What the hell am I doing? How long can I keep up this charade? Do I even want to anymore? Blackmailing Katharine was enticing. I mean, she was begging for it, but where did that leave me? Playing games again. Making lives miserable. Hiding behind a radio personality for the next year and a half. Would giving into the Panhellenic’s wants secure my future? Or did it just confirm I was a coward?

Webster’s Dictionary defines a coward as someone who is too afraid to do what is right or expected. Someone who is not brave at all or courageous.

I’d always looked for the easiest way out of a problem. Even if it meant dragging the people I love through the dirt to get there. Even if it meant turning my back on something scary instead of jumping in head first. That, my friends, made me a coward.

So in the end, would Sunday Lane, DJ Sinister, and Sydney Porter take the easy way out?

Was Sydney Porter a coward?

My head flew up when Brain tapped the glass again. He signaled the countdown with his fingers. Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Showtime.

“Welcome back, Northern. Sunday Lane here. Still a beautiful Tuesday night in the Pacific Northwest. Can’t complain.” I snickered through the microphone. “Well, yes, I can. That’s what I’m here for, right?” Pulling away from the mic, I stared down at the recorder, grazing the buttons with my fingertips. “So I was thinking about it over break. Sunday Lane is sick of complaining all the time.”

Brian pulled his feet off the desk and slowly shook his head.

“I mean, it’s easy for her, right? She doesn’t really exist but between the hours of five to nine, two days a week. She gets to say whatever she wants with zero consequences. But let me tell you, my friends, there are always consequences to one’s actions. No one escapes that, and if they think they do, they are wrong. The guilt weighing on their shoulders will drag them down into the abyss. And not to get all biblical on you, but the truth,” I whispered into the mic, creating a pivotal moment, “will set you free.

“So I’ll start with me. Three truths about Sunday Lane. Truth one. Her real passion is music, not talking crap over the airwaves. Truth two. Her real name is Sydney Porter. Do what you will to her. And truth three… and here’s the real kicker people…” I paused, closing my eyes. “Sydney Porter is in love with number twenty-four, Gray Peters.”

Brian went ape-shit in the control room. Throwing paperwork. Slamming his head against the filing cabinet. I hated to see him this way, but it had to be done. I couldn’t live with the pressure, and I didn’t want to.

“Bonus truth,” I said over the mic. “Panhellenic, if you’re listening out there, Sydney Porter ain’t nobody’s bitch.”

Within my short life, I could count on one hand the number of times I felt truly brave. 1) Looking out for Jack throughout the years. 2) Holding my head high when my father’s casket descended into the earth. 3) Staying true to myself even when faced with Mom’s everlasting disappointment. And right now, putting my heart out there, because there was only one person I trusted enough to give it to—Gray Peters.

Approaching my truck, I surveyed the tires. Not slashed. That was good news. I couldn’t guarantee they wouldn’t be tomorrow. No odd substance in the tail pipe. Also good news. I saw it when I settled into the driver’s seat. A note tucked under the windshield wiper. Rolling down my window, I grabbed it and took a wary glance at the empty lot.

Sydney Porter (alias Sunday Lane, alias DJ Sinister),

I am aware of who you are and where you live. I have detailed notes and am willing fight with you until the end of days if you ignore my demands. This is just the first of many.

In your backseat, you will find a box containing a dress. Wear this dress to the athletic dorm tonight. Wear it all night. No alterations. I will be watching. Look for the dumb jock in room 213 who is desperately, utterly, and dangerously in love with you.

XOXO,

Micro-dick

My hands had never moved faster. I grabbed the box from the backseat and opened it to find it was a blue dress. Similar to the one I had freshman year. Pulling it out, I held it to my nose, breathing in the soft cotton. My arms shook as I yanked off my jeans and shirt, quickly throwing the dress on over my head. And I was glad I had on my Chucks, because I was about to run.

And run I did. Weaving between the dark redbrick campus buildings, pushing through students chatting in the quad, until eventually, I arrived where it all began two years ago.

Catching my breath, I peered up at the athletic dorm, trying to regain my composure. My stomach heaved, turning my insides out with nervous anticipation. The night’s mist cooled my flushed cheeks, and mustering all my courage, I stepped into the building.

I paused in the front lobby. It was completely empty. No meatheads or groupies like there usually was when I visited Jack. The only sound of life came from above on the second floor.

Horrible music.

I listened for a few seconds before my ears started to bleed. That poor stereo! But a brilliant move on Gray’s part. He knew it would call to me like a wounded animal, begging to be put out of its misery.

It was in the elevator when the first clear rush of nerves hit me, causing my pulse to rise until I thought I’d faint. Don’t, Sydney. Now was not the time to falter. Now was the time to make it right.

The elevator doors sprang open to the floor’s recreation room. The same recreation room I was in two years earlier. It was decorated with the same hand-me-down Christmas lights from freshman year. Spotting the boom box in the corner, I ran toward it, shut it off, and whispered my apologies for Gray’s offensive taste in music.

When I turned, I noticed a small sign: Drink Me or Don’t was posted next to a punch bowl in the corner of the room. It was Jungle Juice. I poured myself a cup and leaned against the wall. The same wall where I was lured into a dorm room by a yogurt pickup line and promises of whiskey. Only there was no eighteen-year-old Gray across the room, awkwardly stumbling toward me, making my brain turn to mush with his charming smile.

But there was a twenty-one-year-old Gray here. Waiting for me.

Peeking my head down the deserted hallway, I noticed red gummy bears. They were taped to the wall in an arrow formation. Following its direction, I saw a warm glow from room 213, Gray Peters’s old dorm room.

When I walked inside, Gray wasn’t there. But what was there took my breath away.

A shoebox full of crystals on the desk. Gray’s artwork taped to the walls, with one addition, the picture of me he drew at the beach. His guitar was propped in the corner. A bottle of Jameson sat next to his old desk lamp. A sign was taped above the extra dorm bed. Reminder: Push Away When Done Banging Chicks.

I felt tears slide down my face, and I lifted the hem of my dress, wiping them away.

It was freshman year again. It was two years ago, but right now. It was where we left off. Where our misunderstanding was created, but now it was our beginning.

“I’m back.”

Startled by Gray’s voice, I flipped around. He was standing in the doorway, wearing just his boxers and running shoes, holding two waters and an open bag of gummy bears. He was breathing deeply, like he’d just run laps, and he steadied his eyes on me, smiling cautiously.

“Took you long enough.” Wearing a grin so big it hurt, I sat on the bed. My hands trembled, and I held them firmly in my lap. “Two years is a long time to wait for a drink of water.”

“Two years?” He stepped inside, now with a smile matching mine. “I was only gone five minutes, Sydney Fu.” Handing me a bottle of water, he sat on the empty bed across from me.