"Only the ones who can make me row until my arms fall off."
That earns me another almost-smile. "Fine. Lead the way."
We exit the humanities building into late afternoon sunshine. The campus is quieter now as students retreat to libraries and dorms to study or nap before dinner. A group of Omega girls sits under an oak tree, their sweet scents carrying on the breeze. One giggles as we pass, and I wink automatically. Old habits.
"So," I say as we cross the quad, "what's your story, Cox? And not the polished version you gave at breakfast."
She gives me a sidelong glance. "What makes you think there's another version?"
"Mid-season transfers usually have a story behind them, and you're pretty good at changing the subject when things get personal."
"Maybe I just value my privacy."
"Fair enough."
She glances at me with what might be relief.
"Not everyone wants their life story broadcast."
"True." I lead her to my beat-up Jeep Wrangler, the only vehicle I could afford despite my family's finances. My parents are big on what they call "building independence," which basically means they have money but I don't.
"This is yours?" she asks, eyeing the Jeep's faded blue paint and the bumper stickers that cover the back.
"Yep. Bought her with four summers of lifeguarding money. She's ugly but reliable." I open the passenger door with a flourish. "Your carriage awaits."
Reese climbs in, immediately buckling her seatbelt as I slide behind the wheel. The interior smells like the cinnamon gum I'm addicted to and the bag of workout clothes I keep forgetting to take inside. I clear some granola bar wrappers from her seat with an apologetic grin.
"Bachelor pad on wheels," I explain.
"Clearly," she says as she fights a grin.
As we drive toward Westover, I steal glances at her profile. She stares out the window, seemingly lost in thought, one finger absently tracing the strap of her backpack.
"You know," I say, "you haven't asked a single question about me."
She turns. "Should I have?"
"Most people do. I'm fascinating."
"And modest."
"Modesty is overrated," I grin. "Anyway, since you're too shy to ask, I'll volunteer information. Sophomore, English major with a creative writing focus. Middle child of three. From Chicagooriginally. I row because I'm too short for basketball and too uncoordinated for football."
"Six-one is too short?" She sounds incredulous.
"In my family? I'm the runt. Both my brothers are six-four."
"That must be hard for you," she says dryly.
"The struggle is real, Cox."
We pull up to Westover Hall, an imposing brick building with white columns that houses primarily legacy students and those with generous financial aid packages. The kind of dorm with actual furniture instead of the plastic chairs and wobbly desks the rest of us get.
"I'll wait here," I offer.
"You can come up if you want," she says, surprising me. "I just need to grab my gear."
I follow her into the building, noting how she nods politely to the security guard but doesn't stop to chat like most residents would. Keeping her distance. Always.
