The marquee sign on the roof of Pepito's glinted in the mid-day sunshine. Oscar was working the register. Pedro and Joaquin stood behind him, their movements a well-rehearsed dance that allowed them to avoid bumping into either each other or the hot grills in the compact space.

The brightly colored posters that'd been plastered to the pick-up window had multiplied and spread to the order window.

CHICA DESAPARECIDA. JUSTICIA PARA JOSEFINA.

"Good afternoon," Oscar greeted as my group members and I huddled under the shade of the stand's red terra-cotta roof. He shot me a smile under his wiry mustache, but didn't outwardly show I was a regular, since I was with people he didn't recognize.

Olivia and Ryan ordered first.

Bodie insisted I go ahead of him.

"The usual?" Oscar asked me with a smile.

He meant, of course, three carne asada tacos with extra pico de gallo and pickled jalapeños and carrots.

"Si," I said. "Y estoy pagando por el chico alto."

I beckoned Bodie up to the counter beside me. He ordered a super burrito with just about every ingredient in it (including both chicken and pork). When he pulled out his debit card to pay, I hip-checked him out of the way and slid a twenty dollar bill onto the counter.

"You don't have to do that," he protested.

"It's a burrito, not a paint job."

Bodie sighed, like he knew this was a fair point but still wanted me to know he wasn't happy about it, and shuffled over to the plastic cutlery and napkin dispensers, grabbing two of everything for us.

Oscar watched this interaction with unapologetic intrigue.

"Su novio?" he asked me, in a voice that seemed far too loud despite the language barrier that offered us privacy.

"Todavía no," I blurted. "Casi. Estoy trabajando en eso."

Oscar's laugh drifted after me as I followed Bodie over to the metal picnic table Ryan had claimed.

The four of us ate like a family of raccoons who'd found an overturned dumpster, shoveling Mexican food in our mouths with such frenzied ardor that we barely paused to speak. It was only after we were stuffed that Olivia, our beloved group leader, spent a solid six minutes complimenting each of us on our performance while she picked at the last few bites of her quesadilla.

"Laurel," she said when it was my turn, "you looked very cute—"

I laughed.

"Glad I could contribute to the group aesthetic."

Bodie looked up from his phone. He'd been typing away at it for a while now, the last few bites of his burrito abandoned on the foil wrapper he'd flattened out into a makeshift plate.

I caught a glimpse of his screen.

He had Google Translate open.

"I'm not done!" Olivia protested, shooting me an annoyed look even as she bit back a smile. "You looked cute, and you didn't mess up your slides, and you made that really good point about diversity. And you didn't puke! So I'm proud of you."

I rolled my eyes, to hide the fact that I was embarrassingly touched.

"Thank you. I should probably get going, though. I have this Writing 301 assignment I have to turn in by midnight."

Naturally, I'd left it until the day it was due.

I stood from the table, tucked the to-go box with my last taco back into the plastic bag to have as a snack later, and gathered my trash.

"I'll walk you home," Bodie offered, shoving his phone into the back pocket of his jeans and clumping up his unfinished burrito in a handful of tin foil.

There was a determination in his voice that made me pause.

We locked eyes over the table.

"Yo, I'm going the same way!" Ryan exclaimed, wiping his palms on the front of his periwinkle skinny jeans. "I'll come with you guys."

The little furrow between Bodie's brows was the only indication he gave that he wasn't entirely pleased with the addition of our third wheel. Otherwise, he was perfectly chipper and polite as we said goodbye to Olivia (who tried, twice, to invite Ryan back onto campus with her to see if the bookstore had restocked those cool new baseball hats that kept selling out) and deposited our trash into the dumpster across the parking lot.

The sidewalk wasn't wide enough for three people.

Bodie fell back. Ryan obviously didn't want him to feel left out, though, so he tossed out questions over his shoulder about the football team's training regimen and practice schedule.

"What would you say is, like, the secret to perfect squats?" Ryan asked. "Because I've heard you gotta really engage the—"

He mimed cupping his own butt.

I tuned the boys out.

How had I become the third wheel?

Luckily, we were fast walkers, so I didn't have to endure discussions of glutes and quads for long. It took us all of two minutes to reach my building. When we stopped on the sidewalk at the base of the front steps, I turned to say my goodbyes.

"Good job today, homie," Ryan said as he threw his arms wide open for a hug.

I laughed and obliged.

Despite his lack of self-awareness, I could appreciate Ryan's positive attitude and charmingly outlandish fashion sense. We still had a paper to write, but I doubted I'd see very much of him outside of class. Friendships built in class often had a shelf-life of one semester. I knew this from experience, and had learned to accept it, but it didn't stop the bittersweet tang in my mouth as I squeeze Ryan tight.

I locked eyes with Bodie over his shoulder.

Something in the pit of my stomach twisted.

Ryan released me and shuffled out of the way. I swallowed hard as Bodie stepped up to take his place, the teasing lilt of his smile so familiar to me now.

"C'mere, you," I said, laughing hoarsely.

Bodie's hug was different.

For starters, he was a solid foot taller than Ryan and twice as wide, the barrel of his chest warm and solid against my arms. He also smelled nice. I hadn't even thought to check if Ryan smelled nice. But Bodie smelled like freshly mown grass and laundry detergent and Mexican food, and when he pressed a hand to the middle of my back, I wanted to melt into him.

Bodie shifted against me.

"I'm working on it, too," he whispered into my hair, so softly I almost believed I'd imagined it.

It took me a second to realize that he was only repeating back what I'd said at the order window, when Oscar had asked me if Bodie was my boyfriend.

I'd thought I was slick.

I'd underestimated Bodie's Google Translate skills.

I couldn't manage to feel embarrassed, though. All I felt was relief.

Bodie knew where I stood, now. And it was pretty clear where he stood, too, which meant that we were on the same page (finally) and that the inevitable sat in front of us. I wasn't in a rush. The knowing, the anticipating, was so fun.

I would enjoy it for now.

And when the occasion struck, I was going to kiss the living shit out of Bodie St. James.

❖ ❖ ❖

Inside my building, I took the stairs two at a time. A quick glance at my phone told me it was one o'clock. Hanna should be at figure drawing. I'd have the apartment to myself, to walk around pantsless and pop my pimples and watch my telenovelas without headphones.

I jammed my key in the lock, my plastic bag of leftovers thunking against our door in the process.

When I stepped into the kitchen, paper crumpled under my foot. There was something was to my shoe—how long had that been there? Had I stepped on a flyer somewhere on campus? God, why hadn't someone told me? Some fucking group members, letting me walk around looking like a complete dork.

I reached down, hopping to keep my balance, and peeled the paper from the bottom of my shoe.

I shook it out.

And I went very still.

It was a piece of printer paper. Plain. Unremarkable. Except, of course, for the magazine cut-out letters pasted onto it that read (and I quote):

FUCK U AND YOURE LYING FRIENDS

_________________

Author's Note: Laurel can't catch a break. Who do we think slipped this note under her door? Fogarty? The President of the university? A certain (very pissy) football coach? Her former employer? Another overenthusiastic football fan? Somebody with the wrong address (lmao what a weak plot twist that would be)?

Eight chapters to go. See you on Wednesday.

Your friendly author,

Kate