JENNIE

My thoughts are racing as I start the washing machine. Lisa came here, to Seattle—and I didn't have to ask or beg her. She came of her own accord. Even if it's only for one night, it means so much to me, and I hope that it will turn out to be a step in the right direction for us. I'm still so conflicted when it comes to our relationship . . . We always have so many problems, so many pointless fights. We're such different people, and I'm at a point now where I'm not sure it will ever work.

But right now, now that she's here with me, I want nothing more than to try this long-distance half relationship/half friendship, and see where it takes us.

"I knew she'd show up," Kimberly says from behind me.

When I turn around, I see her leaning against the doorframe of the laundry room. "I didn't," I tell her.

She gives me an oh-please look. "You had to know she would. I've never seen a couple like the two of you."

I sigh. "We aren't exactly a couple . . ."

"You ran into her arms like something out of a movie. She's been here for less than fifteen minutes, and you're already doing her laundry." She nods to the machine.

"Well, her clothes are filthy," I say, ignoring the first part of her remark.

"You two just can't stay away from one another; it's really something to watch. I do wish you were coming out tonight so you could get dressed up and show her what she's missing by not being here in Seattle with you." She winks and then leaves me alone in the laundry room.

She's right about Lisa and me not being able to stay away from each other. It's always been that way, since the day I met her. Even when I tried to convince myself that I didn't want her, I couldn't ignore the fluttering I felt inside me every time we ran into each other.

Back then, Lisa always seemed to appear wherever I was . . . Granted, I did go to her fraternity house every chance I could. I hated it there, but something inside me drew me to the place, knowing that if I went, I would see her. I didn't admit it then, not even to myself, but I longed for her company, even when she was being cruel to me. The memories feel so ancient and almost dreamlike as I recall the way she used to stare at me during class, then roll her eyes when I said hello.

The washing machine makes a random little beep, bringing me back to reality, and I hurry down the hallway to the guest room that has been designated as Lisa's for the night. The room is empty; Lisa's empty bag is still on the bed, but she's nowhere to be found. I walk across the hall and find her standing over the desk in my room. Her fingertips are tracing the cover of one of my notebooks.

"What are you doing in here?" I ask.

"I just wanted to see where you're . . . living now. I wanted to see your room."

"Oh." I notice the way her brows pull together when she calls it "my room."

"Is this for a class?" she asks, holding up the black leather notebook.

"It's for creative writing." I nod at her. "Did you read it?" I can't help but feel a little nervous at the thought that she may have. I've only completed one assignment so far, but like everything else in my life, it ended up relating to her.

"A little."

"It's just an assignment," I say, fumbling to explain myself. "We were asked to do a freestyle essay as the first assignment and—"

"It's good, really good," she says, praising me, and places the book back on the desk for a moment before picking it up again and opening it to the first page. "'Who I am.'" She reads the first line out loud.

"Please don't," I beg.

She gives me a questioning little smirk. "Since when are you shy about showing your schoolwork?"

"I'm not. It's just . . . that piece is personal. I'm not even sure if I want to turn it in."

"I read your religion journal," she says—and my heart stops.

"What?" I pray that I heard her wrong. She wouldn't. She couldn't have read it . . .

"I read it. You left it at the apartment, and I found it."

This is humiliating. I stand in silence while Lisa stares at me from across the room. Those were private thoughts that I never expected anyone to read, except my professor, maybe. I'm mortified that Lisa pored over my deepest thoughts.

"You weren't supposed to read those. Why would you?" I ask, trying not to look at her.

"Every entry was about me," she says by way of defending herself.

"That's not the point, Lisa." My stomach is in my throat, making it hard to breathe. "I was going through a really bad time, and those were private thoughts for my journal. You were never meant to—"

"They were really good, Jen. So good. It hurt me to read the way you were feeling, but the words, what you had to say—it was perfect."

I know she's trying to compliment me, but it only embarrasses me further.

"How would you feel if I read something you wrote to express your feelings in a private way?" I ignore the compliments from her about my writing. Her eyes flash with panic, and I tilt my head in confusion. "What?"

"Nothing," is all she says, shaking her head.