"Look who it is. The human-sized bowling ball."

I clamped my mouth shut as I slipped into the seat next to Ivy, placing my laptop on the desk before daring to meet her skeptical gaze. It was alight with the same kind of sarcasm that pulled at her fiercely cut features, while her lips—dark blue today—lifted into a dry smirk.

I decided against taking offense to the comment. One, making someone like her my enemy didn't mesh well with my plan of coasting through uni unscathed. Two, I reasoned that maybe dry insults and borderline offensive quips were merely her type of humor. I was quite proud of my ability to take sarcasm as well as I could give it, so maybe I'd simply have to up my game.

I turned to capture her burning stare, offering a curt smile that I hoped looked unassuming. "What was your thesis statement?"

She choked on a scoff. I realized how pale her skin was up close, a stark contrast to the heavily applied liner and cascading raven curls. "Straight to the point, huh?"

I wasn't sure whether she was poking fun at me, or whether the word Jaffy—just another effing first year, I'd since learned—was once again on the tip of her tongue. But I wasn't offended. Yes, I was a first year, and yes, I wanted to make a good impression on our teacher. Was that really so bad in the grand scheme of things?

She took a deep breath, placing a ring-encrusted hand over her heart in a feigned act of sincerity. "Love is an illusion of time and affection," she cooed, batting her thick lashes.

My brow knitted, but not with irritation or confusion. Actually, for the first time, I felt something other than fear course through me at the idea of being paired with her.

I was nervous about my looming partnership with a senior—one who made it sound as if she ate first years for breakfast. But I felt a ripple of something akin to pride course through me as well. Ivy was a lot, but she was kind of the epitome of everything I was trying so hard to be now. She was confident. Composed. She was so utterly unbothered and unabashedly headstrong. It was a mask I was still trying to stitch together myself, but one I didn't feel totally fit yet. The fact that we'd submitted similar opinions to Devi, that we shared such similar views about love in general ... it seemed to me like a step in the right direction. In the direction of the new Madison. The one who no one, let alone a stupid boy, would have the audacity to toy with ever again.

Her eyes flashed, claiming my attention like a gazelle under a lion's glare. "What's yours?"

Even though we were strangers, and even though her near-black gaze was as intimidating as it was guarded, I couldn't help but feel as though we were sharing battle scars.

"Love is a construct," I uttered lowly.

Silence fell. Even the noise generated by our classmates was distant, inconsequential. Like we were encased in a bubble all on our own. With my eyes on my screen, I didn't know what that meant; Ivy Hampton didn't seem like the type to be lost for words.

Maybe she hadn't heard me. Maybe she was fighting off the onset of laughter. Maybe I should have lied, should have made something up. Sure, Devi told us to get personal when we wrote our statements, but why couldn't I have chosen an opinion ... less personal?

But ... I believed my statement. Wholeheartedly. Maybe I was clinging to the notion that it was true. As if, if it was, and if I could prove it, it would make the pain fracturing my heart that much more bearable.

A sound hitched in Ivy's throat, but it didn't sound like laughter. A low, thoughtful hum.

"Construct..." She drew the word out slowly, almost like she was chewing on it.

"A social construct," I explained. "Its meaning isn't fixed, but informed over time in accordance with collective understanding—which is also always evolving."

Something other than degradation toyed with Ivy's sharp features, something that stirred my intrigue and rendered me silent.

She sat back in her seat, tapping her nails on her armrest. "Not bad, Jaffy."

My stomach unbundled. My fear seemed to wilt. Ivy opened her black leather notebook, etching our statements on the top line of a fresh sheet. Etching our statements—mine right alongside hers. It was something akin to approval. And, from someone like her, it meant something to me that I couldn't quite explain. For the first time since I'd crashed into her in the dorm hall, I felt like maybe, just maybe, we were on the same page.

The clock overhead ticked noon, signaling the end of our lecture. Just as we were packing up our things, Devi's smooth voice captivated the hall once more.

"I know that many of you are interested in the internship position at my lab," she told us.

Instantly, I sat back down in my seat. Her eyes caught me as I did, my haste apparently amusing her.

"You are to work together on one study, but submit your own papers," she explained. "The student who receives the highest mark will secure the internship, should they want it." She pierced us with enough intensity to either scare or inspire. "Be brave. Be bold. Get personal, get messy. Entertain me."

I swallowed hard as I mused to myself silently in my seat, the weight of her offer too tempting to resist. Ivy was already slipping her laptop into its cover, likely two seconds short of disappearing through the door as quickly as she'd appeared. But I was blocking her path, and I couldn't yet let her leave—no matter how intimidated I was.

Working at Devi's lab wasn't merely a great opportunity, nor just an impressive place-filler on my budding resume. It was my dream job. It was a chance to tick off one of my college resolutions. I absolutely had to get it.

"How do we do this?" I asked, feeling a rush of urgency sweeping in. Hell, maybe it was confidence. Maybe it was jumping straight from Ivy and into me. "Should we do a survey? Show the different ways that different people define and conceptualize love?"

Ivy screwed up her face. "Boring."

My influx of conviction splintered under her scowl. I didn't know whether I agreed with her, but I also didn't know if I had what it took to take her on. She was so together, and I was so broken. What was more, she was a senior. She would know what kind of study was impressive enough to earn Devi's respect. And, if I wanted that internship, I needed to earn Devi's respect.

Ivy stood and placed her hands on her hips, tapping her black nails in a thoughtful rhythm. I was surprised that she didn't just leap over me and straight out the door; she was usually always the last to come to class and the first to disappear.

But her eyes were dashing back and forth as she bit down on her bottom lip, mirroring the gears turning in her head. "What if we did an experiment?"

"An experiment?" I prodded.

She nodded, her eyes still narrowed in thoughts, but excitement laced its way through her usually expressionless tone. "What if we, like, deconstructed the process of falling in love? If we put it in a petri dish, so to speak, and approach it as a formula." Her silver bangles chimed on her arms as she reached again for her pen, writing the words she spoke aloud like they were a literal equation. "Time plus affection equals love. Ergo, love is an illusion—a construct—meaning that it can be manufactured with those two variables."

I mulled over her suggestion, my brain linking our statements together like red string on a bulletin board. "But if we do an experiment," I supposed, "that means we need—"

"Rats," she finished. She took in the look of confusion on my face, rolling her smoky eyes to the ceiling and back. "Test subjects," she clarified.

I nodded, wondering to myself if I'd ever become as desensitized to science as her, to the point of referring to actual people as rats.

"So do we put up flyers?" I recalled the college notice board littered with announcements, some offering remuneration in exchange for contribution to student studies.

Ivy threw herself back into her seat, opening her leather notebook once more. It was the most energized I'd seen her since ... well, ever. "I guess. One of my friends is doing graphic art. I could get her to mock something up?"

I wondered if she meant Holly before dismissing the idea as stupid. There was no way that Ivy willingly associated with first years—not when she so openly and loudly aired her opinions about us.

A blinding light sliced through my jumbled mind, overshadowing even Ivy's captivating presence and turning her words to static. It was like I'd been jolted, like a cloud had lifted, like everything nonsensical about the past few days was finally sliding into place.

I sprung forward in my seat, opening my laptop. "Hold off on the flyers."

She frowned, questioning my blossoming conviction with an intense glare. But my fingers were flying across my keyboard, my mind too preoccupied with the storm of ideas brewing in my head to even contemplate finding the words to explain them out loud.

We didn't need to find test subjects, I realized, or to rely on some fancy poster or random students who'd do anything to make a quick buck. We already had the perfect candidates for our experiment. I had them, right there in front of me, so close that I was stupid not to think of them before.

And one of them was, quite literally, begging for my help.

"Look how fluffy this is!"

I turned from the rack of shirts in front of me—blue, blue, and, surprise, more blue—to see both Noah and James running their hands over a fuzzy sweater. Which was also blue.

The menswear section was a real damn shocker.

"Dude, this is it. Girls love things they can pet!" Noah rubbed the textured material against his cheek. "Dex'll be like Holly's own personal puppy—"

"We're not going for puppy," I retorted. "We're going for cool. Suave."

It hadn't taken me long to find Dex and his crew at Jefferson Plaza on Thursday afternoon. First of all, they were... guys, and I'd had an inkling they'd go somewhere where they could cover as many bases as possible in the least amount of time. In short, a department store. Considering Jefferson only had two, it'd been a process of elimination.

Second of all, Noah was a total Instagram story addict who'd basically left me a trail of virtual breadcrumbs leading to their exact location.

"Listen to Madison," Dex called over his fitting room door. "She's the boss."

"The boss says no," I informed Noah, stealing the Smurf-looking thing from his arms and throwing it onto my reject pile—which was bigger than my approval pile. Before giving Noah a chance to protest, I moved closer to Dex's fitting room and knocked on the door. "How're you going in there?"

"Promise you won't laugh."

I really couldn't promise that.

Dex groaned, opening the door just enough to poke his unruly head of chestnut hair out from inside. We were going to have to do something about that bird's nest. The curls were cute; the frizz was not. "I look ridiculous."

"That's okay." I shrugged. "We're just experimenting, Dex. Trying something new. Trying to find your style."

He hesitated. "Promise you won't laugh?"

I nodded. I couldn't help but notice, though, that the guys sitting on the velvet bench behind me refrained from doing the same. Their eyes sparkled oh-so-mischievously as I joined them, causing me to wonder what I'd signed myself up for.

But as soon as Dex stepped out of the dressing room, I realized exactly what I'd gotten myself into.

"What the hell?" I gasped.

The clinical store lights bounced off Dex's sequined button-down shirt, which was paired with mustard-yellow chinos and topped with a bright orange fedora.

"What?" Noah asked innocently. "Disco chic. Totally en vogue."

James swallowed a laugh, but not quickly enough for it to escape my ears.

I knew that they were teasing and, honestly, I was naïve for not expecting it. But I simply wasn't in the mood for whatever practical joke they were playing on my time. That time with Dex, everything I was doing to help him, was purely about business. Not fun. And, suddenly, I had something at stake, too.

So I threw both of the apparent jesters my best attempt at a you-don't-wanna-mess-with-me glare, then directed a bashful Dex straight back into the fitting room. Although the next ensemble was hardly any better. Indeed, those blue shirts on the racks behind us suddenly looked very appealing.

James' first choice—a brown leather fringe vest and flared jeans—almost sent me into cardiac arrest. Less than impressed, I turned to face him with my hands on my hips.

"What?" the grinning culprit asked, although his tone was significantly less innocent than Noah's had been. Because Noah had actually believed that his outfit was good, whereas James was clearly trolling.

As per usual.

"What?" I repeated with a pointed finger. "Don't tell me that that is you being serious?" It couldn't be; James knew how to dress. He looked like he was straight out of a GQ spread, for gods' sake.

"Country bumpkins gone wild," he explained. "Works every time."

I don't know why exactly—perhaps I was still sleep-deprived—but an image of Eliza Thornberry riding a horse through the countryside suddenly flashed through my mind.

And then an uncontrollable wave of laughter hit me straight in the face.

Tears were streaming from my eyes as I turned back around to survey Dex from head to toe. It split and rippled and multiplied inside of me—that sudden wave of amusement. Then Dex started to spin on the spot, causing the brown fringe to fan out all around him, and I was sure my sides were burning, were shaking, as the most unattractive bursts of laughter slipped through my lips. Noah, too, was trapped in a bout of hysterics, neither of us mature enough to take control of the escalating situation. And what do you get when you cross a pack of three jesters with one manic woman?

A country-bumpkin-themed runway show.

We each took to a fitting room, mixing and matching James and Noah's horrendous selections that I was now positive were purposely made. I opted for a pair of men's khaki overalls and a wide-brimmed straw hat, strutting along the makeshift catwalk and putting Gigi Hadid to shame. Noah owned that appalling sequined shirt, and James ... well, I'd long ago accepted the fact that he just looked good in everything. Even a flowing white kaftan.

With their Zoolander ambitions out of their systems, James, Dex, and Noah followed me on a tour around the mall. I introduced them to the world outside of department stores, lectured them on the importance of skincare, and led a very important lesson in men's footwear—the latter knowledge acquired during my many years dating sneaker-freak Elijah. We even popped by the barbers to sort out the mop that Dex called hair. I didn't ask the barber for anything drastic. Just for some length to be taken from the sides and his recommendation on a lightweight pomade for the deliciously adorable curls we left on the top. After all, my job wasn't to change Dex—it was just to bring out his inner hottie.

"What do you think?" Dex stood from the barbershop chair to show off his new look and new outfit—a white hoodie, black bomber jacket, and jeans. Nice, fitted jeans.

I tilted my head, my gaze lifting from the human-head-sized pretzel I'd stolen from James to appraise Dex. If my science degree didn't work out, I certainly had a future in male makeovers. "Not bad," I answered honestly through a mouthful of salted dough. "Not bad at all."

"You know what?" Noah rose to his feet, checking his watch for the time. "I might pick up a little something for myself, too."

I arched a brow. He wasn't fooling me. I knew with certainty that he was thinking about that damn sequined shirt.

Dex clapped his hands together. "Dude, yes! Let's all do it!"

"Do what?" I asked, chewing and chewing and ... God, that was one endless pretzel.

Dex said, "We should all coordinate tomorrow night!"

I groaned internally. James groaned audibly.

But Noah draped an arm over Dex, nodding in agreement. "That'd be sick! What are you wearing, Madison?"

One by one, three sets of eyes fell on me, a different expression plaguing each face. Dex was hopeful. Noah, mischievous. And James—amused. Always so damn amused.

I released a slow, deep breath of air as I realized that, yes, I would have to tag along to this mixer after all. Because Project Dex and Holly wasn't just about Dex and Holly anymore.

It was about mine and Ivy's grade.

And, more importantly, about scoring Devi's internship.

Noah tutted desperately at my delayed response. I supposed that in the short time I'd known him, I'd already developed a reputation as a social recluse.

"C'mon, Madison," he moaned, scrunching his brown features into a mirthful pout. "Let your hair down! Consider it your reward, you know? Come out with us! We'll buy you a few drinks." He waved a hand. "It'll be our way of saying thank you."

"Absolutely." Dex beamed. "One fun night, totally on us."

"On you," James corrected wryly, but he was grinning, his blue eyes glittering. He turned to meet my gaze, his shoulders rising and falling simply. "It might be a good way for you to get your mind off things."

I felt my head snap to him, my eyes darkening as an icy chill rippled through my veins.

"Things?"

James stilled. Like he knew—that he'd poked something he hadn't intended to poke.

"What things?" I pressed, eyes narrowed.

"Just the ... things on your mind." James shrugged again, clearly trying far too hard to appear casual despite the sudden fire I knew beamed from my intense glare. "You know, nothing specific. Just whatever's got you down ... "

My vision blurred. I could barely see it. Could barely see Noah's mouth falling more and more agape, or Dex moving his nervous stare to the floor. With one look at the stony expression on my face, James, too, clamped his mouth shut.

Too late.

My heart pounded, a rush of anxiety sending me to my feet, the world reduced to a shapeless blur. It didn't matter how much I pretended that I was okay, I realized, or how much I covered my pain with dry humor and quick wit and impromptu fashion shows. The fact of the matter was that I