My door creeps open as I lay there. The latch on it never worked, making it easy for Killer to come in. He jumps up on the bed, taking up residence near my feet, curling up close to me.

Service is shoddy out here, the signal on my phone wavering between one and two bars, barely enough strength for me to make a call. I dial Naz's number, holding the phone to my ear, and drape my other arm over my eyes as I listen to it ring.

I don't know why I'm calling him, and I feel silly when his voicemail picks up. It's an automated message. I don't even get to hear his voice.

Sighing, I hang up without leaving a message and set my phone aside as I close my eyes, trying to get some sleep.

I wake up early Sunday morning, sunlight streaming through the windows. I start to climb out of bed, hearing my mother moving around the house, when my phone beeps at me. I pick it up, glancing at the screen. One missed call. Naz.

He didn't leave a message, either.

Sunday's better, as my mother immerses herself in all things Easter, fresh lilies on the table and a vast array of food to eat. We watch movies and talk about good memories, neither of us mentioning any of the bad.

But Monday morning, when I wake up and pack my things to leave, the shame hits me like a freight train to the chest. We've reverted a few months, back to last August, like I'm leaving her for the first time all over again.

She has tears in her eyes when she drives me to the bus station. "Promise me you're being careful. Promise me you're staying safe."

"I promise, Mom."

For a second I wonder if I just lied to her, wondering what she'd think if I told her about Naz right now.

She'd probably kidnap me.

"I love you, Kissimmee," she says. "I'll call you, okay?"

I give her a quick hug, petting Killer as he pokes his head up from the backseat, and get out of the car before I make this any worse. I don't want to dwell. I can't dwell. My guilt will make me want to stay.

But every other part of me needs to go.

My paper on murder is only half written, scribbled on notebook paper on the bus on my way back to the city. I was too exhausted when I made it to the dorms to finish, too distracted to worry about typing it up all day.

My mother isn't answering her phone. Either I've upset her and she's avoiding me, or she's deep in the middle of moving already. Either way, it makes my guilt flare, and I spend all morning leaving messages, wishing she'd call me back.

Karma.

Before I know it, Melody is rushing me out the door, shouting we're going to be late for class if we don't hurry.

Where did the time go?

I'm quiet as we make our way to the building, lost in thought, until Melody laughs under her breath. "Well, look at that…"

I look, out of sheer curiosity, and my footsteps falter. The familiar black Mercedes is parked in front of the philosophy building. Naz leans against the side of it, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a single blood red rose, twirling the flower as he stares down at it.

My breath hitches at the sight of him, my stomach flipping and flopping, as I'm suddenly lightheaded. Hesitantly, I step toward him as Melody makes her way inside the building, not wanting to be late. Santino makes a spectacle of tardy students.

"Got a hot date with a philosophy professor?" I ask, pausing in front of him.

He smirks, his eyes shifting from the flower to me. "I'm actually hoping to nail one of his students."

I laugh as he pushes away from the car, stepping up on the sidewalk, but my humor dies when he walks past me, right in the path of a petite blonde girl. I don't know her, but her face is recognizable. She's in philosophy with me.

"For you," he says, holding the rose out. "A pretty flower for a pretty girl."

She takes it, blushing, as she rushes into the building, nearly running right into the door. Naz laughs to himself, like it's the most amusing thing ever, a young girl flustered by his charm, but I feel only molten lava brewing in my gut.

It burns.

"Why did you do that?"

"She looked like she could use a cheering up," he says, turning back to me, raising his eyebrows at my expression. "You're not jealous, are you?"

It's ridiculous, I guess... maybe I'm silly, or stupid, or naive, but it's the first time I've stopped to consider I might not be the only one. Sure, I see him a lot, but there are hours, sometimes days, when we're not together and I don't know what he's doing during that time. He works, of course... he says he works a lot... but he doesn't keep the usual type of schedule.

There could be others when I'm not around.

I hate being insecure.

"You are, aren't you?" The humor is gone from his voice. "You're actually jealous."

"Are there others?" I ask quietly. "There aren't, right?"

"Other what?"

"Other girls."

He stares at me, no amusement in his expression as he leans closer. "There are no girls. I don't mess around with girls. They have nothing to offer me. I need a woman. And if you're asking me if I'm seeing anybody else, if I'm fucking another woman, the answer is no. I'm not interested in anybody else, Karissa."

His response relieves me, while also knocking me off kilter, startled by the passion in his voice.

"I told you I loved you," he says. "What am I going to have to do to make you believe it?"

"I, uh…" I stammer, hoping it's a rhetorical question, but his expression tells me he actually wants to know. "I don't know."