“What?”
“You’re not following the recipe?”
“Not exactly.”
“Then how do you know when to stop adding flour?”
“The feel of the dough.”
“How do you know what it should feel like?”
I shrug. “Practice.”
“Have you made this recipe before?” He clasps his hand behind his head and my eyes snag on the curve of his bicep. No, Paige. Bad, Paige. I’m not noticing things like that anymore, because I’m the friend.
“No.”
“Then how do you know?”
“I don’t know. It’s, like, a gut thing. I just know.”
“Sounds less like science and more like intuition, if you ask me.” He leans back, his smile triumphant.
“Ha. Ha. Fine. You win. I have baking intuition.”
“You have more than that.” His eyes are back on the puzzle, his voice quiet. “You need to learn to trust your gut.”
Darcy, who has been listening to our conversation with interest, rises. She points to the window. “That’s six inches at least. We should put chains on the tires, in case we have to get out of here.” She and Fitz layer up and head outside to add snow chains to the tires of his truck and her rental. From the cozy, yeasty warmth of the kitchen I keep one eye on the window and the other on the oven. Before I know it, Darcy is back inside, pounding snow off her boots.
“I found your letter.”
My heart spikes. “Where?”
“In the side cubby thing in Fitz’s truck door. By the driver’s seat.”
“He said he lost it.”
She shrugs. “Maybe he forgot.”
“Where is it now? Was it opened?” I’m already walking to the door.
She sits in front of the fire and holds her palms out to warm them. “I don’t think so.”
I rush outside without a coat or gloves or a hat, hands still dusted in flour. The snow blinds me as the wind nearly blows me over.
“I need my letter!” I yell.
Fitz cocks his head toward me, not hearing.
“I need my letter!” I yell louder.
He finishes the last chain and grabs my hand, trying to pull me inside. I dig my heels into the snow, refusing to be moved. I’m not about to have this conversation with Darcy standing by. I hold out my hand, palm up. Fitz takes the letter out of his pocket and spins it between his fingers, his eyes thoughtful. “Why do you need it?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“What does it say?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Paige.” His eyes soften and he steps close to me.
“No.” I back away, refusing to be swayed by his puppy dog expression. “You knew it was there, didn’t you? You didn’t lose it.”
“I can explain.”
“Give it to me.”
His expression turns wolfish. He holds the letter above his head. I jump for it, my fingers grasping uselessly for the envelope still several inches above me. Fitz wraps his other arm around my waist, trapping my body flush against his, the envelope high in the air.
I stop breathing, the length of my body snug against his.
“Paige,” he says again, my name barely more than a breath. He tilts his head toward mine, and pauses. Waiting.
“What are you doing?” I whisper.
“Taking a swing.” He leans in, and—
“Fitz?” Molly emerges from her car, eyes wary.
John Jay Hall takes my breath away. Harrison’s dorm is less than two miles from his apartment, nestled in the center of campus at Columbia University. It’s a massive redbrick building with fancy white arches and solid black doors that are heavy with importance. The imposing residence hall sits next to Butler Library, which Harrison points out as we approach the dorm.
“See that?” He gestures to the names inscribed above the classical columns on the library’s facade. Plato, Aristotle, Cicero.
Not a bad view for a budding philosopher. “So did you choose John Jay Hall, or did John Jay Hall choose you?” I tease.
“What can I say? I was a highly impressionable, starry-eyed freshman once upon a time.”
“You? Starry-eyed?” I scoff.
“A lot can change in four months,” he says, and I’m unsure if he’s joking or not. Either way, I can’t help but admire the sheer magnitude of it all, although a small part of me twinges with regret that I could never afford an experience like this. “Is that where I’m supposed to find the meaning of life?”
“Not today. C’mon, we’re going this way.” He opens the door to his residence hall, and we step inside a large welcome lounge. I hardly have time to take in the squashy armchairs and the grand piano before Harrison leads me away. I move toward the elevator, but he tugs me gently in the opposite direction. “The elevator is complete garbage, getting stuck all the time.” He opens the door to the stairwell. “Naveen takes it every time he’s on his way to a test, on the off chance he gets stuck and misses the exam. His success rate is about fifty-fifty.”
I pause before entering the stairwell. “We’re going to your room?” I don’t know why it’s only now hitting me that I’m going to a dorm room with a college guy I barely know, but it is. My palms sweat.
“Well, yeah.” He hesitates, eyes flicking over my face. “There’s a few things I want to grab, but you can wait here, if you want?”
I bite my lip in embarrassment. Nothing says quaint, small-town girl like being afraid to go near his room. “No, it’s fine. I’ll come.”
We exit the stairwell on the sixth floor, passing wooden doors decorated with names, stickers, and whiteboards scrawled with swear words and dirty pictures. We stop in front of a blank door. “You should wait out here,” Harrison says.
“Why? Is your roommate here?”
“I don’t have a roommate. Most of the rooms here are singles.”
“Oh.” My cheeks flush.
“Yeah.” He looks at his shoes. “I don’t want you to think I brought you here to … you know—” It’s his turn to go red, which is so endearing it makes my throat dry.
“Seduce me?” I tease in a husky voice, earning a wry smile from him. His smiles are so rare I’m collecting them, mentally hanging them like charms on a bracelet.
He opens the door. “Just wait here, okay?”
I peek inside. His room is medium messy, books and clothes and notebooks strewn about, but not in a disgusting way. I’m relieved that there are no half-eaten pizza crusts on the floor or sweaty socks under the bed. We both notice a pair of boxers at the same time, and Harrison frantically kicks them under his desk. “Is there a bathroom around here?” I ask, saving us both from discussing his underwear. He points the way.
I expect the bathroom to be empty, because we haven’t seen another person in the building. So I’m startled to see a girl with a chaotic swirl of teal-and-purple mermaid-length hair washing her hands at the sink. She’s in sweats and a graphic tee that reads CENTRE OF THE MULTIVERSE.
Something in my brain snags on the word multiverse. I’ve heard it before. “What’s a multiverse?”