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but the innocent excitement and joy in his eyes as he contemplates the ice cream isn't normal. College frat boys don't get excited over ice cream. They get excited over kegs and wet t-shirt contests.
    "Who are you?" I blurt out. Peter's gaze snaps up to mine, startled and wary.
    "I'm Peter Agreus. Another freshman in your Lit class. I just want to have a conversation."
    I shake my head. "You want more than that."
    He shrugs. Takes another bite of ice cream and grins at me, his eyes sparkling with challenge and amusement. "So tell me. Why is us being friends a bad idea?"
    I've thought about this. I've planned how to respond—telling him the truth isn't really an option.
    "I'm here to learn," I start, "not date."
    Across from me, Peter goes very still. He carefully lowers his spoon, and I notice, inanely, that there is still ice cream on it, melting and sliding down the curved metal. "Bullshit," he says softly.
    I jerk back in my chair, and he gives me a scathing glare, his green eyes glittering. I inhale sharply—when he is angry, it is hard to remember that Peter isn't the Boy. That he's separate and different.
    Which might be why I say what I say next.
    "Have you ever known someone you know is bad for you? Someone that even though you might want to get to know them, everything in you says it's a bad idea and that you'll only end up hurt?"
    "I'm not going to hurt you," he says.
    I shake my head. "You already have, Peter. Just looking at you hurts."
    He looks stunned. "Why?"
    I hesitate for a moment. This is my fresh start. But Peter is persistent. He won't be put off by half-formed fake excuses.
    Which leaves the truth.
    "When I was twelve, I was in an accident. For a long time, I didn't know what was real and what wasn't. I spent most of the years since then in a mental institute." A look of horror and anger drifts over his face, and I hurry to add, "It wasn't a bad place. It was comforting, at times. I was happy there."
    Something I can't name flickers over his face. "But I worked hard to put my life back together. And part of that is avoiding things that trigger those feelings of being lost."
    "How do I do that?"
    I swallow hard. "There was a Boy. My doctors say I created him—a defense mechanism when the accident happened. He wasn't real."
    My face is hot. I can't quite believe I'm saying this to Peter, of all people. I don't talk about the Boy to anyone. I don't even like talking about him to Micah.
    "I'm the boy."
    I gasp, startled, my eyes swinging up to find Peter. It sounds, for a moment, like a confession, until I realize he's asking me. I shake my head. "You just look like him. It's eerie how much. And it makes it difficult to remember what is true and what is not."
    "So instead of fighting, you'll run away from the possibility."
    I stiffen. That feels like an accusation.
    "I've fought to be where I am," I snap. "You don't get to sit there and decide that it isn't enough. Fuck you, Peter."
    He flinches, but I’m done. I’m done with his smirk and his fucking ice cream, and his dismissal of the life I’ve fought tooth and nail to create. I slide out of the booth and head for the exit. Behind me, I hear him huff in aggravation and then his footsteps hurrying after me.
    He catches me halfway across the student center. It’s happily deserted—even if it weren’t, I wouldn’t have tolerated the way he reaches out and grabs me by the arm.
    Like he has the right to touch me. I snap around and shove him, hard.
    “Leave me alone, Peter!” I snarl. “I don’t want you around me. I don’t want to deal with fighting memories.”
    “I can’t,” he says, his tone a shade of desperation. “I can’t leave you alone. I’ve tried.”
    I give him a bleak smile. “Try harder.”
     

Chapter 6
     
    I need to get some exercise. It’s a day off—a Thursday. Micah would jump out of bed and row with me, but I don’t want to bother—worry—him. So I choke down the desire to text him and creep out of my room. I’m