I turn away and hurry upstairs.

On Thursday, he asks me out to dinner.

My heart leaps and vaults—he wants you, Rachel, he’s actively pursuing you—but my brain puts an end to that ridiculousness. I can’t risk being seen by more press—my true story being discovered. I am also afraid of seeing him in any sort of dating sense again. Look what happened last time?

I tell him that I’m busy and he just texts back: OK.

I wonder if he’s calm about me denying him or if he’s frustrated. My own sexual frustration is so acute I beg the girls to please let’s have a night out at our favorite Japanese restaurant because I need the girl therapy. Distraction. I just really need to stop thinking of him.

But it seems they both found out, through word of mouth and everyone’s best friend, the internet, that Saint was at an End the Violence campout, and they can’t believe he actually went looking for me after my casual mention at the Tunnel.

“Okay, so let me get this straight. This guy, a playboy who doesn’t truly know you, is willing to do what Wynn and I aren’t?” Gina says.

“Don’t look so stumped. You’re with me when I’m painting murals, you’re great supporters.”

“He wants to get laid—that’s a powerful motivator. Wynn and I, on the other hand, want nothing from you but your friendship.”

“Does he want to get laid? He’s a guy who gets it whenever. He’s the kind whose body just begs for it.” I blush. “He’s getting it somewhere.”

“Get out and get drunk, have fun, and get it somewhere too, then,” Gina says.

I’m sleepless and tired, groaning. “Not really up for that.”

“You’ll get rolling once you’re a few cocktails in.”

“You’re worried that you like him?” asks Wynn.

“No. This isn’t a relationship, I’m just worried that he’s much more than a manwhore. He’s pretty cool.”

Wynn: “It’s so nerve-wracking but exciting not to know in those heart-pounding early stages what he’s thinking.”

Gina: “Oh, trust me, all he’s thinking of is his cock in your mouth.”

“When you say you worry,” Wynn says, “you mean you worry the man wants you or that you may not be as strong as you thought, strong enough to resist him?”

“I am resisting him. Otherwise that night I could’ve just torn his clothes off and ravaged him.”

“Rache!” Wynn scowls. “Physically denying him is only making you more obsessed. Just fuck the guy and get your head straight for the article, and he’ll move on, giving you plenty of fodder.”

“True,” I agree.

Wynn: “And you’ll think clearer.”

The thought of doing Malcolm is wreaking havoc in me. “It feels like danger zone to me.”

“It’s a fucking suicide mission. I don’t like it,” Gina says.

“More danger zone to keep prolonging the inevitable time when he moves in—just get it over with and get your piece written,” says Wynn.

Sex with Malcolm. I’m growing obsessed with it.

That’s what Gina strives for now, just sexual hookups. It’s strange how circumstances that burn the people around me, like Gina, could have such a profound effect on my love life. But they have. I have been reluctant to start anything with any man my entire life.

And now I choose to want to sleep with this one?

Really?

It’s like waking from a nap to find yourself dropping down into the world’s deepest chasm.

I have a job to do; I wanted to do it, and I didn’t plan to sleep with him to find out what makes the man tick.

My life has been all about studies, work, my mother, a great job, Gina and Wynn. With the girls? We’ve been friends since middle school, all through high school—we even managed to survive those college years when Wynn went away. Every Christmas and Thanksgiving and summer we’d meet up, catch up.

We all “lived” the Paul issue. He was so nice and so in love with Gina. I used to fantasize about meeting my own Paul. Paul was what Wynn and I aspired to. Until he did the Paul move, and our best friend was broken, not only brokenhearted, and we struggled to help her pull through. Wynn got over it, she still believes there are good men out there, like Emmett. I, on the other hand, developed a fear of guy love that has made me determined to avoid heartache and heartbreak at any cost. And it also, in a sense, made me avoid sex and focus on work.

Gina and I like men—but we don’t want them close enough to hurt us. And we feel lucky that we know. We’re in the smart girls’ closet, where all the girls who never want to be brokenhearted go. Right?