Dean As I storm out of the arena, my mind is racing. The first thing I do is reach for my phone and dial my brother's number. It's Sunday, so I hope he's not buried under a mountain of paperwork at the office, but knowing Nick, he probably is. His commitment to his job at the firm is relentless—especially on weekends. It seems like he’s trying to earn our father’s approval through sheer grind, and honestly, he's probably succeeding. However, when the cheerful voice comes through, it’s not Nick. “Dicky! Yay! I haven’t spoken to you in ages!” I swear I could feel heat creeping into my cheeks. That nickname wasn’t an issue when we were kids, but now? It's downright humiliating. The moment my little sister Summer learned to say “Dean,” my parents should have made her retire “Dicky” for good, but trying to order Summer to do anything is like trying to catch smoke with your bare hands. The girl is stubborn as a mule. “What are you doing answering Nick’s phone?” I question, wondering what kind of mischief she’s up to. “Because I saw your name and wanted to talk to you first! You never call me anymore!” I can practically picture the pout on her face, and against my will, a smile tugs at my lips. “You never call me either,” I remind her. There’s a brief pause, and I imagine Summer rolling her eyes. “You’re right,” she sighs dramatically. “I’ve been a terrible sister.” “Nah, you’re busy like the rest of us,” I reassure her as I make my way down the cobblestone path toward the parking lot. “I have been busy,” she confesses. A loud snort echoes through the phone line, causing me to raise an eyebrow. “What was that?” “Nothing! Just Nicky being annoying. Seriously, has he always been this uptight, or did that happen when he became a lawyer?” She says “lawyer” as if it’s a curse word. To her, it probably is. Summer declared that law was “hella boring” when she was twelve, and eight years later, her stance remains resolute. The only reason she agreed to an Ivy League college was to appease our parents. But last time we talked, she dropped the bombshell about wanting to pursue interior design after graduation. “Compared to you, everyone is uptight,” I tease. “Not that I approve of all your crazy antics.” Summer is two years younger than me, but she lives life with an audacity that keeps me on my toes. I’m honestly surprised our parents haven’t disowned her. A sudden thought strikes me. “Why are you in Manhattan? Shouldn’t you be at school?” “I wanted to visit my big brother,” she said, her tone too sweet to be genuine. “Bullshit.” “It’s true,” Summer insists. “I miss you! Plus, I want to see Nicky too, so don’t be surprised if I show up at your door anytime soon.” She pauses. “Actually, I’m thinking about transferring to Briar.” An alarm blares in my head. “Why? I thought you were happy at Brown.” “I am. But… well...” she trails off, letting out another sigh. “I’m on probation.” I stop dead in my tracks. “What did you do?” “What makes you think I did something?” she huffs, but I can hear the sniffle. “Save your Little Miss Innocent act for Mom and Dad.” I snicker, “Not that it works on them anymore. Now spill the tea.” “Let’s just say there was an incident at the sorority house. Togas were involved.” I can’t hold back my laughter. “Please, be more specific.” “Nope!” “Summer—” “I’ll tell you all about it when I see you,” she chirps, clearly enjoying my frustration. “Nicky wants to talk to you now.” “Summer—” But she’s already gone. Nick’s voice comes on the line, deep and steady. “Hey.” “What did she do?” I demand, already bracing myself for chaos. He bursts into laughter. “Oh no, I’m not spoiling it for you. All I’ll say is, classic Summer.” Holy hell. At this point, I’m wondering if I even want to know. “Do Mom and Dad know?” “Yup. They’re not thrilled about it, but she didn’t get kicked out. Just two months of probation and twenty hours of community service.” I’m momentarily distracted by the thought of my sister getting into more trouble. “Speaking of community service…” I quickly recount O’Shea’s new role at Briar. “Shit,” Nick mutters once I finish. “Did he mention Miranda?” “No, but it’s clear he still blames me for everything that went wrong.” I can feel the bitterness choking me. “A part of me just wants to confront her, maybe persuade her to talk some sense into her dad.” “He didn’t do it for you back then,” Nick points out. “Why would she do it now?” Good point. “I know, but…” I reach my car, frantically pressing the key fob to unlock the door. Nervous energy prickles in my gut from O’Shea’s unexpected return to my life, and all I want to do is escape the arena. “Whatever,” I murmur, frustration leaking through my voice. “I guess expecting Miranda to help me was naive. I’m the monster who shattered her heart, right?” “Here’s my advice: just keep your head down. Show up for practice, do what O’Shea says, and don’t stir the pot. Spring will arrive before you know it, and you’ll graduate, getting as far away from that bastard as possible.” “Yeah, you’re right,” I concede. “Stressing over it isn’t worth it. I’ll be out of here before long, right?” “Yup. But if he gives you any trouble, let me know, okay? I’ll come up with a reason to unleash a lawsuit on him.” I chuckle. “Since you don’t practice civil law…” “For you, baby brother, I’ll make an exception.” After we hang up, I find my mood noticeably lighter. Sure, my friends love to tease me about being a spoiled kid from Connecticut, assuming my family must be snobby and overindulged, but the truth is, my family is amazing. Both of my parents are high-powered attorneys, but they’re also some of the most grounded people you’ll ever meet. Don't get me wrong, my siblings and I enjoyed plenty of perks growing up. We had a nanny and a housekeeper, went to private schools, and received cushy weekly allowances. But we were expected to do chores and finish our homework before seeing a penny. If our grades slipped, we faced instant grounding. And the one time I demanded cash from my dad, he turned around and donated my entire college fund to charity, forcing me to spend the summer working his firm to earn it all back. "What did Coach want?" Garrett asks as I stride into the living room fifteen minutes later. “To introduce me to the new defensive coordinator.” I sink into the armchair, glancing at the flat screen. G and Logan are engaged in a heated battle in Ice Pro, and judging by the score, Logan is getting stomped. “We have a new defensive coordinator?” Logan immediately pauses the game, his attention darting my way. “Why the hell did you need a private intro?” I choose my words carefully. “His name’s Frank O’Shea. He was my high school coach, so Jensen thought it’d be good for us to reconnect before O’Shea officially joins the team.” Logan furrows his brow in confusion. “But why now? The season’s already started. Seems odd to bring in a DC after our first game.” “And losing,” Garrett mutters. “It’s just one game,” Logan shoots back. “We’re not in such dire straits that we need an entirely new coach to pull us out of a slump. This feels like a panic move.” Frowning, he turns back to me. “What’s he like? Good guy?” I mentally amend my assessment, quickly stomping down the urge to describe him as “the devil.” “He’s decent,” I reply, deflecting. “So, where’s Tuck?” “Not sure. Didn’t think he came home last night.” Logan unpauses the game, diving back into the virtual arena. I squint at the screen, feeling a twinge of concern. Tucker hadn’t spent Friday night at home either. I wonder if he’s dating someone new. It’s not like him to stay out for two nights in a row. Since my roommates are wrapped up in their gaming, I head upstairs, forcing myself to catch up on some course readings I’ve fallen behind on. The afternoon passes in a blur of alternating between reading and napping, only descending once to snag a few slices of the pizza Garrett and Logan order for dinner. I can’t quite place why I’m feeling so antisocial. Maybe it’s O’Shea’s sudden appearance in my life that has me on edge. Or perhaps it’s the lingering image of Allie—her sultry lips wrapped around me, her golden skin pressed against mine, her curves invitingly filling my hands. Why can’t I shake thoughts of her? Sure, the sex was incredible. Yes, I find her undeniably attractive. But good sex and gorgeous girls aren’t exactly rare occurrences in my life. “Get over it,” I command my body as it responds, stubbornly reminding me of Allie and tightening in anticipation. “Goddamn it,” I groan, fumbling for my phone, bringing up our last conversation. Allie picks up after four rings. Her wary voice crackles through the line. “Hey. What’s up?” I let out a breath I didn’t realize I'd been holding. “I want to fuck you again.” “Is this going to be a nightly thing now? Just calling to say that?” “Maybe?” My words tumble out, laced with confusion. “Just say yes, baby doll. Put me out of my misery.” “I already told you, it was a one-time thing. I’m not into casual sex. We had fun, but—ugh, I have to go. Call one of your puck bunnies; I’m sure they’ll take care of you, okay?” For the second time in two days, she hangs up on me, leaving frustration bubbling in my chest. *Allie* I practically jump out of my skin when Hannah bursts through my doorway. I had just disconnected the call with Dean the moment I heard her footsteps in the hall. “Who was that?” she demands. “Uh, no one.” Brilliant response, right? She raises an eyebrow, skeptically. “No one?” “Just a telemarketer,” I lie, hoping to divert her attention. “Telemarketer?” she huffs, plopping on my bed. “How do they even get our cell numbers? When I signed up for my provider, they swore they wouldn't share my information with third parties. But guess what? I get daily calls from airlines and clothing stores, all pitching stupid sales. And the worst one? This awful cruise ship promotion that starts with an automated foghorn! It’s outrageous!” Her rant stretches on, and I’m grateful for the distraction it provides. While she rages about telemarketers, I sneak a glance at my phone, my heart racing. Dean: U really need to stop hanging up on me. Me: U really need to stop propositioning me. I know I’m a great lay, but get over it already. Dean: I can’t. Trust me, I’ve tried. Me: Try harder. Dean: C’mon, baby doll. Just 1 more time. Think of how good it will be… Of course it’d be good. He’s fantastic in bed. But that doesn’t change my discomfort with casual sex. Me: Go away. I’m running lines w/ Hannah. Dean: Text me when ur done and I’ll sneak into your dorm. Wellsy won’t even know I’m there. An unwelcome thrill shoots through me, the image of Dean sneaking into my room while Hannah sleeps just a few feet away. I was unprepared for how much that scene could turn me on. Shoving those thoughts aside, I type back, Goodnight, Dean. Turning my focus back to Hannah, I ask, “Are we done bashing telemarketers? Because this script isn’t going to read itself, babe.” “Sorry.” She chuckles, “I can’t help it. I hear the word ‘telemarketer,’ and I lose my mind.” With a dramatic leap, she catches the script I toss her way. I remain standing—I need to pace for my opening scene, testing out how talking while moving influences my breath control. Hannah flips through the introductory pages. “All right. Who do I play? Jeannette or Caroline?” “Caroline. You know, the petty and insensitive one.” Her face lights up with mischief. “Oh, I’m the bitch? Nice.” Honestly, I wish I could take on her role. My character is a young widow who lost her husband in Afghanistan—a role laden with emotional weight that feels far too heavy for me at this moment. Following my breakup with Sean, I worry my emotional reservoir is running dangerously low, leaving me unsure whether I can draw on it as I should. After reading only a few pages, I find myself utterly drained and call for a break. “Wow,” Hannah says, quickly scanning the upcoming scenes. “This play is intense. The audience is going to be crying buckets.” I collapse beside her, exhausted. “I’m going to be crying buckets.” My character weeps in nearly every scene, after all. A comfortable silence blankets us, a rare treasure in my life. It’s a welcomed reprieve—most times, when I’m with friends, there’s an incessant need to fill up any void with chatter. But here, with Hannah, I can simply be; I can exist without the pressure of conversation weighing down the air. Once, my dad told me how a person interacts with silence can reveal a lot about them. At the time, I thought he was full of it, a habit of his to toss out deep-sounding phrases as some sort of wisdom. But right now, as I think about the silences I share with my other friends, he may have had a point. Meg, for instance, always breaks the silence with jokes, her way of deflecting when things get TOO REAL. Stella, on the other hand, bombards you with questions about your life, never revealing much of her own. I can’t help but wonder how she feels about her thing with Justin Kohl, the football player who Hannah once crushed on before she fell for Garrett. It surprised me when Stella started dating him, given her history of fear around intimacy. Turning to Hannah, I ask, “Hey, did Garrett ever admit he was wrong about Justin?” “Where’s this coming from?” she wonders, her brows furrowing. I smirk, “I was just thinking of Stella, and it sparked the memory of Garrett being convinced Justin was a slimy jerk. Didn’t he insist Justin had ulterior motives?” “Yep.” Hannah giggles. “We actually talked about it a while ago. I accused him of being subconsciously jealous.” “Ha, he must have loved that,” I tease. “It makes sense, though. Justin is genuinely one of the nicest guys I’ve met. But Garrett is insistent he misread him.” “Either way, I’m glad Justin turned out to be a good dude,” I say, feeling a wistful tinge in my voice. “Stella deserves that.” Hannah’s gaze sharpens. “You know you deserve to be happy too, right?” “I know.” The lump in my throat swells as memories of Sean resurface. Hannah looks concerned. “Allie… do you regret breaking up with Sean?” The lump tightens, suffocating me. I remember the pain in Sean’s voice when he asked who I’d slept with—and it tears at me. “No,” I finally manage to say. “I know it was the right decision. We wanted entirely different futures, and that’s not something we could grow to accept, not without someone resenting the other.” Hannah’s expression grows thoughtful. “Do you think you’re ready to start dating again?” I let out a breathy laugh. “Not even close.” But the truth is, I crave distraction. I’m so tired of feeling sad, of wondering how Sean is doing, and fighting the urge to reach out—even if I don’t want to rekindle our romance. I can’t shake this terrible habit of wanting to please everyone, even if it comes at my own expense. It’s an admirable trait according to my dad, but sometimes I wish I could afford to be more selfish. Though, I guess I was selfish on Friday night, indulging in rebound sex with Dean purely for my own primal needs. I can't deny it was thrilling, even if I felt guilty and embarrassed afterward… “Maybe I need a fling,” I muse aloud, testing the waters. Hannah snaps back, “You tried that, remember? After you and Sean broke up the first time. You hated it.” She’s right. “But I didn’t actually sleep with anyone. Just crappy dates and a few lousy makeouts. Maybe that was my mistake—dating those tools at all. Maybe this time, I should choose a hot guy and have a no-strings-attached fling. Just sex, no expectations.” She raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “Good luck with that. We both know you can’t even make out with a guy without imagining a future together.” That’s all too true. Why am I even considering this? If this is how Hannah reacts to the idea of a fling, I can't fathom what she'd think if I admitted I was contemplating one with Dean. He’s a full-blown player, utterly the opposite of relationship material, and there’s no way I could deal with the idea of him being unfaithful to me—that’s completely non-negotiable. I need to squash this Dean notion right here and now. I don’t understand why he’s so eager to get in bed with me again, but I’m confident he’ll recover from this desire eventually. Just like a dog that runs for treats, he’ll surely lose interest. Wrenching myself back to reality, I pull my thoughts away and remark, “So, what are you doing for Thanksgiving?” “Garrett and I are heading to my aunt and uncle’s place in Philly. My parents are flying in to meet us there.” “Sounds fun.” “Are you going to Brooklyn?” she asks. I nod. I always spend the holidays in Brooklyn with my dad. I look forward to seeing him, but this year feels different. The last time we spoke, he insisted on cooking Thanksgiving dinner himself. Usually, I’d be ecstatic at the thought because my dad is an incredible cook. But since he was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis five years ago, I’ve been trying to ensure he doesn’t push too hard. The one reason I turned down a free ride to UCLA’s drama program was to stay close enough to help him whenever needed. He’s so goddamn stubborn, saying he can manage, but I haven’t felt comfortable moving to the west coast since his remissions have started to diminish, and I worry that I’m losing the chance to hold on to the last parent I have left. I’m scared as hell. After losing my mom to cancer when I was thirteen, Dad is all I’ve got. I refuse to lose him too, even if that means chaining him to his recliner in our Brooklyn brownstone and making him watch football while I take over Thanksgiving cooking duties. “Alright, break time’s over,” I declare, pushing my darker thoughts aside. “Caroline is about to chew Jeannette out again.” Hannah nods. “For the record? If you ever lose your husband, I would never call you a crybaby or tell you to ‘get over it.’” She becomes serious, her gaze penetrating. “You can wallow about Sean for as long as you need to. I promise I won’t judge.” Emotion swells in my throat, and I manage to croak out two words: “Thank you.”