"Well, you know what?" Macallan's eyes blazed bright blue with determination as she stood in front of me. "Screw that, and screw him. We can have a great night without boys."

I'd briefed Macallan on my conversation with Grayson, but I hadn't provided her with all of the details. While I trusted my friend, the McKennas' finances and Trip's status as a full-ride scholarship student wasn't for me to share with anyone. I was all too familiar with having my family's private business targeted because that was where it hurt.

"What about Jameson?" I asked, half-wishing the tension between Grayson and I had gone undetected. We still had to sit together on the coach bus, but I'd perfected the silent treatment. He'd given up on trying to talk to me after five minutes.

"He hates dancing because he thinks he's bad at it, so it's you and me, Chan."

"Mac, I'm a total nightmare right now," I said, pressing back a laugh as we left our parkas with the coat-checker stationed in front of what I imagined was a massive closet. "I don't want to ruin your night."

"You're not a total nightmare," Macallan said, shaking her head with a smile. It faded a moment later into something a bit more serious. "But even if you were, you're my nightmare. I'll always back your play."

I stayed quiet for a moment, struck by how lucky I was to have a friend like Macallan. She'd have my back through thick and thin. I smiled at my shoes before looking up at her. "I love you, I really do. I just don't know if I have it in me to dance right now."

"Hold on," she instructed, holding up a hand. She smiled as music from the main room floated into the hallway. "The DJ just started playing Jon Bellion's Good Things Fall Apart. Now we're morally obligated to go dance."

And so we did.

Gianna and Kelsey met us on the illuminated dance floor, the lights from the disco ball rotating in a shimmering orbit. After three songs, I summoned Jameson over and gently coerced him into dancing with Macallan because no, she wouldn't break up with you if you accidentally stepped on her toes. He might hate dancing, but he loved his girlfriend. If she beamed at him the way she was now, I was positive he'd want to dance with her the entire night.

By the time I'd lost count of how many songs had played, I could almost pretend that I was having a good time. But when my phone vibrated with a text, I felt my face pale.

MOM, 8:20 PM: I shouldn't have to suck up to my only daughter with a $5,000 suit

I read the text to Gianna and Kelsey, trying and failing to keep the hurt out of my voice. I didn't want to feel this way. I'd prefer to feel nothing at all.

"Shit, Chan," Kelsey sighed out. "She's not in the position to be trying to guilt-trip you."

"Outside doesn't look too crowded," Gianna said, gesturing to one of the glass doors leading to a rooftop garden. The slim band of diamonds on her wrist twinkled in the light. "We could go out there for a bit."

"I need a minute," I said, taking a step away from them and nearly knocking into someone. "I just need space to breathe and..."

I couldn't finish my sentence because I needed a lot of things, and listing them would breathe unnecessary life into my problems. But maybe what I needed the most was the version of my Mom who I loved and trusted for the first sixteen years of my life.

I glanced across the dance floor. Macallan was attempting to teach Jameson the waltz, and I wasn't selfish enough to interrupt that. I wasn't selfish enough to make tonight all about me.

"I'm fine," I managed to say, shoving my hurt aside because they needed to believe me. They wouldn't let me walk away if the shattered edges of myself started glistening beneath the disco ball. "I'm fine and I'll be right back, I promise."

Gianna and Kelsey let me go, a decision that I appreciated beyond words. I needed to free my head from the dark thunderclouds of self-loathing, and I needed to do it alone so I wouldn't electrocute anyone with words I didn't mean.

My heart was pounding, racing, running around my ribcage as I tried to work through my hard feelings. I gave Gretchen England an inch, and she disregarded the metric system. She was my mother, and I should've known better. Why didn't I know better?

I didn't even realize I had tears in my eyes before it was too late. My vision blurred as I pushed through the glass double-doors and out onto the rooftop garden. The frigid air pricked my lungs like a handful of needles.

String lights zig-zagged overhead, bathing the garden in a soft glow. Snow dusted the small fir trees along the perimeter, but the heat lamps made the cold a little more tolerable. I recognized a few of the students talking in clusters - Caleb and Fiona from my assigned dinner table - but I hoped they'd keep their distance. I was too far outside of their social stratosphere for them to approach me.

As I neared the railing, my right heel became a victim of an uneven cobblestone, and I nearly tripped. My phone slipped out of my hand, falling face down with a sickening smack. I stared at it for a beat, fortifying myself for yet another inconvenience, before picking it up. By some tiny miracle, the screen remained intact. I exhaled an inaudible sigh of relief.

I glanced up and froze.

Trip McKenna was standing no more than ten yards in front of me.

It was déjà vu.

I was out in the bitter cold, borderline an emotional wreck over a text Mom had sent me, with Trip here to witness it. The glass door was closing behind him, indicating that he'd only just stepped outside.

At least my phone's screen didn't shatter this time around.

"I'm fine," I blurted out, but the little rivers of mascara under my eyes definitely told a different story. I felt like a broken record.

Trip nodded, and slowly made his way over to where I stood at the railing. As the wind picked up, he shoved a hand through his hair. He must've tamed the curls with hair gel because they remained relatively smoothed back.

"I could stay out here for a minute if you want," he said, a silent question in his eyes. He would leave if I asked him to, but no part of me wanted that.

"Okay." It was a breathless word.

Deciding that because we'd played out an eerily similar scene before, I opened my phone to the text messages with Mom and held the device out for Trip to see. The brightness of the screen captured his grimace as he read through the exchange.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Trip asked.

I sighed, looking out at the city traffic that ran in illuminated rivers down to the inky darkness of the harbor. Boston was home, but Mom seemed to have taken a piece of it with her when she moved to Los Angeles. I still hadn't figured out what exactly that piece was.

"Not really," I admitted. The wind tugged strands of my hair in front of my face as I turned to face him with a half-smile. "I'm sure you saw that one coming."

His lips twitched, but his gaze was as steady as ever. "I still had to try."

"Well, thank you for that. Some people don't care enough to try at all."

Trip was looking at me, looking into my eyes as though they would reveal some sign of insincerity. Each quiet second that ticked by seemed to last an eternity. He finally exhaled, the tension clear in the line of his jaw as he continued to hold my gaze. I seemed to be a perfect stranger to him.

"-no idea what happened, but she just lost her mind and dipped out. Probably family shit."

I spun around at the sound of the somewhat distant, unwelcome voice of Grayson Kirby. He was pushing through the glass doors alongside Tony D on the opposite side of the garden.

Grayson was talking about me. That much was obvious.

He was also lying. That wouldn't be obvious to Trip.

God, I was not prepared to tolerate an encounter with them, knowing full well that nothing good would come of it. When I looked back at Trip, he carefully neutralized his expression.

"We're not doing this here," I told him.

Before Trip could answer, I snatched his hand and gave light a run for its money as I sped us over to the other door. Warm air enveloped us the moment we stepped inside, but there was a coldness lingering in my chest. Grayson's words echoed in my head: probably family shit.

Insecurity suddenly perfumed my thoughts. Did my so-called family shit define me at Cannondale? Were the shadows of my life all that people cared about? I wanted to be defined by what I was good at - my academics, lacrosse, always keeping my head held high. But not this. Never this.

I was still holding Trip's hand.

I wanted to keep holding his hand, but there was something I needed to ask him and I realized I couldn't go another day without an answer.

"Chandler, what-"

"Just trust me for a second, please," I cut him off, concentrating on weaving through the sea of our peers. My gaze landed on the door to the closet where Macallan and I had dropped off our parkas. The coat-checker was nowhere in sight.

Maybe I should've thought my plan through a little more, but I'd already embraced the point of no return. I led Trip into the coat-closet and shut the door behind us.