He didn't look angry.

He was probably just annoyed that I'd snatched the phone away.

I let out a private breath of relief and composed my face.

"Thank you. But you don't need to help next time. I wouldn't want you getting the wrong idea again."

I didn't wait for his response.

I turned and hurried after the others.

Once I was sure he hadn't followed, I checked my phone.

Z had replied.

Z: You really hate your roommate, don't you?

I rolled my eyes.

Me: No.

Z: Really?

Me: I absolutely despise him! I wish he'd disappear from the face of the earth. Just looking at his face makes me feel physically ill. The farther he stays away from me, the better. We're never going to get along.

I felt much better after sending that.

But Z didn't answer.

Usually, whenever I complained about my roommate, he replied instantly and got indignant on my behalf.

Feeling a little wronged, I sent another message.

Me: Babe, why aren't you helping me insult him?

The words "Z is typing" appeared at the top of the screen.

Then vanished.

Then appeared again.

After a long time, he finally replied.

Z: I'm choosing my words.

Z: He's a brainless idiot. A narcissist with a stick up his ass. A pretentious, self-important psycho who thinks the world revolves around him. And he walks around looking like everyone on earth owes him money.

I stared, then laughed out loud.

My usually gentle, affectionate Z could really go for the throat when he wanted to.

Me: Exactly! You get it, babe. Nobody could ever like someone like that. He's going to die single.

A few more seconds passed.

Z: Isn't that a little harsh?

He was acting strangely today.

Hadn't he started the insults?

Me: Not at all. It's true. Although apparently he has a girlfriend. Poor girl. She must be blind to date a narcissist like him.

Z: Baby, don't say that.

Z: Maybe he's actually very good to his girlfriend.

I curled my lip.

Me: What's that got to do with me?

After dinner, the guy organizing the activities had a couple of drinks and enthusiastically suggested a card game.

The rules were simple. Whoever drew the king could choose two numbered players and give them a dare. Anyone who refused had to drink a whole bottle of beer.

I'd meant to go back to my room, but our other two roommates pulled me down onto the couch between them.

Zachary sat diagonally opposite me at the long table, more than halfway across the room.

Even so, his eyes kept finding me.

I pretended not to notice.

The first few rounds were ordinary enough.

Someone had to meow like a cat. Someone else had to run around the ground floor carrying another guy on his back.

Laughter filled the room.

I leaned against the couch, hoping the luck I'd had that evening would last.

In the fourth round, I drew number seven.

The king was a guy I barely knew. His face was red from drinking.

"Three and seven! You have to stare into each other's eyes for thirty seconds!"

I looked up.

Across the table, Zachary held up his card.

He was number three.

My heart sank.

He hated me. Usually, he looked disgusted if I got within a few feet of him.

There was no way he'd agree to this in front of everyone.

He'd take the drink.

But he stayed where he was, placed his card on the table, and looked at me.

"Let's do it."

An inexplicable surge of anger rose in my chest.

Why did he get to tell me to keep my distance, then act as though none of it mattered?

I stood and took a deep breath.

But I didn't walk toward him.

I bent down, picked up an unopened beer, and said, "I'll drink."

The laughter stopped.

"Come on, Sam." The guy holding the king looked stunned. "It's only looking at him. Nobody's asking you to kiss him. Zachary doesn't mind. Is it really that big a deal?"

"It is to me."

I opened the bottle and tipped it straight back.

The beer was cold, bitter, and astringent.

I drank too quickly and choked. Some spilled out of the corner of my mouth, trickling down my neck and soaking my collar.

Then a hand reached over and caught the bottle.

I turned.

Zachary had somehow come to stand beside me.

His eyes were lowered, and the tips of his ears were red.

He wasn't looking at me.

"I'll finish it."

I shoved the bottle into his hand without arguing.

Neither of us wanted to do the dare. He could take half the punishment.

Back in my seat, I found a message from Z.

Z: If he apologized, would you forgive him?

Me: No.