Blake walks over to the vanity table and looks at the various lotions. I glance at my feet, kicking a stray bra under the bed. The last time I had a boy in my bedroom was the day before the party when Chase came over to watch a movie. Mom insisted I keep the door half-open, but that hadn't stopped Chase from slipping a hand into my underwear as Purple Hearts played in the background.

That suffocating feeling returns. It's been easy to stay busy with all this campaign stuff, but there are moments where it hits me, where the extent of Chase's betrayal crashes through me like a wave, and it feels like I'm drowning.

Breath held, I follow Blake's gaze around the room, first to the pink embroidery bed quilt, then to the window, where several white pillows sit fluffed and puffed at the perfect angle. He crosses the room. His fingers brush past Mr. Stuffy, the pink unicorn Chase won me at the Archbury Park Fair, and run along what I call my achievement wall. He glosses over ribbons and trophies, past the A+ reports cards, and down to the pictures of Chase and me. I've been meaning to get rid of them, but every time I gather the courage, I chicken out; sentimentality will be my downfall.

Blake will have heard about what happened. He'd heard about the drug rumors, so it's not a stretch to think he's probably seen the video too. Maybe that's why he hates me so much. Like everyone else, he thinks I'm capable of cheating on my boyfriend with his best friend.

The longer Blake is near that wall, the more nervous I grow. Afraid he's going to ask me something, I open my closet and pull out some jeans along with a plain black tee. It's casual but tight, the kind of t-shirt that makes your boobs look three times bigger than they are. "I'll be back in a minute," I say, "try not to touch anything," and head into my bathroom to change.

The bathroom gives me the necessary respite. It's just a party, I tell myself, a completely normal thing to do, but I can't fight the feeling that something about this feels wrong. I don't belong at a party with Blake O'Hare – we don't belong, period – and the more time we spend together, the more I feel the old Rose slipping away. Still, in a couple more weeks, I could be Senior Class President and have my old life back; I have to believe it's worth it.

When I'm ready, I peek into my bedroom to see what Blake's up to. Him standing in my bedroom holding Mr. Stuffy is a sight to behold. He looks so uncomfortable, like a giant in a strange, foreign land. Briefly, I wonder what his bedroom looks like. Something tells me it's probably messy and lacking anything personal. The idea of Blake being sentimental about anything is laughable.

He puts Mr. Stuffy down and sits on the bed. For a second, it thrills me to know that my parents are none the wiser. I can only imagine their faces if they knew Blake O'Hare was sitting on my threaded satin sheets. He is everything they hate: rule-bending, unambitious, argumentative, and in turn, everything I hate. So why can't I look away?

"Okay," I say, stepping forward, "I'm ready."

His eyes find mine, then drop to the curve of my breasts. The look lasts a second, less than a second, but it's enough to make the hairs on my arms stand on edge. "Good, let's go. This place is giving me hives."

"What's wrong with my bedroom?"

He stands and plucks Mr. Stuffy off the bed before holding it high above my head. "This isn't the bedroom of someone on the verge of adulthood."

He's right, but I've always had a problem with change. "Hey, leave Mr. Stuffy alone." I reach up to swipe it, but Blake's too quick. He holds it just out of reach.

"You named him Mr. Stuffy? That's it; he's got to go."

I laugh and reach to grab it again but grab his arm instead. His bicep flexes, and for a moment, I'm hypnotized.

"Question," Blake says. "Why does Mr. Stuffy have burn marks on his legs?"

At the expense of sounding psychopathic, I say, "I set him on fire."

It's not quite as psychotic as it sounds. The day Chase released that video of me, I'd vowed to get him out of my life for good and started with Mr. Stuffy. Holding him over a trash can of flames, my hatred for Chase trumped sentimentality for all of two seconds before I rescued him.

"Twisted – I like it."

Something about the way he says it sets me on fire, as though he sees parts of me no one else does. Adrenaline runs like a tap through my body and makes me lightheaded. I step back, needing to put some space between us. "We should go," I say. "Just give me a minute to find a different purse."

I hurry to my closet as he sets the toy aside and moves to my desk to look at my campaign work. He stops at one of the posters I'd created last year titled Poll Me. It was supposed to give people the chance to anonymously tell me how likely they were to vote for me, but that was back when I had a real chance – there's no way I'd dream of using it now.

Blake stares at the poster. And stares. And stares. "Poll me."

"Yeah." I peer over his shoulder to marvel at my artwork. "What's wrong with it?"

He turns to face me. His half-amused, half-disgusted expression is back. "You might as well have a sign that reads fu–"

I slap a hand on his mouth and glare at him.

"Does swearing offend you, princess?"

"You swearing offends me," I say, especially concerning my body. I pull my hand back, ignoring the fire of my palm.

"All right, look," Blake says, "your first tip of the night is that you need to learn to relax a little."

"I'm trying." I straighten out my outfit and glance in the mirror. "I don't even know what I'll talk about tonight. What are your friends into?"

His mouth twitches. I find myself wishing not for the first time that it would grow into a smile. "Don't overthink it and cover the basics: music, films, books. They're easy things to talk about and establish an immediate connection. What books are you into?"

It's hard to think off the top of my head, mostly because when he looks at me like this, I feel like I'm under a spotlight. As an excuse to look away, I grab my Ipad, clicking on my kindle library before handing it over. Our fingers brush as he pulls it from my hands. Something electric runs through me.

Clearing my throat, I step back and watch him scroll through my library. His face is neutral at first, but the further down the list he gets, the harder he finds it not to profess his disdain. "Mafia romance." He looks up and stares. "That's what you're into?"

I grab the Ipad, suddenly feeling defensive. "Not just mafia." I scroll down to show him the other romance novels and remind myself to spend tomorrow reading them.

Blake shakes his head like he's at a loss for words. "What a bunch of crap."

"What is?"

"Your idea of romance," he says, pointing at my Ipad, "that some asshole can be tamed by love. It doesn't exist."

"That's why it's called a book," I say. "Do you think hobbits and vampires and fairies exist too? 'Cause if so, I have news for you."

He shakes his head like he thinks I'm just another cog in society's machine. "Society dictates that romance is being swept off your feet and showered with gifts by some guy who should probably be in prison–" his eyes flit to my lips and stay there, "–you're buying right into it."

If this were Chase, I'd keep quiet out of wanting to avoid an argument, but Blake brings out the worst in me. "No," I say, clutching my Ipad, "society dictates that romance is somehow of less worth than any other genre, which is why there is such a stigma around it and why you have a problem with it. Would you hate romance so much if it were predominantly written by men? I don't think so. Seems like you're the one buying right into it."

Blake doesn't speak, but his lips work overtime, suppressing a smile. It's insane the kind of arguments we end up in. The most Chase and I said about books was, "That sounds cool," but somehow, with Blake, I end up in debates about societal norms. And even though it's completely ridiculous, it's in these debates, his eyes hot and heavy as they stare down at me, that I feel most alive.

❤️