I didn't want Hanna or Andre to see my car, so I left it on the third floor of a university-owned parking garage across the street. It was spill-over for The Palazzo, so there were security cameras and plenty of cars much more alluring to potential thieves and carjackers than my shitty white Corolla. Especially now that she had the word LIAR carved into her hood.

There was nothing I could do about it tonight. I had to get Hanna home, put my bag of groceries away, and get some sleep.

And there was no use crying about it until I knew how much it'd cost to fix.

Still, as I clambered down the winding steps to ground level, my eyes started to sting and my vision went blurry.

How would I tell my dad?

I stopped on the sidewalk outside the parking garage and pinched the bridge of my nose.

"No llores, no llores," I chanted under my breath.

The thought came before I could shove it back: I want my mom.

I dropped my arms to my sides, blinked up at the night sky, and started towards the crosswalk. There was no time to feel sorry for myself.

Hanna needed me.

❖ ❖ ❖

The lobby of The Palazzo was more hectic than Target at eight o'clock on a Saturday night.

It was far too easy to blend in with the residents and slip past security.

I got into the elevator with a group of four girls who looked like they had a great night, judging by their tangled hair and smudged make-up.

One of them carried a cardboard box of pizza that made the whole elevator smell like melting cheese. Another girl had her high-heeled booties in her hands; on her feet were a pair of beige socks with pink-nosed pug faces on them. I listen to them chatter and giggle softly about the bar they'd been to (somewhere halfway to Los Angeles, it sounded like, judging by the way they complained about the disgustingly expensive Uber) and all the boys and girls they'd danced with and given fake numbers to.

When the doors slid open on Andre's floor, I darted out and made my way through the maze of plush-carpeted hallways until I arrived at room 352.

I pounded on the door twice before it swung open, revealing a bleary-eyed Andre. His button-down party shirt (the one with little pineapples embroidered all over it) was thrown open, abs on full display, and he wore a string of green plastic Mardi Gras beads around his neck.

"I love you," he said earnestly. "You're a god damned saint."

"I know," I said, shouldering past him. "Where is she?"

The party had ended, but wasn't completely cleared out yet.

An expensive set of speakers in the corner of the living room were still playing Migos—though the volume was barely a whisper—and there was a small army of empty Svedka bottles on the coffee table in front of the black leather couch, where Scott Quinton, the linebacker with the wide neck, was snoring.

There was a bra hooked over the corner of the flat screen TV.

I had a split second of terrible panic before I realized the cup size was too big for it to belong to my roommate.

"Classy," I said, nodding towards the new decor. "Where's Hanna?"

"Bathroom," Andre murmured.

I turned towards the hallway.

At the very same moment, Bodie St. James appeared, a half-empty bottle of Svedka tucked under one arm. He wasn't in flannel pajama pants this time. Instead, he wore dark wash jeans that hugged his thighs and a black henley that did wonderful things for his shoulders.

He stopped short and blinked at me.

Then, like he'd suddenly remembered he and I weren't the only people in the room, he turned to Andre and said, "I got Torres in bed. He's all set with a trash bag, in case he gets sick again."

"Thanks man," Andre told him.

Bodie's eyes slid back to me.

The last time we'd come face to face, he'd ripped up my field pass like it was tissue paper. But that'd been eight hours ago. A lot had happened in eight hours.

"Excuse me," I murmured as I inched around Bodie.

Halfway down the hall, the bathroom door was cracked open, a single sliver of light beaming out across the wood floors.

"Hanna?" I called out, aiming for the same tone of voice I'd have used if she were sober. "You good, babe?"

She was not good. This became clear when I eased open the door to find her on the floor beside the toilet, one tiny fist clutching a handful of the plastic curtain on the bathtub-shower combo for stability. Her winged eyeliner was smudged and there was, inexplicably, a streak of mascara halfway up her forehead.

She cracked one eye open and grumbled unintelligibly at me.

Andre appeared at my side with a black bath towel. I thanked him, then dropped to my knees to take care of Hanna's rogue makeup and dab up the vomit on her chin.

"I tried to put her hair back," Andre said, "but I think a little bit got in it."

That explained the poorly centered ponytail gathered up in what looked like black pre-wrap—the stuff athletes used when they had to tape up sprained wrists and ankles.

"You did good," I said.

Andre shook his head.

"This is my fault," he mumbled. "We were celebrating my touchdown."

"Because it was fucking awesome," I said. "And we're going to keep celebrating it for the rest of the semester, okay? This is not your fault. You two both overdid it. It happens. Do you think we're safe to move her now? When did she last throw up?"

"She stopped puking like fifteen minutes ago. I think we're okay. I can carry her down to your car—"

Fuck.

I scrubbed my hand over my eyes.

"Um," I said, trying to think on my feet. "I can handle it."

I could probably piggyback her home. She was small—packed with muscle like a miniaturized version of an MMA fighter, but still small.

I was always saying I needed a good workout. Here was my chance. Leg day.

"Hanna, darling," I murmured, "it's time to go home."

She let out a low whine, then picked up her head and met my eyes.

"M'sorry, Laurel," she said.

"Shut up," I murmured, stroking her hair. "Let's get you home."

I motioned for Andre to come around and help me get her to her feet. He stepped out of the doorway, and I realized Bodie had been hovering behind him, out in the hallway. I wasn't sure how long he'd been standing there, but his eyebrows were pinched with concern.

Andre and I tugged Hanna to her feet. She could barely stand—and Andre wasn't much help, considering he was a little unsteady on his feet, too.

Bodie cleared his throat.

"Do you, uh," he began hesitantly, "do you want some help?"

"We're good," I snapped. Then, to Hanna, I said, "C'mon. You're gonna jump on my back, okay? One, two—oof. Shit. Okay. We're good. We're good."

We were not good.

My quads were screaming, and I had to brace one hand against the wall as I made my way back into the living room with Hanna's arms wound tight around my neck and her legs around my hips.

Bodie came around us to hold the front door open, his expression still pinched in a way that told me he desperately wanted to insist on helping us.

I marched past him and into the hallway.

"Text me when you get home!" Andre called after me.

I was too focused on not falling over to give a verbal response, so I just chucked up the deuces over one shoulder.

In an unprecedented feat of lower body strength, I managed to stand upright the whole elevator ride down. But as soon as the doors opened and I saw the lobby stretched out before us, I knew I was doomed.

We made it halfway to the sliding glass doors before I had to stop.

"Hanna," I grunted. "I need to—I'm just—gonna set you—"

She slid down off my back. Her bare feet hit the floor and she lilted to the side, her shoulder rustling the plastic leaves of a faux potted plant before thudding against the wall. She kept sliding until she was on the marble floor in the fetal position.

I tossed a look over my shoulder.

The two security guards at the front desk were printing up a visitor's badge for one half of a couple who were being obnoxiously touchy with each other, so they hadn't noticed yet that my friend was trying to take a nap on the floor of the lobby.

"Hanna!" I whisper-hissed.

"No."

"Come on," I pleaded. "It's just a few blocks. It'll be over before you know it."

Hanna leaned her head back against the wall and pinched her eyes shut.

"M'so tired," she slurred. "Just—just leave me."

"Hanna," I snapped.

I blinked furiously. I was not going to cry in the The Palazzo's tacky fake-plant-and-faux-adobe hell of a lobby at one o'clock in the morning. That was a rock bottom I was determined not to hit.

But what was I supposed to do?

Drag her home by her ankles?

Across the lobby, the elevator doors slid open.

I was only a little surprised when Bodie St. James stepped out.

_________________

This chapter got too long, so I split it up, but I realize it's a bitch of a cliffhanger... so we're officially ramping up to three updates a week. Monday, Wednesday, Friday. May is going to be absolutely nuts.

As I mentioned earlier, I have fewer than 10k words left to write before I finish my first draft of this story (and it's bits and pieces scattered around the last 15 chapters, almost all of which are currently over 1k words and thoroughly outlined). So, while I've still got some wiggle room, I want to ask what your hopes and dreams are for the ending of the book. What will you absolutely not be satisfied if you don't see? What NEEDS to happen?

And, because I'm a sensitive bitch: what do you like most about this story?

Your friendly author,

Kate