He’s only two years older than me, but he’s a good decade ahead of me in maturity and, well, life in general.

He’s got a list of life goals and a ten-year plan and probably some kind of color-coded flowchart to keep them both straight.

Me? I’ve got a fake ID and a loose itinerary for tomorrow. No flowchart.

“Thanks, babe.” He wraps an arm around my shoulder and pulls me closer. He always smells good. Clean.

The drinks arrive, and I suck on the straw in my ginger ale while Jenna takes a gulp—not a sip, a gulp—of her Manhattan. Jenna orders cocktails like an old man and drinks them down like a desperate housewife. I love her.

Matt turns to me and lowers his voice. “So you didn’t call me back all week.”

I make an apologetic face. “Sorry about that. I just got so busy. You have news?”

He nods. “Remember Tyson, my roommate last semester?”

“Yeah,” I say, watching as Jack reaches for the plastic spear of olives garnishing Jenna’s drink. She swats his hand away.

“Well, he works at New York University now, in the admissions department,” Matt continues. “And he said he might be able to get your transfer application reviewed again.”

I whip my eyes to him. “Really?”

I’ve been applying for transfers all year. California. Colorado. New York. Virginia. I just need something else. Something other than Arizona and all the familiar people and places I can’t hide from.

New York was the first school to get back to me with a denial letter. The others followed suit shortly after. Fickle undergrads majoring in art don’t seem to be at the top of every university’s wish list for transfer students.

So the idea that Tyson could get my application reviewed again—that I might be able to transfer after all—is thrilling. For the most part. My palms start to sweat.

He nods. “Yeah, but he needed you to submit an appeal by last Thursday.”

My heart dips, but comes right back up. “Well, that sucks. I guess I’m stuck at ASU for now.”

“Giving up so easily?” He smiles at me mischievously.

“What?” I eye him.

His smile grows. “I submitted an appeal for you.”

“What?” I squawk.

He nods excitedly. “Tyson said I could fill one out for you and, since you refused to answer your phone, I took the liberty of doing just that. So there’s still a chance you could transfer there this fall. We could go to school together.”

My mouth falls open. “Wow.”

Matt starts his graduate program at NYU next semester, which explains the smile on his face. But me… I’m equal parts thrilled and panicked.

“Aren’t you excited?” His smile slips.

“Yes.” I force my mouth into a grin and nod. “Very excited.”

Balls of stress tighten in my stomach.

Jack goes for the olives a second time and Jenna slaps his hand. Again. “Back off my olives or I will voodoo your ass.”

Even though Voodoo is a peaceful religion that has nothing to do with cursing people, Jenna takes full advantage of others’ ignorance and plays the Voodoo card every chance she gets.

“Oh please. You’re not going to voodoo my ass.” He tries again, only to be smacked harder.

“Keep playing,” she says. “See if you wake up with all your appendages.” Her eyes drift over to me and she cocks her head. “You okay?”

I lift my brows. “What? Yes. Yeah, I’m okay.” I push out a smile.

I’m okay. I’m totally, completely okay.

Hours go by until everyone is drunk except for Matt and me. I’ve never seen Matt get wasted. He’s too responsible for that.

Again, why is he with me?

We don’t mention NYU or school again, so the stress balls in my stomach slowly unwind until I’m actually enjoying myself.

When Jenna, Jack, and Ethan decide to move the party to the bar next door, Matt and I opt to head to his place to watch movies. Matt cracks joke after joke on the way there, and by the time we reach his apartment, my stomach hurts from laughing so hard.

After choosing a movie, we go to his kitchen and make popcorn. Five minutes and four handfuls of salty popcorn later, we’re kissing against the fridge, the wall, the counter… until we’re kiss-walking our way back to his bedroom. It’s dark in here, the only light being the soft orange glow filtering in through the window from the streetlamps outside.

We fall on his bed and the kissing turns into something more, which is right about the time my eyes—and my mind—start to wander.

Why is his room so clean all the time? I mean, seriously. Everything is tidy and organized. His desk is spotless. His shoes are in neat little pairs in the closet. It’s not natural.

And why is it so quiet in here? He lives in a campus apartment, for God’s sake. His neighbors should be throwing a kegger and blasting music through the walls.

Before I know it, our shirts are gone and his hand moves down my rib cage as he settles on top of me, trailing kisses along my neck. I stare down his broad back and frown. I should probably do something here, like sink my nails into his shoulder blades or grab his butt or something.

Meh.

I slowly flatten my palms against his back in a symmetrical way and try to relax my arms. Why is he always so warm? And why the frack is he still sucking on my neck?

He just ate popcorn and now he’s tonguing my throat and leaving a trail of buttery germs in his wake. And I swear to God his scruffy jaw is going to rub my skin raw.

The butter germs start to spread lower as my eyes wander back to his desk. There’s not even a pen out of place. Left-brained artists are so weird. Should I have my eyes closed? Why is he breathing so hard?

Focus, Pixie. Focus.

His hands run over my body but avoid my scar completely. He never touches my scar. I’m not sure if it’s because it freaks him out or if he’s just being careful. Probably a little bit of both, which is unfortunate because, well, my boobs are right there and I don’t want my boyfriend to be afraid of my boobs—which are flawless, by the way. I might have a nasty gash marring the valley between the girls, but the boobies themselves are pristine. Still. Matt avoids my chest for the most part. Such a shame.

Is that a piece of gum on his ceiling?

My eyes flutter a bit as his hand glides over my thigh and up between my legs. My skirt has ridden up, so I’m pretty much just lying here in my panties, holding on to his overly warm back as his jeans press against the inside of my legs.

He brings his popcorn tongue up to my mouth and kisses me deeply. I force my eyes shut and try to concentrate on kissing him back as the scruff on his jaw scratches against my face like a bristle brush. I just know my face is going to be all red after this. Maybe I’ll buy him a new razor. But not an electric one. Those aren’t always reliable.

Who invented electric razors? What guy was shaving his face one day and thought, You know what this flat knife against my throat needs? A battery. Perhaps I should invent a razor with a cord—

Matt yanks back from me and sits up on his knees with a frustrated exhale.

“What?” I sit up and cover my boobs. “What’s wrong?”

I notice his hair looks perfectly styled, not a single blond strand out of place. Aren’t people supposed to have messed-up hair after sex—or almost sex? That’s probably my fault. Shoot. I need to remember to mess up his hair.

He runs a hand over his mouth. “Maybe I should ask you.”

“Uh…” I glance at his spotless desk again.

“You’re not into this, Sarah.”

“Yes, I am,” I say quickly. Too quickly. “Sex. Let’s do this.” I roll my hips in an embarrassingly unflattering way and clap my hands together like I’m breaking up a football huddle.