"Really, Dex?" I exclaimed, my eyes fixed on his but my attention firmly on Holly. "Violet Apex? I don't know, I don't get the hype ..."

Both Dex and James stared back at me, equally confused by my very sudden—and very loud—declaration. I widened my eyes pointedly, nodding my head in the direction of the approaching barista.

"Oooh." James, ever-observant, caught on first. He quickly increased the volume of his voice to match mine. "Yeah, Dex, why do you like VIOLET APEX so much?"

Only the day before, I'd thought that James could be the next Zac Efron, the next Ryan Gosling. He was just too perfect looking to be a normal human being and not Hollywood's next big thing. After hearing his attempt to act—which sounded a lot like an out-of-commission robot being powered down for poor performance—I realized that James wouldn't even be considered for a toothpaste commercial.

Dex stuttered a little before finding an answer to my faux-interrogation. "Are you kidding? Krash Angelo is one of the best guitarists of the modern era. Paired with Miles Ripley's vocals, it has to be one of the most polished acts right now."

Like I'd planned it myself—which I had—Holly placed my bagel down in front of me as Dex uttered his last words. She wiped her hands on her frilly apron, flashing him a smile of approval. "You like V.A.?"

Dex's glimmering eyes left mine to find hers, his pupils dilating and his face turning a tad paler than it already had been.

Get it together, I mentally urged.

He swallowed, managing to produce a small, friendly grin. "Yeah."

I groaned internally. 'Yeah'? That was the very best he could do? Though I supposed that one word was better than nothing, and miles better than his original plan to propose.

Baby steps.

Holly clapped her hands beneath her chin, causing her collection of woven pastel bracelets to fall down her slender arm. "Oh my gosh! I love them! I saw them live last spring."

"You're kidding! Me too!" Dex cried, his voice rising higher and higher. I kicked him softly under the table, and he cleared his throat until he found a more becoming pitch. "Ahem. That's crazy."

"Totally! My friends can't stand them, though. I had to go to the concert with my dad ..."

Without consciously realizing it, my eyes swept over Holly's dainty frame. Aside from the fresh caramel highlights running through her bouncy black hair, I could see the remnants of pink and blue box-dye as well. And she certainly had a creative sense of style underneath that dull apron. That day, she'd opted for an oversized aqua sweater, bright pink overalls, and a pair of Jigglypuff Converse that just had to be custom.

It was a far cry from my go-to get-up of black, black, and ... black. She was a far cry from me.

Another flash of color danced in the corner of my eye, stealing my attention from Holly and Dex's budding conversation. A folded-up flyer poked out from Holly's front pocket, decorated with red cups, beer bottles, and detailed vector graphics of smiling students.

"What do you think?"

My head snapped up to find Holly peering back at me inquisitively.

"I'm mocking it up," she explained, pulling the paper from her pocket to show me. "It's for a mixer the Art club's hosting this Friday. We're raising funds for art therapy in underprivileged neighborhoods."

Art club? Underprivileged neighborhoods? Could that girl be any more perfect? I offered a smile. "It looks ... great."

Art was never really my thing.

"I think Noah mentioned that." Dex frowned, turning to confer James. "Right? He said Tyler reserved tickets for some party on Friday night. Noah was planning to visit home that weekend, but ..." Dex shrugged. "Oh, well."

James didn't even try to mask an irritated eye roll. "Probably. Sounds like something Tyler would do."

I gathered that Tyler was Noah's boyfriend. One that James wasn't a fan of if that peeved look on his face was any indication.

Or maybe that was just his face.

"Oh, awesome!" Holly clapped her hands beneath her chin again, setting off her jingling bracelets. "You should definitely check it out. I know tickets are pricey, but it's for a good cause."

My ears pricked, and I tilted my head curiously. "So you'll be there?"

"Of course! I'm working the bar." She winked playfully. "Gotta bulk up my resume somehow. Besides, how different can making coffee and making cocktails really be—"

"Holly!" a frustrated voice called from the kitchen.

The four of us turned in unison to find that the line at the counter was almost out of the door. And that Holly's boss, a burly senior with a scowl that could've intimidated Lucius Malfoy, did not look pleased about it.

The barista's face crumpled up sadly, and she threw us an apologetic wave. "Duty calls. Give me a shout if you need anything else!"

Dex waved back as Holly rushed away, unable to swallow the larger-than-life grin tugging at his mouth.

"Look at that," James uttered proudly, grabbing his friend by the shoulders. "You spoke to her. And you didn't sound like a complete dweeb, either." He raised his espresso in a mock-cheers. "I have to give it to you, buddy. She seems like a cool chick."

My eyes darted to his, a strange knot pulling at the base of my stomach. Lactose? Did Holly actually use lactose-free milk? Because I had a creeping suspicion that some baristas didn't—

"What now?" Dex asked, his voice alight with newfound adrenaline. He sounded like he was ready to run a marathon, or kill a lion with his bare hands.

James motioned to me. "I guess we do the same thing tomorrow. Just like Madi said."

There it was again.

Madi.

I hadn't been Madi since I left my hometown for Camden. Or not since I ran into Noah, at least. That's how I'd wanted it. New life, fresh start. Because Madi reminded me of home. And home reminded me of Eli.

"Madison," I muttered into my coffee cup.

James glanced at me, brow furrowed, but I fixed my attention on Dex.

"And we might be able to fast-track this thing." I picked up my phone again, scrolling down on Holly's Facebook until I found the Art club's page—-and the event listing for Friday's mixer. I spun my phone around, tapping a nail on the screen triumphantly. "You have got to go to this thing."

The guys scanned over the event, and even James looked—dare I say—impressed by my feat.

Or maybe he was still creeped out.

"It's brilliant." I beamed, too proud of my wingwoman-ing skills to care what some Pitt--Hemsworth love-child thought about them. "It's the perfect way for Dex to transition from acquaintance to friend. I mean, Holly practically invited him herself."

James raised an eyebrow coolly. "Or she was fishing for sponsors for her club's fundraiser."

I felt my shoulders slump.

He was probably right.

I hated that.

Refusing to acknowledge defeat, I waved a hand. "Potato, potahto."

James pierced me with his vibrant blue eyes. Why were his eyes always so piercing? "More like apples and oranges."

"Do you fight every point?"

"Do you?"

I scowled, placing the phone down defeatedly and grabbing my coffee instead. Talk about ungrateful. It was almost as if it wasn't them who'd asked me to help Dex get the girl in the first place. There I was, getting the girl, with little-to-no thanks.

I'd had to buy my own bagel, for crying out loud.

Dex, too, looked uncertain, his wide eyes glazing over as he reached for my phone. I felt my excitement deflate further at even his unenthusiastic response to my incredibly foolproof plan.

"Let me guess." I sighed. "You don't like parties."

"No! I love parties."

I tilted my head, studying the way his chest rose and fell nervously. "So, what is it?"

"I just ..." Dex flicked his tongue over his lips, his eyes falling to consider his disastrous denim-on-denim ensemble. "I don't know what to wear! Your style advice kind of threw me through a loop, and I can't very well wear this again—"

"No," I agreed quickly.

Probably too quickly.

But Dex didn't take offense. A shy smile was creeping over his sweet little face, his eyes twinkling with the same mischief they had when he begged me to help him the day before.

"So ..." he urged.

I averted my gaze, reaching for a piece of bacon while I patiently waited for him to go on. When he didn't say anything, I repeated, "Sooo ...?"

"So, help me! Let's go to the mall!"

I looked up from my bagel. My mouth froze mid-bite of bacon, the rest of me stunned into silence. I allowed my gaze to drift to James, then back to Dex, who once again peered at me helplessly under his mop of slicked-back auburn hair.

"You've got to be kidding," was all I could say.

Truly, I couldn't tell if he was joking.

Dex raised his chin an inch, looking more sure of himself than I'd seen him look in the two days I'd known him. "Girls love makeovers, right?"

And then, he shrugged. Shrugged. Like what he was asking of me was no big deal.

"Dex ..." I moaned, checking the time on my watch. Eight minutes to get to class. "I think you guys have it from here—"

A shrill and untimely ringing interrupted my protest.

"No, we don't!" Dex declared.

At the same time, James said, "Um, Madi ..."

As I turned to correct his use of my nickname yet again, I noticed that the awkwardness in his tone matched the discomfort written all over his face. He was grimacing, staring down uncomfortably at ... my phone.

And that's when I realized that it was my phone that had begun to ring.

"You can take it," Dex told me.

But I'd already read the name flashing on the screen, and answering the call was literally the last thing that I wanted to do.

"No," I affirmed, lurching forward to hang up and resisting the urge to throw the whole damn thing across the café floor. Had he seriously used his mother's phone to call me? Had he run out of friends to pester after I'd blocked all of theirs?

Air sat in my chest, thick and heavy. Unmovable. Just like that, fight and flight mode had been activated. Surprise, surprise—I chose flight. With my breath as thick as soup and my heart in my stomach, I wrapped my bagel in its crinkly white paper and scrambled to my feet.

"Where are you going?" Dex asked.

"Class," I offered curtly. My resolve had slightly wavered under Dex's puppy-dog stare, but I felt it harden once more. That phone call, that name ... a much-needed reminder. A reminder of what happened when I allowed myself to get invested in people. Of what happened when my kindness got taken for weakness. Especially by—ugh—men.

Dex rose to his feet, too. "Jefferson Plaza."

I blinked at him, confused.

"Thursday. Three PM. That's where we'll be," he clarified. "And if you happen to be there ..." He shoved his hands into his pockets, attempting to appear indifferent. Nonchalant. But I saw the hopeful glint in his pleading eyes. "That'd be cool. If not, then ... thanks. And I mean that, Madi—Madison."

Something like a smile tugged at my lips. Which made me realize... before ... I'd smiled. For the first time in ... I had no idea.

I tried to bite it off, to retain my air of intimidation and strength. "You won't," I uttered softly. "But you're welcome."

I thanked Holly and her co-workers before leaving the cafe, throwing my empty latte cup into the trash on my way out. I shook my head, biting into my overpriced breakfast and racing through the bustling quad to philosophy.

There was no way I'd be going to that mall or seeing either of those guys again so long as I could help it. Because, after what I'd discovered over the last two weeks, I'd vowed to follow three very simple rules.

One, exercise twice a week.

Two, secure a junior year internship.

And three—stay away from men.

All men.

Especially ones with piercing blue eyes.

"At the heart of our work is exploration," Professor Devi explained, her warm honey gaze scanning the crowded lecture hall. "We're academics, yes, but we're explorers, too. Our job is to push the boundaries of what we know. Often, that can be difficult. We may not like what we discover."

I took a swig from my water bottle and paused my note-taking to watch her pace. Devi was only young—she couldn't have been older than thirty-five—yet she was one of the most admired and accomplished professors at Camden. With a background in both philosophy and science, Devi was revered internationally for her unique and innovative approach to academic research; an accolade I one day hoped to hold myself.

"This class is about argumentation," she told us, moving off her podium, "about learning how to form a research question, how to juggle methodologies, and, ultimately, how to prove a hypothesis. But neither scientific nor philosophical research is ever that straightforward in practice. Research can be messy. Confronting. It can change everything that we think we know about ... well, everything. Even something as simple as an opinion. In a lot of ways, it's those small changes that are the most terrifying—"

Her voice was lost to the sound of a door creaking behind me. A latecomer slipped through, cloaked from head-to-toe in more black than even I dared to wear. She was the kind of person that demanded attention, an intense whirlwind of shadow in her form-fitting dark dress and equally as dark flannel shirt, but it was her trademark silver-studded combat boots that instantly grabbed my attention. I recognized her as the student I'd made the mistake of running into in the dorm hall, but she barely regarded me with more than a look before stomping—literally stomping—to a vacant seat.

If I hadn't known better, I might have said that she was always fashionably late, but I was starting to think there was more to it than that. If class rumors served, she was a senior student who was only taking Devi's class as an elective to satisfy her course load. She didn't want to be there as much as we first years did—that was beyond clear—and when she didn't skip our lessons altogether, she simply kept to herself in the back row. Like me, who'd also taken up residence in the back row at that point, she didn't seem all that bothered that she was on the outs. Unlike me, she already had one foot out the college doors, and with graduation looming, she was likely only holding out for a pass.

I, on the other hand, didn't do pass. The word wasn't in my vernacular.

"Which brings me to your major assignment this semester," Devi was saying, changing the slide on her PowerPoint to one that displayed four words.

Love, faith, knowledge, home.

"During our first lesson, I asked you to submit a sentence to me reflecting your opinion on one of the foregoing topics. Something personal, maybe even controversial. What you didn't know then," she revealed, "is that you were making your first submission."

A flurry of hushed chatter rippled through the auditorium, and Devi smiled as she took it all in. I had no one to discuss her revelation with, but it slapped me across the face just the same. I hadn't expected our professor to actually assess our slips of paper, for them to be graded and potentially judged. The thought made me want to sink down in my seat.

"I've assigned you a partner who submitted a similar thesis statement to your own," she continued, clasping her hands atop her podium. "Together, I'd like you to filter them into research questions, or perhaps into a hypothesis. You are to conduct research—an experiment, a study—and prove to me that you do, in fact, know your opinion to be true."

The conversation came to a sudden stop as every student peered back at her, even the seemingly disinterested latecomer looking up from her phone. Conducting a study around a predetermined question was one thing. Crafting our own work from scratch was another entirely. None of us expected to lead our own research project until years after graduating, let alone in our first years of study.

Devi knew that. She'd once been sitting where we were. She grinned playfully, her toffee eyes twinkling in the warm low light. "I ask that you remain open. That you pursue your hypothesis, of course, but that you also allow science to do what it does best."

My mind was racing as she read the names of her pairings aloud, the cogs turning around and around to little avail. How on earth was I going to prove my opinion, now my hypothesis, when the only proof I had of it was miles away, sitting on a beach somewhere, his golden cheeks and sandy hair glimmering in the coastal sun?

"Madison Watson."

My head jerked up as my name flew from Devi's lips. She was scanning the room, her eyes finding mine when I hesitantly raised my hand.

She seemed to smile to herself—pleased, perhaps—as she peered into the opposite corner of the hall. "Ivy Hampton."

I heard a groan. An actual, audible groan.

The leather-and-flannel-studded senior raised her hand in the air before throwing it down again, earning a satisfied nod from Devi as she ticked our names off her list.

And while I quickly stitched together a mask of indifference, I could feel my stomach sinking to the floor.

Thanks for making it to chapter four! This started as a fun project to write in my free time, and it's amazing to see that people seem to be enjoying it at least a little bit!

Those of you who came from ALG know that I LOVE morally grey characters. They're my jam. Black and white is boring; it's in the grey area that questions and debates arise about real life and other very real concepts — here, dating and relationships in the contemporary, digital world.

Just some stuff to think