I lost my virginity to Gemma Patterson on the first night of our freshman year orientation week. I'd been interested in her friend at first, and she'd been busy eyeing up Parker, but after the two of them left for an off-campus party, Gemma and I wound up alone in her dorm room with fourteen cans of beer and zero self-control. To my surprise, what I'd expected to be a one night stand somehow turned into a three year long relationship. It had been off-and-on -- and, granted, we were more off than on these days -- but neither of us seemed willing to officially call it quits.

We'd get together, we'd break up. We'd get together, we'd break up. It was like a broken record on repeat but, in spite of everything, I still loved Gemma and I'm pretty sure that terrified her. My friends constantly ribbed me for being whipped and I could never say anything in my own defense. I was whipped, pathetically whipped. In Gemma's eyes, I was probably more like a well-trained poodle than boyfriend material. No matter how long we went without speaking, however, one of us would eventually cave and call the other, usually suggesting that we get together to talk. Without fail, our attempts at friendship always ended with us naked in bed and that was exactly what had happened after Gemma texted me earlier. Now, as I glanced at the sleeping figure beside me, I wondered if we'd finally be able to make it work this time.

If I had to point to a single thing, then I'd say that our issues primarily stemmed from the fact that Gemma could never decide what she wanted. Some days it was me, most days it felt like it was someone or something else. On and off, just like a light switch. She changed her mind faster than I could change a flat tire and the worst part was that she never gave me any warning. If Gemma said, "I love you," in the morning, chances were that she'd dump me by noon the same day.

It drove me crazy but I put up with it because I knew the alternative was not having her around at all. Parker always shook his head whenever Gemma and I got back together after a break but he never said anything about it to my face. Whether he was trying to be a supportive friend or he was too nice to tell me that I was an idiot, I could never say for sure. At least he and Gemma got along, which was more than I could say for Gemma and my family. Granted, the disdain that my parents and Michael felt for her wasn't altogether surprising, not after what happened the summer before sophomore year.

Two years ago, she'd called me in the middle of July while sobbing uncontrollably and ranting about how much she regretted going on the school-sponsored study abroad program to Rome. Considering the fact that Gemma was an art history major, I was genuinely stunned to hear that she was miserable and wanted to come home.

"I wish you were here," she said over and over again as we talked until the sun came up and light filtered through my window. "I'd give anything for you to be here with me."

"Really?" I'd asked.

And without a moment of hesitation, she said, "Absolutely."

A few hours later, I'd driven to the bank and transferred two thousand dollars from my savings to checking account, and that evening I told my parents that I'd booked a non-refundable flight to Rome. I'd never been more afraid of my dad than I was in that moment, though a large part of my fear stemmed from the fact that I thought he might keel over from a stroke. Purple-faced and pulling out his hair, Dad had been too pissed to form a single coherent sentence and it fell on my mom's shoulders to relay how disappointed they were in my use of the money that Meemaw had left me. In the background, Michael had laughed so hard that his snickers still rang in my ears as I went through airport security the next morning.

Upon my arrival in Italy, I quickly learned that Gemma's sorrow had been fueled by two pitchers of sangria and a maxed out credit card rather than a genuine interest in having me fly out. She giggled with embarrassment as we sat in her shared apartment and she apologized for making me worry, though her tone turned accusing when she asked why I'd come without asking her first. Feeling like an idiot, but not knowing what else to do at that point, I stuck around and we spent -- what I thought had been -- an amazing week together touring the city.

I hadn't even stepped foot off my return flight to Boston before I received her text: I feel like things are moving too fast, she'd written, along with a painfully detailed explanation as to why she thought we shouldn't be together anymore. She'd ended the message with, I hope you aren't mad. I'll always, always care about you and I'm so grateful for what you've done for me. I'm sorry.

I was devastated, broke, and determined to take the secret of her breaking up with me to the grave. Unfortunately for me, Michael soon heard the news from his friends who were also on Gemma's study abroad trip. "You really are a moron if you didn't see that one coming," he said, shaking his head as he stood eating yogurt in the doorway of my bedroom.

In another stroke of bad luck, I'd thrown a shoe and sworn at him right as Dad walked by, triggering the final stage of his Rome-related rampage. It had taken both Mom and Michael to calm Dad down, along with half a handle of whiskey and me agreeing never to touch my savings again without talking to him first. We no longer discussed that episode in our house and I'm not sure what would happen if we did. I suspected that if it came up, Dad would start right back where he'd left off, with him listing all the reasons why he never wanted anything to do with my girlfriend.

Girlfriend... These days, classifying Gemma as that was probably being optimistic. More like friends with benefits and too much baggage. Sighing, I reached over to stroke Gemma's hair, but no sooner than I'd touched her did her eyes open to reveal her dark brown irises. Squirming away from my fingertips, Gemma held a sheet to her bare chest and sat up, the expression on her face like a caged animal preparing to escape.

"Where are you going?" I asked, as she crawled out of bed and began sifting through the piles of clothes on the floor for her underwear.

Fiddling with the clasps on her bra, Gemma answered without looking at me, "There's an S.P.L. rally on campus at five."

I reached for her arm and gave it a gentle tug. "What time is it now?"

Apparently not the least bit groggy, she checked her watch. "Two."

"Seriously?" I sat up and wrapped my arms around her bare waist. "So, why are you leaving now?"

"I need to buy groceries." Once again wriggling from my grasp, she picked up her shirt and slid it over her head. "Besides, don't you have class in an hour?"

"I can skip it."

Gemma pushed me away as I tried to kiss her neck. "Scott, stop."

"What's wrong?"

"God, you're so..."

"What?"

"Never mind, just stop."

Gemma shook her head while I studied her. From the moment I'd met her, I'd known Gemma was way out of my league. Thick, chocolate-colored hair fell past her shoulders and she stared at me beneath a full set of lashes. Like me, she'd grown up on the east coast and she'd been quick to tell me that her mom worked as one of only a few African-American circuit judges in D.C. Her dad, on the other hand, was a lobbyist on the Hill, and their combined salaries had paid for Gemma to attend one of the most expensive boarding schools in the country. Fiercely proud of her education, she still name dropped her high school whenever she could, typically oblivious to how little other people actually cared.

It was undeniable that Gemma had grown up privileged, and she knew it, too. She also knew that she was gorgeous and she certainly had no qualms with using both of those traits to her advantage. On top of spoiling her shamelessly, her parents' black and white heritages had blended perfectly, resulting in the most stunning set of features that I'd ever seen. I liked her for more than her beauty, of course, but I'd be a liar if I said that it didn't play a large part in why I let the majority of her bad behavior slide.

I watched her mile long legs slide into a pair of lime green shorts and I knew that my attempt at getting her to stay had failed. "Are you coming back tonight?" I asked, hoping that I didn't sound too desperate.

Gemma shrugged. "Maybe."

"Maybe?"

"It depends on how long the rally goes." She eyed me critically. "You can come, if you want. It's not just for S.P.L. members."

"What's it for?"

Gemma brushed back her carefully straightened hair and pulled it into a ponytail. "We're protesting Congress' decision to send troops to the Middle East in November."

"Oh."

As the two-time president of Students for Peace and Liberty, much like Sophie, Gemma was always involved in fighting for one cause or another. Whether it was leading boycotts against unethically sourced food or saving an endangered fish, Gemma was a one-woman crusader. To her great annoyance, however, while I was always willing to support her from afar, I lacked any of the drive that might compel me to stand around for hours holding a sign over my head. When it came to the clapping, and chanting, and yelling, I just couldn't bring myself to do it. Any of it.

While Gemma seemed to get off on leading marches, all I ever wanted to do was climb into bed and pretend that none of the bad stuff in the world even existed. Gemma often got mad at me for having a loser's attitude but I was used to it, both the attitude and her ire. What was the point in getting upset over something that I could never change?

"So, will you come?" Gemma asked, as she plucked a loose thread from her shirt.

"To what?"

"The rally."

"I'll try," I said, but Gemma rolled her eyes.

"You're lying," she countered, and I wilted under her glare.

I was lying, but that didn't mean that I wanted to upset her. "I said that I'll try."

"Whatever," Gemma said with a huff as she slung her purse over her shoulder.

"See you later," I said, falling back onto my heavily worn pillow. Gemma paused when she reached the door.

For a moment, it seemed like she wanted to say something. A witty comment, maybe, or a swift jab to my ego about how I was wasting my life away by not taking action against injustice. Instead, she turned to look at me and said, "It'll probably be late, but I'll call before I come over, okay?"

I nodded and Gemma left without any further goodbye. Rubbing my eyes, I sighed before setting an alarm on my phone and burrowing into my sheets for a quick nap. It was the second day of school and I was already exhausted. I blamed Parker for that, really. There was no reason why Monday night's exec meeting needed to involve a case of beer and four bottles of cheap champagne but it had. To my great shame, the activities from the night before had resulted in me sleeping through my Business Ethics class this morning but there was nothing I could do about that now. According to the syllabus Nelson had given us, we were allowed a "reasonable number of absences" before our truancy affected our grade, and I figured that one missed class was definitely within the realm of reasonableness.

Unable to get comfortable enough to fall asleep, I tossed and turned until my alarm went off, wishing that I could be a kid again without a worry in the world.

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When I saw Gemma and the rest of S.P.L. demonstrating on campus later that afternoon, I stopped in my tracks and hurried in the opposite direction, praying that she hadn't seen me. Would it have killed me to go - to put on a good face and march alongside her army of activists? Of course not. I knew that it would've made her day if I'd shown up for even five minutes, and if the rally had been for anything else, I probably would've gone.

Part of me suspected that I was a terrible person for not protesting the impending war but one of the main reasons why I couldn't bring myself to openly join Gemma's campaign had a lot to do with my dad. A former Navy SEAL, Dad had gone on to work for one of the country's largest federal defense contracting firms shortly before Michael was born. Growing up, I never really understood what his job entailed, all I knew was that it allowed Michael and I to have all the toys that we wanted.

Dad's paycheck covered the cost of family vacations, two brand new cars when Michael and I turned sixteen, and the full amount of our college tuitions. Lately, Dad had been quick to grumble that paying for my degree was turning out to be a bad investment and I didn't really blame him for feeling that way. On the other hand, although I didn't know exactly how much he made, I suspected that his salary was pretty hefty considering the hours that he worked.

Not that it really mattered. What did matter was that my dad liked making money and he liked buying things.

Nice things.

Expensive things.

In some ways, it made sense. After all, he'd grown up with four brothers and a sister on a farm in rural South Carolina. The Navy, Dad said, was the only reason why he'd ever left, and whenever I misbehaved growing up, he'd spank me and remind me that I was lucky not to have to play with Michael's hand-me-down rock collection. I'd always thought that he was exaggerating when he told me how poor his family had been -- that is, until we went to his hometown for Papa's funeral. Seeing the tiny room that he'd shared with two of his younger brothers made me supremely grateful that Michael and I had always enjoyed separate living quarters.

It also helped to explain why Dad was constantly chasing the almighty dollar.

Frankly, my dad may have been a bit rough around the edges and we certainly didn't see eye to eye on a lot of things, but he was a good guy at heart. He provided for us, he loved Mom fiercely, and he worked hard. Really, really hard. Still, when I'd gone home for a week over summer, I'd been surprised to hear Dad sound strangely supportive of the possibility that Congress might send ground troops to the Middle East. It wasn't as if he was foaming at the mouth at the prospect of battle or anything, but there was something in his eye that told me that the idea of it didn't totally horrify him either.

"No shit, Sherlock," Michael replied after I'd mentioned Dad's behavior to him.

When I still hadn't understood, Michael shook his head and sighed. "Dad's company sells fighter jets and missiles to the government. Fighter jets and missiles. Get it? What do you think's going to happen to his salary if we go to war? Christ, it's not rocket science."

If I didn't think about it too much, I had no problem rationalizing what my dad did for a living, but it was hard not to feel a little guilty when Gemma constantly showed me pictures of the innocent people who'd been harmed by drone strikes. Deep down, I always knew that, more likely than not, the missile used had come from my dad's firm and some days I found it hard to live with that thought. At the same time, though, there was only so much that I could say without being a hypocrite. After all, Dad and his colleagues had found a way to put a price tag on death and I was living off its sales. The way I saw it, short of turning down the money that he gave me, a certain amount of blood would always be on my hands, and I really didn't want -- or need -- another reason to feel terrible about that.

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A/N: I decided to update again while I still have the time - hope you enjoyed it! Feedback is always great. Although I've really slacked on my homework load during this break, I've actually drafted an outline of all the story's major plot points, so hopefully I'll still be able to find the time to write once classes start again. As an aside, I'm really enjoying writing from Scott's POV, largely because so many of the events that I'm including actually happened to my friends in college... Including the Rome fiasco. :o Thanks for reading!