Page 5 of Come As You Are

“And you want them to come and go through my room? That’s—”

“No, of course not.” He points at my window. “I have a rope ladder. But itwillgo past your window. I just wanna make sure you’ll be… looking the other way.”

A rope ladder. Jesus. Salem was not kidding. “We’re talking fully consensual visitors?”

“Always,” he says firmly.

I shrug. “Then it’s fine with me. It’s your roommate you’re gonna have to work stuff out with.”

“Psh, Salem I can handle. You’re the one who makes me nervous,” he says with a wink. “Glad you’re chill.” He gives me a little punch on the shoulder, and I’m mad that I don’t hate it. “I gotta run, but I’ll catch you later. I owe you one.”

He slips out, and I just shake my head and turn my music back up. I know Matt was just buttering me up to buy mysilence, but I can’t pretend I didn’t like being called “chill” and “a cool girl.” Back in Greentree, next to Sierra, no one would ever think of me as the cool one—not when she was dancing on tables at parties or kicking ass at beer pong or snagging every single guy (and occasional girl) in sight. Certainly not when I was working so hard to be the best girlfriend I could be by making Craig and his stupid friends snack platters while they played video games. Or when I was so committed to helping Claire with her art that I’d spend entire yawning afternoons modeling for portraits. Or all the times I put my own studying and hobbies on hold so I could help them with math (Craig), English papers (Claire), or bio (both).

God forbid I be anything but the perfect girlfriend, perfect best friend. But then, a boyfriend and a best friend were the two things I had in life that my sister didn’t, and it was impossible not to want to hold them close.

Of course, she took them anyway.

But here… there’s no Sierra. I don’t have to prove I’m “good enough” to earn my space in her shadow. And now I have somethingnoother girl on campus has or will have: a room in an all-boys dorm. So maybe this isn’t ruining what’s supposed to be the perfect reset of my life.

Maybe it’s actually the perfect opportunity to do things differently.

How? I don’t know yet. But that’s okay. I’m a blank slate with nothing but time to figure it out.

Or not. Because everywhere I go for orientation events today, people seem to know who I am.

On the group tour, a couple of my new dormmates I recognize from orientation suggest with dancing eyebrows that we work out a shower schedule.

At the campus store, a guy I’ve never seen before suggests I see if they carry boxers so I can better fit in at Rumson.

Another pointedly lets me know that he’s heard I have my own private room, emphasis onprivate.

I don’t know how news got around so fast, or why all these people have to be so fucking creepy, but the entire morning is filled with pointing and whispering and strangers greeting me with variations on “Hey, aren’t you the Rumson Girl?”

That’s me: the Rumson Girl. Exactly what I’ve always dreamed.

“It’s Evie, actually,” I tell the guy who stops me in Beasley Dining Hall, a.k.a. the Beast, where I’m just trying to get some lunch fuel to get me through the rest of this day.

“Yeah, I heard about you. Heard you’re Archie Buchanan’s roommate,” he says with a shit-eating grin, punctuated by a huge dimple. He’s got the same kind of overly styled look Archie does, and the same vibe exuding way too much money.

“You heard wrong,” I say, sidestepping him neatly in my quest for the baked-potato bar; there is no way I’m letting this dude get between me and my bacon bits.

“Does that mean you’re still in need of a bedmate?” he calls after me, but thankfully, he doesn’t follow. I shudder the interaction off me and get in line behind a broad set of shoulders in a striped polo. I’m balancing the tray in one handand sneaking a piece of smoky bacon into my mouth with the other when I hear the cutest accent in the entire world, sweeter than maple syrup, saying, “Why thank you, ma’am.”

I look up, having to see the face that belongs to those four words, and I amnotdisappointed. Striped Polo looks like walking, talking sunshine—healthy golden tan, healthy golden hair, and a smile warm enough to ward off the New Hampshire chill I know from experience will be here before we know it.

He looks like he grew up on a farm, or at the very least is definitely not from around here; not one single thing about him reminds me of a certain ex, including the way he catches my eye and gives me a nod and confident smile as he walks past.

What is it they say? The best way to get over someone is to get under someone else? Well, Craig Larson is definitely in my rearview, and Farmboy shows some interesting potential.

Here’s hopinghedoesn’t know me as the Rumson Girl.

“Your drool is gonna stain the linoleum,” a voice behind me says as I watch Farmboy take a seat at an otherwise full table, squeezing in next to a girl with a neat French braid.

I whirl around to see Salem standing behind me with a green apple in hand, no tray. “So’s your jealousy.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Neither do you.” But I appreciate the wake-up call, noxious as it was, and I finally move again, taking a seat at an empty table. Salem joins me a minute later, having added a tall cup of Coke to his nutritious lunch. “Is that really all you’re eating?”

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