I rip out that page, too, and toss it in the trashcan, along with the half dozen others I scribbled nonsense on. My eyes drift to the clock, not because I don't know the time, but because I'm wishing it would slow down, each tick leading me closer to Melody coming home from class.

Melody, who texted me all night and all morning, worried despite me telling her not to worry. Melody, who is most definitely going to give me the fifth degree like she is the Gestapo and I'm guilty of treason.

I was worried about it earlier, when Naz drove me home. He asked what was wrong, somehow being able to tell. I said I was worried how I was going to explain myself to Melody, and he merely shrugged and said 'tell her or don't tell her, whatever you want'. I don't have much choice, honestly. He didn't give me much choice.

The love bite on my throat sort of gives it all away.

Happiness is having your very first hickey, put there by a set of soft lips that speak the smoothest words that sound like music to your ears and whispers to your soul.

Yeah, happiness makes you speak in ridiculous riddles and create poetry worse than William McGonagall.

I toss the notebook aside and lay back on the bed, letting out an exaggerated sigh. No sooner do I close my eyes and the door flings open. Melody walks in as I glance that way, her expression full of alarm as she regards me warily. "Jesus, Kissimmee, where the hell have you been?"

"I was… out."

"No shit," she says, dropping her bag before flopping down beside me on my bed. "I figured that much when you weren't here."

"I told you not to worry."

"Yeah, well, you can't disappear all night without me worrying. You didn't even make it back in time for your eight o'clock class!"

"How do you know?" I ask. "Your lazy ass doesn't wake up until I'm back from that one, anyway."

She rolls her eyes, nudging me as I laugh. Her expression shows her amusement for a second before it falls away, her eyes widening. "Is that a hickey on your neck? Oh my God, it is!"

She tries to get a better look but I block her, pushing her prying hands away. "So what if it is?"

"What did you do last night?" she asks. "No, scratch that. Who did you do?"

"It's nothing," I say, the words a bitter lie on my tongue. "He's just a guy."

"Just a guy?" She gapes at me. "A guy you didn't tell me about!"

"Actually, I did tell you about him. You remember that guy from that night at Timbers? The one I went home with?"

Her eyes widen. "So you did sleep with him?"

"No." I hesitate. "Well, yes, but not that night."

"But after that night."

"Yes."

She looks torn between hugging me and smacking me, her expression flickering. It eventually gives way and she grins, punching my arm. "You whore!"

I laugh as I move away from her, kicking my leg and hitting her in the side with it. "Reserve the judgment, slut."

Holding her hands up, she laughs. "Fine. So is he a student here or something?"

"He's, uh… he's not a student. He's just a guy."

"Do I at least get a name?"

"Naz." Her brow furrows as I wave it off. "He's older than me, lives in Brooklyn and is an independent contractor. Anything else you need to know?"

"Uh, yeah." She eyes me seriously. "How big is it?"

I kick her again as she laughs and stands up, retreating back to her side of the room. I expect more questions, and I can see she has more she wants to ask, but she keeps them to herself.

I'm instantly grateful to have her as my friend.

"As long as you're safe," she says, "and I know where you are."

"Yes, Mom."

She picks up a pillow and chucks it at me, promptly asking for it back, but I refuse, snuggling with it in my bed instead. Too lazy to retrieve it, she shrugs and lies down, grabbing her phone from her pocket. "Paul and I are going to dinner tonight. You gonna come with this time?"

"Depends," I say. "Where are you going?"

"I don't know," she says. "Somewhere for pizza… maybe over in one of the other boroughs. You know, get out of the city for a bit. You in?"

"Sure," I say, shrugging. "I actually know a place you'd like."

"You know a place?" she asks incredulously.

I laugh. "Yes."

Paul's a lot more attractive when not intentionally dressed like an eighties douchebag, but an air of arrogance surrounds him, a smug smile constantly on his lips. He owns a death trap of a Jeep Wrangler and drives with the top down, my hair blowing all over the place in the backseat as he speeds through the streets, weaving in and out of traffic, on our way to Brooklyn.

I fear for my life, every second of the trip making me wish I'd stayed behind. At least there I'm not racing toward a fiery death.

"I've heard of this place," Paul shouts over the sound of the wind blowing around us all. "They say it's a bitch to get a table."

"Yeah," I respond. "It's totally worth it, though."

We head to the same pizzeria Naz took me to last night, having to park down the street. Paul walks ahead of us as Melody chats my ear off. A few people wait around outside for tables, but it isn't as bad as last time. We step inside, requesting a table from the young hostess. Paul talks to her—flirting with her, right in front of Melody—and she jots us down for a table for three.