Our Secret Moments

Book 0: Drayton Hills

by Janisha Boswell

Genres: Contemporary Romance; New Adult Romance; Sports Romance

Synopsis

Welcome to Drayton Hills!

'The SMUT WAS SMUTTING have mercy!!' Real Reader Review ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

Catherine Fables is a planner, fixer, and a firm believer in rules. Stick to the plan, follow the steps, and success is inevitable - at least, that's the idea. As a journalism major, good reviews mean everything, so when no one wants to take over the college football newspaper, she takes the opportunity by the horns. Or the helmet, I guess?

Connor Bailey, star quarterback of the Drayton Titans, only cares about one thing - his team. He's got the confidence, the charm, and, if you ask him, the biggest...ego in the league. But talking about anything beyond football? That's where he fumbles. Strangely, though, opening up to Cat feels easy.

When the two collide in more close-contact situations than they'd like, sparks fly - on and off the field. But there's one problem: Nora. Cat's best friend. Connor's sister. The one person the cannot let find out about their budding romance. If she does, will it ruin everything? Or are some rules meant to be broken...?

Tropes:
-Childhood friends to lovers
-Found family
-Best friends brother
-Sneaking around

Readers LOVE Catherine and Connor...

'I love the way Connor treats Cat like a princess, my favourite was when he helped her take out her braids and wash her hair!!!!!' Real Reader Review ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

'THIS BOOK WILL HAVE YOU SMILING LIKE AN IDIOT. I'm obsessed with the writing and the cuteness of Cat and Conner. Just read the book - you won't regret it! The spicy scenes were amazing too!' Real Reader Review ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

'I love Cat and Conner's journey from friends to lovers...Not to mention the spicy chapters are sooo 😩🥵 I feel bittersweet that I've finished the book...this book is a 12/10 🥰😊🌟🌟🌟 READ IT, you won't regret it!!!' Real Reader Review ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

'A great book with even greater characters!!' Real Reader Review ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
'The sweetest love story I have ever read. This book made me laugh and it made me cry.' Real Reader Review ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 90000

Sample

THE MANIFESTATION CHAMBER

“DO you have to breathe so loud?”

Sometimes, when I get into ridiculous movie-worthy moments, usually at the hands of my best friends and college roommates, I have to close my eyes, take a deep breath, and think WWTSD?

What would Taylor Swift do?

Most answers are something witty and adorable, but that’s just not me. I can’t write a record-breaking song about my experience and have reporters ask me a million questions about my love life. I can’t re-record my albums because I don’t have any albums that someone would have stolen in the first place.

Instead, I have to come to terms with my very horrible reality of being stuck inside of a closet with a six-foot-something football player with deep brown eyes and brown hair who is actively invading my personal space.

Okay. I see how it looks like my problems aren’t a big deal, but if you had gone through half the shit I have in the last week, you’d think this was rock bottom.

I’ve spent the whole day feeling sick to my stomach over a grade I’m going to get in the morning, curled up in my bedroom with my emotional support blanket, and trying to convince myself that I did well in my last assignment. That was before two of my best friends dragged it off me, exposing me to the cold harsh truths of reality, shoved a mini dress in my face, and told me to ‘Look alive.’

I sigh, pulling the blindfold from around my neck, twisting the silk in my hands like some sort of coping mechanism. The smooth texture between my palms is the only thing encouraging me to take deep breaths.

Thursday night parties the day before morning classes should be illegal. But I’ve started to get used to the college lifestyle, and participating is way better than avoiding it.

It’s my second year out of four at Drayton Hills, a prestigious college in Eastern Colorado, and I have yet to be a part of the stupid college ritual that happens at every one of Jason Bassey’s parties.

Until tonight.

“Do you have to be so close to me?” I groan, pushing at his chest since he apparently didn’t hear my polite question as to why he was breathing so hard.

The small shove does nothing for the proximity between us and it only makes me stumble backwards. He clasps his hand around my elbow, a knowing look on his face as he steadies me. I need a brighter light in here.

Or a fan.

Or both.

It’s getting stuffy and all I can smell is the rich, deep, woody scent of his cologne.

“There isn’t much space in here, Catherine, in case you haven’t noticed,” he bites out.

I’d take him seriously if he wasn’t trying to hide his grin like a goof. He’s always had this unique ability to make everything that comes out of his mouth either sound sarcastic, or just straight up ridiculous.

“We wouldn't be here if it wasn’t for you,” I say, jabbing a finger into his chest. He catches my finger, his warm hand clasping around mine before dropping it to the space between us. I stare up at him, narrowing my eyes as he continues smiling down at me as if this is the best thing to ever happen to him.

I’m not exactly short by any means. I’m five-six, which I think is a pretty normal height for a nineteen-year-old.

Connor Bailey is just fucking huge.

A chuckle escapes him, the sound deep and throaty as he slightly tilts his head back before pinning me with those doe eyes that usually have girls dropping their panties for him. “Oh, don't act like it was all me. Jason’s not an idiot. You’ve been giving me the ‘fuck me’ eyes all…night…long.”

He stretches out the last few words, proving to me once again that he is still the annoyingly gorgeous idiot he always is. I scoff, rolling my eyes. “No, I haven’t.”

“Yes, you have.”

“No, I haven’t,” I say again. He tilts his head to the side, flashing me an innocent look. “And you would know that if you–”

“Oh, Connor,” he moans. Innocent my ass. “Give it to me! Just like that! Yeah, baby!”

Despite the music coming from the multiple speakers around the basement of Jason’s house, Connor knows exactly how to project his voice as he continues to moan loudly, telling everyone on the other side of the door just how good he is at fucking me, how his dick is filling me so good that I won’t be able to walk in the morning.

Everyone on the other side of the door is laughing, turning the music down to listen in on whatever is happening.

I pin my arms across my chest as he continues thrusting his hips into the door, pretending he’s giving it to me really good, his hands cupped around his mouth as he continues groaning.

“You do know that they can’t see you, right?” I ask, my tone bored.

He just laughs and continues putting on an Oscar-worthy performance. He stops for a split second, turning to me, that signature Bailey grin hanging on his mouth, that stupid dimple on his left cheek.

I cock my head to the side. “Are you done?”

“Not quite yet. I was just getting to the good stuff,” he says.

“There’s more?” I gasp, sarcastically. His eyes light up as he leans against the closed door of the closet. “Here I was, thinking that saying you have a golden dick was the cherry on top. But if you knew me at all, you’d know I’d never say anything like that.”

“Trust me, Cat. Forming words would be the last thing you could do if I had my way with you,” he whispers.

The air between us fizzles, the shots I had before leaving my dorm churning in my stomach with the leftover pizza I ate.

Connor is not an intimidating person.

Not to me anyway. But when he leans down, his breath hot on my face, those whiskey eyes staring directly into mine, you could say he’s a little intimidating.

He’s toying with me, obviously. But with the heat, the words coming out of his mouth and his proximity, my body doesn’t know that, and everything—and I mean, everything—starts to ache accordingly.

Think with your brain, not your tits.

Think with your brain, not your tits.

“Are you done?” I ask again, needing to get this situation under control. My voice is breathy and strangled, and I hate how easily he’s managing to unravel me. Connor finally takes a step back, allowing me to breathe, but all I can smell is him.

All I can feel is him.

Jason Bassey’s parties are famous for two things. One, somebody usually ends up pregnant by the end of the night, and two, his magical Manifestation Chamber. It’s as ridiculous as it sounds. There’s an empty utility closet at the end of the hall of Jasons’ parent’s house, where he notoriously throws parties every week for the students at Drayton.

Trust me when I say that this closet is not special. It’s barely two feet wide, but when you’re stuck in here between a six-foot-three football player and some shelves, I might as well be trying to fit through the small doors at Brandy Melville.

Jason’s Manifestation Chamber was originally a fragment of his own imagination, and nobody believed him for a while. He has the strongest intuition in the entire school. According to his friends, he’s also had a perfect gaydar since he was in middle school, so everyone started to believe him when he said he knew that two people would fall in love by the end of the semester, or by the end of the school year.

He gets two of his minions to blindfold said participants and shove them into his chamber. You’d think he’d try to decorate it with dream catchers, incense, maybe some crystals, but it’s just as sterile as the cafeteria floors on a Friday night.

The crazy thing is, it has worked.

Every. Single. Time.

The couples that come out of here are usually rocky for the first few weeks, but then they bounce back and most of them are still thriving to this day. My best friend, Nora, believes it’s some sort of voodoo shit that Jason is pulling, but I can’t see what reasons he would have to do that, or if that is even possible.

I always thought it was interesting how he had such an eye for those things, how he managed to see two people who were destined to find each other and put them in the right place at the right time. It’s beyond me how he manages to do it, but it’s an art I appreciate, no matter how cynical I am about love.

Now, stuck in here with Connor Bailey, I can dub it as completely insane because there is no way in this universe that I could ever fall for him. The only energy between Connor and me is a purely platonic, sickly-sweet annoyance.

I might have had a tiny crush on him growing up, but that was years ago, and the crush never came back. Since then, he has constantly been testing that friend boundary, making me want to shove the word friend right up his–

“Oh, come on, don’t act like you haven’t been dreaming about this since we were kids,” he drawls, glancing down at me again.

“By this, do you mean being stuck in a closet with you while you pretend that we’re having sex?” I ask and he nods, clarifying his stupidity. “That sounds so wrong, for so many reasons.”

“Okay, then,” he drawls out, looking around the tiny room and then back to me. “What else are we supposed to do? They clearly put us in here for a reason.”

“It’s a stupid party ritual that doesn’t mean anything. We were both at the party for different reasons and ended up here. It was a pure coincidence,” I retort. His eyes narrow, the usual brightness in them dimming as he pins me with a defiant stare, the heat between our bodies crackling like cinder rocks.

His lips curl up into a mischievous smile, the slight glint in his eyes lighting an uncomfortable fire in my lower stomach. He leans down, tugging a curl that has fallen in front of my face, trying his hardest to get under my skin.

I inhale sharply.

“Are you telling me you don’t believe in fate, Catherine Fables?”

“I stopped believing in fate a long time ago,” I mutter. I stopped believing in anything remotely romantic five years ago to be exact. Still, it was just over a year ago that I ended a relationship with my high-school sweetheart, realizing I was better off emotionally on my own. I was an awful girlfriend and Evan didn’t deserve that. Everyone said that three months after the breakup is when things get better, and they were right. I’m still in my healing era and I’m loving it. “Besides, it’s not fate if someone clearly had a hand in it.”

“You sure know a lot for someone who doesn’t believe in it,” he teases.

“And you sure know how to make very believable moans,” I concede. His face turns puzzled, his cheeks turning the cutest shade of pink. “Unless, that’s what you think pleasuring a woman sounds like. Then I apologize to you and whatever poor soul you’ve dated.”

“I—That’s not—Obviously, I was—” His hands are flailing as he takes a deep breath, desperately trying to regain control of the conversation. This is the Connor I’m used to interacting with. The one who never knows the right thing to say and is always trying to keep his friends out of trouble.

“Exactly,” I say, cutting off his rambling. I turn back to the locked door, hearing the faint whispers coming from the other side. “Can you just do something to get us out of here?”

“What do you think all the moaning was for?” I pin him with a look. The look. “Okay, fine. What do you suggest?”

“I don’t know,” I groan. He shreds whatever distance was between us as he steps closer to me, causing my back to slam against the door. I peer up at him, his chest invading my face as he takes in a few deep breaths. My voice sounds unsure as I say, “If something doesn’t happen, they’re going to forget about us and then we’ll be stuck in here. It only locks from the outside.”

“Are you claustrophobic, Catherine?” His voice feels like lava, running through every vessel in my body, right to where it should not be pulsing. For him of all people.

“No,” I breathe. His eyes squint as if he’s trying to figure me out and his hand drops onto the door above me, caging me into the already tight space. His head drops to the side of my face where my heart beats rapidly. I somehow muster up the strength to add, “I just don’t want to be stuck here with you.”

“Why? Scared you’ll give in?”

“Give in to what?”

The door flies open, and I almost fall right on my ass. The sudden change in temperature knocks the wind out of me, but Connor’s reaches out, slipping his hand around my waist as he hoists me back up.

I fall into his chest, my hands pressing onto his broad shoulders as he holds me close to him for a second before I take a step back. Still, he does nothing to put any space between us and instead leans down, pushing my hair over my shoulder as if it’s a completely normal and casual thing to do.

“Careful, sweetheart, if you trip over yourself again, I’d think you're trying to do it just for me to catch you,” he murmurs, his mouth hot against my neck. He pulls away from me, shoving his hands into his pockets as he nods at me and whoever is behind me. “Have a good night, ladies.”

And then he’s gone.

“Have a good night,” I mutter angrily, smoothing out my dress as I turn around to face a wide-eyed and slightly flushed Elle. Out of the three of us, Eleanor handles her drinks the worst. I bet she’s only had two drinks and she’s already swaying slightly as her face glows. “Thanks for saving me.”

She beams, hooking her arm into mine as we walk up the stairs of the basement, instantly greeted by sweaty bodies and loud music. “Seemed like you needed saving. Jason was having too much fun with it, but when the moaning stopped, something didn’t feel right.”

You could say that again.

Connor makes me feel uneasy, like he’s able to look right through me. We’ve known each other our whole lives since he’s Nora’s twin, but since we started high school, I’ve tried my best to keep my distance, knowing what boys his age are like. But this campus is only so big, and I have to see him more often than I’d like.

“Do you wanna go stand by the pool? I need some fresh air,” I say to her, looking down at her as she snuggles her face into my arm, her brown curly hair tickling my arms.

“Maybe we should just go home,” Elle says through a yawn. “Nor’s going to another with the rest of the theatre class and I’m beat already. I need a warm bath and to watch New Girl episodes until my eyes can’t stay open anymore.”

I laugh at her very accurate reading of what we both need. Elle likes to party the least. She loves a good night in as much as Nora and I do. But I’ve grown up with attending fancy events with my dad as the mayor, so I’m used to staying out longer than necessary.

After today’s closet fiasco, and the fear of tomorrow being the worst day of my life, I’m ready to distract myself and pretend it doesn’t exist until the morning.

“That sounds perfect to me, Elle-Belle.” She looks up at me, her nose scrunching at the nickname as we grab our jackets from the other closet.

Once we’ve shrugged on our coats, ready to step into the early September breeze, the chill I can feel run down my spine isn’t from the slightly cold air. It’s the same sort of chill I got when Connor’s breath was on my neck, when his hand slid around my waist as if it belonged there.

He’s not even here and I can still feel him everywhere.

FOOTBALL BUTT

“SOUNDED like you had a good time last night, Bailey.”

I turn to my teammate, roommate, and best friend as he grins at me, his face a red, sweaty mess. Nothing new coming from him.

If he means what happened last night at the party that was followed by a long cold shower and hours contemplating my existence while I watched TV… Yeah, I guess I had a good time.

“Yeah, I heard what was going on in that closet,” Sam chimes in, wiping the sweat from his forehead as he slows down our jog to a brisk walk as we trek down from our hike around Estes Park—one of our many morning rituals.

We get up at the literal ass-crack of dawn most mornings to train in the gym, or go for a run, or a hike. Regardless of what happened the night before, hungover or not, we always get up to get a workout in.

I’m never hungover because I don’t drink during the season —a choice Coach Mackenzie encouraged, but most of the boys don’t follow. Including Wes and Sam as they huff, dragging their lazy asses behind me while I power on in front of them.

“And Catherine Fables?” Sam says, not sure if the breathiness in his voice is because he doesn’t work out as much as he should, or if it’s because he’s talking about the most stunning woman I have ever laid my eyes on. I’m assuming the latter. I lose my breath just by thinking about her. “She’s fucking gorgeous,” he adds, finally catching up, walking beside me.

Of course, I know that. I’m not an idiot.

What I don’t get is how Jason managed to pull that together. His stupid Manifestation Chamber has been something people look forward to at every one of his parties. I’ve never been one of those people. Usually, some girl would try to hook up with me, I’d say no, and I’d spend time with my friends. That closet is the last thing on my mind when I’m at his parties, but I knew that it was about time I’d get thrown in there. I just didn’t think it would be with her.

The memories of last night burn through my vision, causing me to stop in my tracks. Just thinking about her makes my stomach do a weird flip thing. I’ve spent years trying my best to stay out of her way, knowing that if I was ever that close to her, I wasn’t sure what I would do.

I had her right where I wanted, those big brown eyes staring up at me, her smartass comments that she reserves just for me, the way she felt beneath my hand when I stopped her from falling… And I still didn’t make a move. I pretend to be confident and a flirt, but when it comes down to it, I’ll back out unless I’m certain they feel the exact same way. The same way I’d never lead a girl on if I wasn’t feeling it.

I shake my head at the thoughts of her and when I look down, Wes is in a squatting position, grunting and groaning like he’s been doing it for hours.

“What are you doing?” I ask, frustrated. He looks up at me, shaking his head as he stands before slowly sinking back down.

“While you were too in your head, stopping in the middle of our walk, I have to maintain my football butt somehow. Sam has one. You would too if you could quit daydreaming about her for like two minutes,” Wes explains between pants. Somebody needs to tell him that having a good ass does not improve his performance because it’s not going to be me. I’ve tried talking some sense into this idiot five times.

Five.

Fucking.

Times.

“I’m not daydreaming about her. I was–”

“Could’ve done a better job at those moans if you wanted it to be believable. I mean, I’m no expert, but I was disappointed in you, Connie,” Wes says, cutting me off as he continues squatting. I squint at him, the harsh brightness from the golden sunrise obstructing my view.

“That’s exactly what she said to me,” I mutter.

“She’s smart too,” Sam adds, grinning like a loon. He’s got one of those perfect, olive-skinned baby faces that make girls at Drayton Hills absolutely crazy. I don’t get the allure. Especially because every word that comes out of his mouth is stupider than the last and he’s deathly afraid of relationships. He nudges Wes with his foot, and he falls over, laughing before standing back up. “What do you say, Connie Boy? If you two don’t fall in love by the end of the year, can I shoot my shot?”

I bark out a disbelieving laugh. “We are not going to fall in love.”

“So, I can shoot my shot…?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because she’s—” I sigh. Really? What reason do I have to defend it? Cat can date who she wants. I don't care. I shouldn’t care. Still, I hear myself say, “She’s unavailable.”

“Oh, because she’s only available for you, right?” Wes says, bumping his shoulder into mine. I grumble in response, tearing open a breakfast bar from my pocket. “I get it,” he says easily, trying to sound serious, but it’s rare anything remotely serious exits this guy’s mouth. “You spend ten minutes in a closet together and now you’re exclusive. Girls love it when a guy’s clingy.”

“We’re not– She’s not–” How did I manage to get myself in this situation again? The teasing had stopped for a few months and of course we ended up at the same party last night, making my fantasies press replay in my mind all over again. “Just drop it, okay?”

“Okay, Dad,” Wes mumbles.

As one of the only responsible people on the football team, I’ve happily acquired the role of the “Dad”. I’m not usually such a grump. I love to hang out and do any stupid ritual that the boys come up with for a fun night, but I also know where to draw the line.

I didn’t expect that title to be extended to my dorm life back on campus too. I share one of the best dorms in Drayton, right next to the football field and the training facilities.

It’s a perfect walking distance to where I need to be as well as to the classes I’m taking in Modern Lit. Our building's vending machine is stocked at the end of the hall, the cafeteria is a five-minute walk away, and I get the best view of the pitch from my window. I keep most of the guys out of trouble, being the designated driver, but sometimes they get themselves into shit even I can't help them with.

I’ve known Wes my whole life. His family has lived across the street from my parent’s house before my sister and I were born. While Nora and I were born in October, Wes was born the next summer and we spent every summer after that growing up together running under sprinklers, walking back from school with our hands and faces sticky, and spent nights in the treehouse that our dads built. He’s a pain in my ass, but he’s also my best friend and the best lineman for the Drayton Titans.

Archer Elliot, our other roommate, is a lot more bearable. Slightly terrifying, but bearable. I didn’t know about Archer’s existence until the day we moved in. He’s completely covered in tattoos and he’s huge. Since he moved in, he’s been quiet and slightly distant. I can’t complain. He cleans up after himself and he never brings girls over, unlike Wes. If we ever need anything, he’s there, but he keeps mostly to himself.

Which is why it’s pretty easy to ignore him as I work my way around the kitchen. He’s sitting on the couch in the small lounging area reading a newspaper. I don’t know any other college student that spends their Friday mornings reading a newspaper, but Archer is proof they exist.

The kitchen in our dorm, if you can even call it that, is tiny. It barely holds the basic appliances in addition to the sandwich maker that my parents got me for Christmas, and a blender. The noise usually disrupts everybody in our hall and ends with me sending an email to our dorm adviser. The main thing is, it’s able to handle my often-chaotic baking.

Wes emerges from the bathroom after our run, a towel wrapped around his waist, still humming along to some theatre soundtrack. I pull the cookies out of the oven, resting them on top of the stove.

I frown as I look at the burnt mess I made. At least the smoke alarm hasn’t gone off yet. Little progress is still progress, I remind myself, pulling off my red mittens and throwing them next to the cooling rack. My sister got them for me as a gift for winning last year's football season and they always come in handy. They’ve got little white hearts on them and when she threw them at me she said, “If you can’t bake, you can at least look cute doing it.”

“Jesus, fuck. What is that smell?” Wes asks, scrunching his nose up.

“Connor is cooking,” Archer says, his voice low and gruff from the couch.

“That explains it,” Wes says, nodding.

“Connor is right here, you imbeciles,” I say.

“Connor is also referring to himself in the third person,” Archer grumbles.

“And I’m baking, not cooking. There’s a difference,” I say, ignoring him.

“Right, one of them you’re actually slightly better at than the other…” He peers over at the tray of cookies. “Not by much.”

I have no clue how I’ve managed to mess these up so badly. I needed something to bring with me to my parents’ house for dinner later and I was sure I could pull them off.

I scrape one off the tray, throwing a chunk into my mouth. It takes like charcoal, but I smile through it, holding the tray out to Wes as he studies them suspiciously. I can’t show him any weakness. I might not be the best baker, but if this were a competition, I’d definitely win a participation award.

I’ve always loved making things from scratch, just to see what I could come up with. It started with mud pies in the backyard of my parent’s house, to a lemon cake I tried to make for Mother’s Day. Both were as terrible as the other, but it’s the thought that counts.

“I mean, what are they supposed to be?” he asks, his voice full of child-like wonder as he prods at one. You’d expect it to be gooey, that the cookie would almost fold in on itself, but it doesn’t move. I pick up a piece and shove it into his mouth as he stumbles a little, gripping onto his towel.

I swallow the edible death eventually as Wes grimaces around a mouthful. “Just eat it, you idiot.”

“I could,” he muffles, “weally youse some miwlk wif phat.”

His chest is heaving as if chewing it is a workout. I can’t help but smile as I move into the fridge to pull out a carton of milk and pick up a glass from the cabinet. I turn back around, milk in hand as Wes flashes a mischievous grin at me.

He retrieves the cup happily, pulling it to his lips as I watch him. “Good?” I ask. The slight tremor in his body isn’t a good sign.

“The best,” he says, sighing as he sets down the now-empty glass.

“He spat it out when you turned around,” Archer murmurs. I watch the betrayal flash across Wes’ face and it’s the same expression I have on mine. My best friend of almost twenty years…

“I swear to God, Archer, you want to be a Moody Margaret all day until I do one thing, and then you snake me out,” Wes says, turning to him, one hand tightened around his towel, the other in the air, his mom’s German mannerisms shining through as he waves his hand at him.

“Maybe try being less obvious about it next time,” Archer suggests, still not looking up from his newspaper.

“There’s not going to be a next time,” I say, peeling the more agreeable cookies off the tray and into a Tupperware container lined with kitchen roll. My mom will eat them regardless and I’m sure I could convince my dad too. “Because I’m not going to offer any of my goods to either of you ever again. You don’t deserve them.”

Archer scoffs. “Fine by me. I like my bowels exactly how they are.”

“Since we’re being honest,” Wes starts with a shrug. I give him a look, knowing something stupid is about to come out of his mouth but he carries on anyway. “That apple pie you made me for my birthday wasn’t the best thing I ever had. When I went home, even Jarvis didn’t want a bite of it. And that cat eats anything.”

I shut the lid of the Tupperware box hard, throwing it into a plastic bag. “Do you ever know when to shut up, Wesley?”

“That is not my government name and you know it!” he whines, looking just as childish as he sounds.

He pouts, throwing his arms up as he storms in the other direction. Neither of us realize that was the arm holding up his towel until it drops to the floor, flashing us his football butt.

“THESE ARE TEARS OF RELIEF! I PROMISE.”

I USED to think there was nothing worse than a hangover.

But there is.

It’s that feeling you get where you’re not actually hungover because you haven’t drank much, but still, your head is throbbing, your back is aching, your stomach feels like it’s been squeezed out by a giant, and the makeup you forgot to wash off last night does not look cute. Some people can pull off the raccoon look, but black mascara against my dark skin is not as flattering as some would hope.

After spending the entire night staring at my ceiling fan spin rapidly, secretly wishing it would just fall right on me, I rolled out of bed and told myself it was fine. That I was fine. I used to think I was an optimist, but maybe I’m just delusional.

I never usually stress over grades.

Okay, so maybe one time I threw up before my third-grade spelling bee when it wasn’t worth anything, but that’s totally unrelated.

My friends say that I’m a perfectionist, and that I care too much about the little things that won’t matter in the long run, but I’ve always been that person. Because someone has to worry about the little things, right? And that someone just happens to be me.

Naturally, everyone in this dorm is a worrier. Growing up with Elle and Nora has shown me just how much we overanalyze situations and see the worst possible outcome before settling on something rational. Usually, Elle is the most chill of the two of us and leaves most things up to the universe.

I physically can’t do that.

I worry about the stupid things that could go wrong like an elevator breaking down or an attack happening in my apartment. Or grades—even though I know I studied my ass off for my last assignment on genetic mutation.

Nora Bailey, my best friend, theatre major, and my literal lifeline is also