His whole body was pressed against mine, squishing me into the phone booth. He was standing between my legs, and there were all sorts of things happening below the waist that had no business happening in a bar, even on relatively non-crowded Sunday nights.

Apparently, George thought so, too. “Let’s get out of here.” His voice was little more than a warm breath in my ear. I nodded and stumbled after him.

“The bill?”

“I think between the heir to Greece, Madame Hollywood, and Miss Park Ave., they’ve got it covered. We’ll get it next time.” He grabbed my hand. “Come on.”

As the cool air on the street hit my face, my thoughts began to clear. What was I doing? I was leaving a bar with George Harrison Prescott. I was…going home with George Harrison Prescott. And my bra was open under my shirt.

We walked back and he swiped his ID card at the gate to Prescott College while I struggled to put my underclothes back together. My memory banks concocted an elaborate montage of wet-haired breakfast partners I’d seen George saunter into the dining hall with over the past three years. I did not want to be one of those chicks.

You don’t have to be. Just go back to your room afterward and come down with Lydia.

No! That wasn’t the point. I’d done the one-night-stand thing. I hated it. And that was with a stranger. This was George, a person who lived in my building. A person I’d have to see, if not every day, then at least twice a week at society meetings. Society incest. Bad idea.

At the door to my entryway, George started kissing me again. Lord, it was nice. Like a whole piggybank full of copper pennies and sex appeal.

“George.” I hated myself at this moment. “I can’t.”

He took a breath, as if he’d been waiting for this. “Okay.”

“Don’t you want to know why?”

He stepped back, the smile and shrug slipping into position. “Nope. If it’s me, I’m not in the mood to hear it, and if it’s you, I’m not going to be the one who helps you figure it out. But, boo,” he added, ducking behind me to refasten my bra as easily as he’d undone it at the bar, “I’m not going anywhere, and I like having you around. You know what I mean?”

I nodded, afraid to speak for fear I’d take it back. I pulled the bra down until my breasts popped back into the cups. George watched, clearly amused.

“You’re really something else, Amy.”

“So are you,” I replied. “You act so differently with me than you do when you’re with the other Diggers.”

He laughed and put his finger to his lips. “Shhh. That’s our secret.”

And then he hopped down the stairs, strolled over to his entryway, and was gone. For a few seconds, I thought about hurrying after him and throwing myself into his arms, admitting that I’d made a terrible mistake.

I’m lucky I didn’t.

Instead, I trudged up to my door, where I noticed that Lydia had cleaned off the last traces of dried whatever-it-was on the doorknob. Finally. And, just think: I had actual classes tomorrow afternoon. Actual reading to do. Actual—I don’t know, schoolwork. At college. Imagine that.

Probably a very good thing I wasn’t getting laid tonight.

I opened the door to my suite and stepped inside.

Brandon Weare sat on the sofa, his hands full of roses.

12. Scandal Sheets

The moment I saw him, I knew exactly what I should say:

1) Brandon, go home. I can’t do this tonight.

2) Oh, flowers! How sweet! Golly, I’m wiped. Can we chat tomorrow?

3) Brandon, because I like and respect you so much, I’m going to be honest. This isn’t working out. Exhibit A: I’ve just spent the last half hour making out with another man.

Funny. I knew all of this, and yet the words that tumbled out of my mouth were, “How long have you been sitting here?” In my room? Holding flowers?

“About five minutes?” I saw the notebook in his lap. He was leaving me a message, not sitting around in my room, waiting for me to return. Duh.

“Where’s Lydia?” I asked next.

“Not here.” He looked at me. “It’s Sunday night.”

Of course. A time when all the normal society members were happily ensconced in their tombs.

“Come to think, what are you doing here?”

I decided to play coy. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Oh, Amy…” He sighed, gave up, and held out the roses. “For you.”

“Thanks.” I gave them an obligatory sniff. Like all roses, the heady scent hit my noggin a full three seconds later. It’s almost when you’ve given them up as merely pretty that a rose wallops you with its perfume.

“Your new favorite.” Brandon winked.

I smiled sadly into the blooms. “Yeah, I guess. So, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“It’s an apology. For the way I treated you this morning at the office. I was rude.”

“I deserved it.” Out loud, too.

He shook his head. “No. Well, okay, maybe a little. But mostly—I’m actually glad you are here tonight, Amy. We need to talk.”

“Tonight?” But…I have WAP reading. All of a sudden even Russian literature seemed preferable.

“This second.”

Uh-oh. Had Glenda talked him into this? But even as I thought it, I knew I couldn’t blame this on a conspiracy. I’d kept Brandon waiting for far too long.

But why had he chosen tonight of all nights to do something about it? Tonight, when I’d been this close to hooking up with someone else.

“Okay,” I said slowly. “We’ll talk.”

But now that I’d acquiesced, Brandon seemed in no hurry to get to the point. He stood, stalked to the bookshelves across the common room, and ran his hand through his already shaggy brown hair. It was so very Brandon that I couldn’t help but smile. He was so damn cute.

Almost instantly, a hot, horrible wash of guilt quenched that budding tenderness. Yep, cute enough to forget about and go make out with George.

“I’m not saying this isn’t my fault, too, Amy,” Brandon was saying, and I snapped back to attention.

That sounded promising. “You’re not?”

“I mean, I think if I’d been clear from the beginning, we wouldn’t have let things go down this…amorphous path.”

“Oh.”

“Because that’s not how I wanted it. Sure, you weren’t ready on Valentine’s Day, and I didn’t want to push you, but now…” He returned and sat beside me, pushing the roses aside and taking my hand in his. “After everything we’ve done together…God, it’s so ironic. Aren’t guys supposed to be trying to talk girls into strings-free sexual relationships?”

“Well, times have changed,” I said. “It’s the 21st century.” Although, try to explain that to a hundred years’ worth of Diggers….

“But that’s not what I want,” Brandon went on, then hesitated. “Because…I’m in love with you, Amy.”

PEOPLE WHO HAVE TOLD ME THEY LOVE ME

1) My parents. Duh. Also assorted relatives.

2) Little Stevie Morris, in second grade.

3) Jacob Allbrecker, because you’re supposed to say that to a girl when you take her virginity. (I said it, too, to be fair.)

4) Alan Albertson, right before he left for London.

5) Lydia, especially when I bring her late-night snacks.

From the above list, it’s easy to discern that Brandon Weare is neither the first nor the most important person in my life who has used the L-word in reference to me. And yet, my familiarity with the concept mattered not one iota in that magical moment when another person comes out and admits that they favor you above anyone else in the world.

Because, let’s face it, that’s what love—romantic love—is, right? Liking that person best?

Here’s where I wish I hadn’t dropped that Greek philosophy survey right when we got to Symposium. (That and the fact that it was way too easy for Malcolm to rag on me about Aristotle.) I remember something about aliens with too many arms and legs, but that’s about it. And really, who has a better understanding of love based on extraterrestrial appendages?