|photo by Jermaine Ee from Unsplash|

Aunt Emily's white Chihuahua greets me at the door doing his neurotic little welcome dance: his body quaking with shivers, toenails ticking on Italian marble. He's a pitiful excuse for a dog—especially compared to Monty—but I try not to hold that against him. I leave my textbooks in a pile on the foyer floor and pick up Antonio, who Mom and I secretly renamed No-No because when he was a puppy he couldn't move one tiny quivering muscle, without my aunt saying, "No, no Antonio." And because he no-no look like his namesake, Antonio Banderas.

No-No shivers harder when we're out on the terrace. I put him down and he skitters into the living room. I take a picture of the view. It's amazing but at the same time kind of strange because it's the complete opposite of what I'm used to. In Virginia, cityscapes are surrounded by acres of farmland and trees. It's not that I don't understand why New Yorkers need a gigantic rectangle of green in the middle of their city—and I'd rather be standing in the middle of it right now than hovering above the tree line—but still, something about it makes me uncomfortable. Nature shouldn't have boundaries.

I text the photo to Megan, along with a quote from my father: Aunt Emily married well, but she divorced better.

She calls almost instantly. "Everything is so tiny and far away," she complains. "I can't tell what I'm looking at."

"It's the southeast end of Central Park from Aunt Emily's terrace. You should see it in person."

"You should invite me."

"I did. Once, before I left and again, just now."

"I'll ask for a plane ticket for my birthday."

"November?"

"I'll ask for an early birthday present," she says. "Now, tell me about lunch—what's Paige like?"

"Very nice. Very...unique."

"Why are you being so cryptic?" Megan asks. "Is your aunt in the room?"

"No, I'm trying not to sound like an insensitive ass. Paige is agoraphobic. We met her in one of those enclosed study rooms in the library. That's how she does school."

"That's not... No, wait. Arachnophobia is fear of spiders, right?"

"Yes. Agoraphobia is fear of open spaces—and maybe crowds? Paige used to have panic attacks at school."

Megan is quiet for a suspiciously long moment. "What?" I ask her.

"There's something about your tone. You have doubts."

"Not about her condition." I head for the kitchen to forage for snacks while I relay the most important details of my private conversation with Paige. "Conner isn't looking for a normal girl. He's already in love with Paige. She won't admit that she feels the same, but I think I can help her—"

"Stop right there, stupid cupid. I have two words for you: Jacob and Brittany."

"That was different," I say. "They didn't know they were in love with each other."

"That's probably because they—good lord! What is that noise?"

No-No has launched into a fit of high-pitched barking. "I think someone's knocking. Hold on." I scoop up the little yapper on my way to the front door and put an eye to the peephole.

"Mother of shit," I whisper.

"What?"

"It's the It Boy. Let me call you back."

"Dorothea Allen, do not hang up on me! Just hold the phone in your hand or set it down on something."

"Okay. You're going on the foyer table. Absolutely no talking, gasping or screaming."

"Of course."

He knocks again and No-No growls. I hide my phone behind a fake orchid and take a deep breath—which does absolutely nothing to deflate the balloon in my chest. I open the door. No-No growls louder.

Mr. Spectacular points to the dog. "We have a history," he says, his voice calm and deep. "It's not pleasant."

"Oh. Um, let me go...put him in one of the bedrooms?" I point to the back of the apartment and he nods. I stash the still-growling dog in my aunt's room. When I come back, Mr. Spectacular has invited himself inside and closed the door.

I'm alone in the house with a boy. My father would not approve.

"I'm Chase Tinsley," he says.

"Thea Allen."

"We're neighbors." He points to the wall. "Penthouse B."

Mother. Of. Shit.

"We could walk to school together," he says, running a hand through that black shiny hair. Now that I'm this close, his eyes are even steelier. Except for the denim blue band around his iris. And I shouldn't be staring into them, because I don't want to give him the impression that—

"And if you need a study partner," he says, pointing to my math books with the toe of his leather shoe. "I'll be right next door."

I study best when I'm alone—and I should say that, but I don't trust myself to open my mouth.

First, a tornado destroys my school. Then, my parents practically force me to leave home and my boyfriend insists on breaking up. And now this ridiculously sexy It Boy is looking at me like I'm a shiny new toy. Why has the universe turned against me?

"So I'll see you in the morning," he says, smiling that crooked smile he's been firing at me all day.

Nuh-uh. There's no way I'm agreeing to walk to school or studying or anything with him.

"Have a good night," I say, with all the neutrally I can summon.

"You too, Thea."

He lets himself out. I lock the door before I pick up the phone. "Megan?"

She screams. Normally I would scream with her but if I do, Mr. Spectacular might hear and take it the wrong way.

"He sounds gorgeous," she says. "You have to take a picture of him."

"No way."

"Describe him then. In excruciating detail."

"He's probably on Instagram. Look him up."

"Okay, but you know my phone. Hanging up now."

"No!" I say. "Use your laptop."

"Oh, how quickly we forget the less fortunate."

"What? Oh—crap." There's still no electricity in Haddock. "Sorry. Hurry up and call me right back. I have lots more to tell you."

I call Glenn while I wait. He doesn't answer. "I had a very interesting first day of school," I tell his voice mail. "Call me."

No-No lets out a pitiful cry, reminding me he's still imprisoned. I set him free, take his picture and text it to Megan: Antonio Banderas says hello.

She replies: Megan says Arf! And then: I'm not having any luck finding the hottie. Help me!

I go to my room and turn on my computer. Megan sends me another message: Antonio Banderas? Really???

My mother nearly choked on her dinner when I asked Emily why she named her dog after a movie star. I text my aunt's answer to Megan: Aunt Emily said it was to remind her not to get married again. Her ex-husband looked like a young A.B. (I've seen pics. The man was HOT.) But he was his mother's lapdog and he had a tiny penis.

Megan's reply: LMFAO!!!

I open my browser and log on to Instagram. If Chase Tinsley has a page he's made it very difficult to find. But Google recognizes his name. It gives me a link to Zachary Prep's online newsletter. There's a picture of him, shirtless and dripping wet, standing next to Conner, also shirtless. They've won a swim team championship or something and they both look so happy—and relaxed, like standing side by side in front of a camera is a regular thing.

Are Chase and Conner friends?

I ogle the picture for several moments before I text it to Megan, adding: That's Conner on the left.

And it's this new, shirtless Conner that I'm having a hard time pulling my eyes away from. The Conner from school is cute in his crumpled Zachary blazer and crooked plaid tie. But this Conner has a sculpted chest, arms I want to touch and a confident smile that says he's in his element.

Swim team Conner is hot.

My phone rings and Megan screams, "Oh my God!" into my ear.

"I know."

"Would your aunt consider adopting me?"

"Probably."

"Chase is the captain of the swim team. Remember? I saw him when I was looking at Zachary's Insta. He reminds me of the guy on that show we like."

"That narrows it down."

"The one with the hot guy from India."

I shift my eyes to Chase. Briefly. "Yeah, I see it."

"But your guy is ten times hotter," she says. "He's un-freaking-believable."

"He's not my guy," I say. And I'm a tiny bit annoyed she hasn't mentioned Conner.

"And that voice," Megan says, ignoring me. "He even has the accent."

"What accent?"

"Like the actor—he was raised in London. You didn't hear it? The way he enunciates the letter T and the thing he does with his A's? Oh. My. God!"

"That's two," I tell her.

Megan and I strive not to be oh-my-god girls. That's where mother of shit came from. We were trying to come up with something different and Megan said it, and I laughed my ass off because mother of shit makes absolutely no sense, which makes it perfect for us.

"I know, but Thea, they're both so beautiful," she says, and I smile. "You know, officially you are single."

Heat rushes my cheeks. I close the link and turn off my computer. "Really, Megan? I thought you knew me better than that."

"I do. It's just they're both so beautiful."

"Conner has a thing for Paige," I tell her.

"But Chase is the boy next door..."

"I am not having this conversation," I announce before I end the call and toss the phone on the bed. Then I press my face into a fluffy white pillow and scream.

I'm not interested in beautiful boys. I'm here for the math.

My phone makes the beep-beep sound that means I have a text. I pick it up, in case it's Glenn, but of course it's not. I type a reply to Megan's apology: I'm not really mad at you.

I know, I'm mad at him, too. He's being an ass.

Glenn has only called me once since I've been here. One call, one text. He still thinks I should date other people. He said it one last time at the airport, but his eyes were rimmed in red and his tone was unconvincing.

I type: What makes him think he knows what's best for me?

The phone rings. "He's always had that attitude about you," Megan says when I answer. "That's the reason he broke up with you the first time. For your own good, right?"

"It wasn't a breakup because we weren't a couple—and he had a good reason for waiting to make us official."

"Yeah," she says laughing. "A looong list of reasons."

"Okay, now I'm mad at you."

I hang up and turn off my phone before she starts naming names.