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nerds.”
    “Younger brother?”
    “Yeah.”
    We waded through the crowd to the bar, where he ordered two Sprites. “I have a younger sister.”
    “Is that why you decided to be my white knight?”
    His shoulders stiffened. He wore a dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up and faded, form-fitting jeans. When he frowned his eyes nearly closed, his eyelashes so long and kohl-black they seemed almost feminine.
    God. I’m describing a man’s eyelashes. Fucking shoot me.
    “How was I white-knighting?” he said.
    “Come on. Blythe stalked me . I caught her in the bathroom. You guys were watching out for the dumb pledge.”
    “She has a thing for lost girls.” He handed me a tumbler. “Were we that obvious?”
    “She looked super guilty when I caught her.”
    “Her face doesn’t hide anything.”
    I looked down into my glass, thinking, Perfect.
    “It was her idea. Like I said, I don’t harbor delusions of being anyone’s savior.”
    “Whatever. It was nice.”
    His eyes did that crinkling thing again. “You don’t like saying thank you, do you?”
    “I don’t want to get a reputation.”
    “For what?”
    “Being human.”
    He laughed and took a swallow of his drink. I set mine on the bar. When he raised an eyebrow I said, “I don’t take drinks from strangers.”
    “Are we still strangers?”
    I averted my eyes, my face inexplicably hot. “Or from doctors.”
    “Fair enough. You’ve made your hatred clear.”
    “I don’t hate you. I can’t hate a man who shamelessly loves the eighties.”
    “So what did you give her?”
    This guy was good. Lull me into camaraderie, then cobra strike. “What?”
    “Don’t play coy. What was it?”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    “I’m talking about the pills you gave Blythe in the cab.”
    I shrugged one shoulder. “Just some oxy.”
    Armin sighed.
    “Hey, she wanted it—”
    “You hate meds, but you’re a pillhead. I should’ve known.”
    “Dude.” I gripped the counter. “Don’t judge me. You don’t know the kind of shit I have to deal with. Look, I kept my grades up and got into CU. I’m fine.”
    “That doesn’t mean you’re fine.”
    “It means I’m a high-functioning addict.”
    Surprisingly, he shrugged, too. “Okay. Honesty. Points for that.”
    “Don’t patronize me. I don’t need your approval.”
    “I’m not giving it. I’ve just seen too many people ruin their lives with drugs.”
    “Like your sister.”
    “Like my sister.” His gaze turned shrewd. “How’d you guess?”
    “I watch and listen, too.”
    “You have a good sense of people.”
    But I didn’t. My mother had a good sense of people. We’re all bad , she’d said. The only thing we’re good at is hiding it.
    Someone bumped into me from behind, and Armin slung an arm around my shoulders protectively. Whoever it was mumbled an apology, but neither of us were paying attention. I was staring at that rose-lipped mouth, then up into his eyes, a clear reddish-brown like carnelian, speckled with tiny flaws of amber and copper where the light caught.
    Fuck. They’re brown. His eyes are fucking brown, okay? Stop being a terrible writer, Laney.
    “Want to get out of here?” he said.
    “Yes.”
    God, yes.
    ———
    Downtown was eerily beautiful at night. In the hot spill of cider streetlight, the asphalt glittered as if coated with crushed diamond. We crossed wide, wind-haunted streets that werealmost postapocalyptic: no cars, no people, perfect stillness, and the shop signs— TRY OUR NEW, TWO FOR ONE —somehow portentous. “Try our new Prozac milkshake,” I said. “Two lobotomies for the price of one.”
    Armin shook his head. “Ghoulish.”
    We walked for miles. It was after three but before dawn, that timeless, silky stretch of night that feels as if it’ll run on forever. My feet were numb and my fingertips buzzed with blood. I felt immortal. We found the plaza where a giant steel sculpture crouched, the Picasso, that weird chimera