ve had a whip hit with real whipped cream. Here.” I lean over the counter and hold the nozzle near her mouth. She tries to take it from me, but I pull it away. “No. I’ll do it.”

She narrows her eyes, looking very skeptical.

“I promise I’m not going to spray you or anything.”

“But can you be trusted? That’s the real question.” She points to the tattoo on the back of her neck. “Remember?”

How can I forget? I hold up three fingers. “Scout’s honor. How’s that?”

“Ha,” she laughs. “Somehow I don’t picture you as a Boy Scout.”

My mind flashes to the scrapbook Mom made for me, with its quilted cover and various buttons and charms glued to each page. At least four or five are devoted to my time as a Cub Scout. She spent months going through the pictures she’d saved on her computer and phone, getting them printed, then crafting each page, but she never got a chance to finish it. “Well, I was. So you can trust me.”

“Famous last words.” She takes a deep breath. “Okay, I trust you. Hit me. But not too much.” She leans forward and opens her mouth.