It's been almost three weeks of living with Tara, during which we hardly saw each other.

She leaves the apartment to go to class before I do, and in the evenings, she's either out or in her room.

Dr. Garcia didn't give us anything new to work on, either, probably because it's useless right before Thanksgiving.

This morning, I to go to the kitchen as soon as I wake up to confirm my theory that Tara has been avoiding me on purpose since the night we drank wine on the couch.

It's too early for her to leave, and just like I hoped, she's still in the apartment.

When I approach the kitchen area to make coffee, an open notebook on the counter catches my eye. It's Tara's agenda. Lines of neat handwriting adorn the pages, and I don't know how to feel about what I see because she hardly has any free spots there. Not even on the weekend.

I should be relieved she's busy, but unease gnaws at me instead. I know damn well what it's like to need to be swamped, so you don't have the time or energy to think about stuff. It's been my MO for the last three years, but while Tara is out, I do the work in the privacy of my bedroom instead of sleeping. Not that I can sleep.

My fingers itch to turn the page and see what else she's doing, but she doesn't trust me as it is. Snooping will only make it worse.

The sound of feet slapping against the rug makes me straighten. I face the counter and put the coffee maker on, waiting for Tara to come up to me.

"Good morning," she says. "I didn't think you'd be up so early."

"Morning. Coffee?"

She grabs her agenda and sits on a stool at the breakfast bar. "Yeah, thanks."

"How do you like it?"

"With cream but no sugar."

"Gotcha."

I make the drinks and hand Tara hers, sitting by her side. Tension radiates off her in palpable waves, and I hate it. I don't know why the fuck I care. Probably because we're stuck living together, and I'd rather we behaved like roommates instead of ignoring each other.

"Are you going to be home tonight?" I ask. I'm heading home for Thanksgiving tomorrow, and so is she. If she's not here, I won't see her until next week.

"I think so. Drew and I are meeting to work out, but then I'll be home."

Of course. Evans isn't the one she's running from. I bet his name is written in that pink book of hers.

I hide my scowl in the mug and down my coffee. That she doesn't ask me anything bugs me, and I can't figure out why.

♡♡♡

I would get an A+ in dodging ex fuck buddies if the subject existed. I managed to avoid Elena for weeks, ignoring her calls and texts and making sure to sit as far from her in class as I could.

Luck isn't on my side this morning. She's waiting for me on the stone steps of the Science Building, and I swallow a groan because walking past her would make me look like a jerk. Blame my mom; she's always told me people should behave nicely during holidays because you never know what someone is going through. To put it simply, feel free to be an asshole anytime except on Thanksgiving and Christmas.

Elena makes it difficult because she glares at me, tapping her foot. "Well, well. Look who's here. Was it so hard to answer my call?"

Not one call. Dozens of them. Not hard. Impossible.

"What's up?" I say, already raring to go.

"A lot. You'd know what if you texted me back."

Forgive me, Mom. I'm about to be an asshole before Thanksgiving.

I take a deep breath and look skyward for courage before refocusing on Elena.

"El. If a guy doesn't answer, it's because he doesn't want to. If we want someone, we text first. I thought I made myself clear."

"Just because you got mad at me for talking to Dr. Garcia doesn't mean-"

"Yes, it does. I don't feel like going on with whatever we had. I lost interest in fucking."

Elena snorts. "You? Nice try."

Impatience rises within me like a damn tsunami, threatening to flood the fuck out of everything around me. "It's not a try," I say. "Look, I'm sorry. It's not because of what you said or did. It's just me. I don't feel attracted to you enough to hook up with you."

It's harsh, but I've run out of options. I need to get the point across once and for all.

"Yo, Bast."

Brian trudges up the steps, followed by Drew. Elena shifts her weight, but before she can say anything, Brian nods at her and fist-bumps me. "I was hoping to catch you before class. We're gonna grab a bite at lunch break, guys only. The Fork, two p.m. How are things with your roommate?"

"Baby girl told me you suck ass." Evans punches my side. "You better behave, you hear me?"

Elena's lips press into a thin line. "Of course," she hisses. "Lost interest, huh?"

She pivots and stomps up the steps. The wooden door of the Science Building slams so hard behind her Brian and Drew flinch.

"Oh fuck, she didn't know, did she?" Brian says.

I shrug. "She knows now."

I should feel bad, but although Tara thinks Elena is in love with me, a year of hookups gave me enough evidence to conclude she isn't. She's not the caring type, and I never wanted her to care. We used each other for physical release, but I'm not attracted to her as a person. I wouldn't fall for her even if we carried on fucking for another year.

"Alright. Let's go to class," Evans rubs his giant palms together. "One day till the break. We can do this."

♡♡♡

Despite having lunch with the guys, I'm famished by the time I enter the apartment in the evening. I kick off my sneakers and go to the kitchen to fix myself a sandwich.

My steps halt. Tara is standing in front of the open fridge in the dark room, scratching her chin.

"Can't decide what to cook?"

She jumps, pressing a palm to her chest. "Damn, Basti. Knock or something."

A laugh escapes me. "Yeah, knock. I'll text you next time I want to enter my kitchen."

"No need. Just enter with confidence. Loud steps, lots of noise. Typical guy stuff."

Standing behind Tara, I reach for some lettuce. "We can make a salad. Since we're not gonna be here, we'll have to throw this away otherwise."

"Yeah," Tara says. "Sit, Basti. I'm going to cut everything."

"I can do it."

"No, you can't." Tara looks up at me, batting her lashes. "I saw you. I'm not feeling like eating chunks of veggies the size of this apartment."

"Okay then."

I grab a bottle of beer and open it as I lean against the counter. I offer one to Tara, but she refuses and opens the faucet to wash some tomatoes.

"Did you work out with Evans?" I ask.

"Yeah. Why?"

I peel a corner of the label off the bottle and smooth my thumb over the sticky spot on the glass. "Just asking. We had lunch together."

"Drew told me," Tara says, grabbing a knife.

I sip my beer and watch her. More accurately, I'm trying very hard to watch how she sinks the knife into the tomatoes and not stare at her ass.

Two minutes later, I know I'm failing.

She has a beautiful, toned body that takes lots of work to maintain. No wonder Evans loves working out with her. I'd probably drop the weights on myself if she was at the gym.

And now we live together. And despite the shitty glitter and the weird quote the guys would give me shit for, she's not that obnoxious. She's quiet, just like now. Or maybe it's because of me. She doesn't seem to have trouble speaking with others. Evans, for example.

"Shit."

The knife clatters against the sink, and my gaze darts to Tara's profile.

"What's wrong?" I leave the bottle on the granite countertop and walk over to her.

"I...cut." Tara's studying her hand, and I grab it as soon as I see the crimson liquid running down her index finger.

"Let me help."

I open the faucet and shove her shaky hand under the stream of cold water. Tara clenches her fist, and I uncurl her fingers, keeping my thumb pressed to her palm. "Don't. The water will stop the bleeding. I need to see if you need stitches."

She trembles. Every inch of her does, but the cut isn't that bad - antiseptic and a band-aid will be enough.

"No more water, "she chokes out, pressing her uninjured hand to her ear.

I close the faucet. A tiny drop of blood clings to her skin, and Tara looks away from it.

"Hey," I whisper. "It's done. Let's go to my room. I have a first-aid kit, remember?"

She shakes her head. My gut churns because I've never seen her like this, and all because of a tiny injury. I've thought of her as someone fearless. The disgusting bugs didn't even make her flinch, and this...

"Tara. Come on." I gently nudge her forward, out of the room. "Let me take care of the cut, and I'll chop the rest of the stuff."

She lets me lead her to my bedroom and waits until I disinfect the cut and wrap a band-aid around her finger.

But she doesn't look at me. Not even a glance.

"Let's go to the kitchen," I say.

"No, it's okay. I'm not hungry."

"I told you I'll make dinner. Seriously, I don't mind."

Tara's eyes finally meet mine. She raises her hand and gives me a small smile, wiggling her fingers. "Thanks for this. I'll be in my room."

She bolts out of my bedroom, and I return to the kitchen, but my appetite is non-existent. After tidying up, I do the same thing Tara did - I lock myself in my room and fall onto my bed, folding my arms behind my head.

♡♡♡

I can't sleep. Can't work, either. My jumbled thoughts spin in circles, revolving around the knife incident. By midnight, I've lost hope of dozing off.

I throw the comforter aside and sit in bed, stretching. The need to check on Tara hasn't left me for a second, so that's what I do.

I can tell her something lame, like hearing some weird shit outside the apartment or some other nonsense, like asking her if she's into Evans. Whatever gets her talking.

The door to Tara's room is cracked open, making the task of talking to her easier. I step inside, and my eyes dart around the den.

It's hard to believe Brian used to live here. Everything looks different. Framed quotes hang on the wall, fancy-ass curtains cover the window, and I haven't seen so many fucking pillows in my life. I don't know how the bed hasn't collapsed under their weight.

But Tara isn't there. I make another step forward, and stop dead in my tracks.

The air doesn't smell of orange and vanilla. It reeks of bleach, and I rush to Tara's en-suite, throwing the door open before I can process what I'm doing.

My heart pounds and squeezes when I see her crawling around the bathroom, rubbing the tiled floor with a rag.

"Twenty-two minutes," she mumbles. "It's been...twenty-two."

I run a hand over my face. My eyes water from the pungent smell, and I blink, but the sight in front of me doesn't change. It's like a creepy movie scene someone put on replay with Tara's mumbling as a soundtrack.

I crouch down next to her and pry the rag out of her hands. "It's clean."

"There's still so much left," she whispers.

I swallow the lump in my throat and sit on the wet floor, leaning against the wall by the sink.

And then, I pull Tara into my arms and hug her, rubbing my hands over her back.

Seventeen chapters in, and I know this book is going to wreck me.