Chapter 26.

Dylan I feel like the shell Silas accused me of being as I take a seat in the second row for Media Photography, my last class of the day.

I try to focus on school. On the things that matter. The things I can control.

The best thing about being a junior (and an overachieving one at that) is that I've got the majority of my basic requirements out of the way, so all my classes except two are within my major this semester. These are the things I love, what I want to spend the rest of my life doing.

I'm not a shell.

I'm not.

I always love any of my classes involving photography because photography isn't complicated. It's powerful and truthful and . . . simple. Not like words. Words can be bent and manipulated.

Pictures. I just try to keep thinking about pictures. Because if I break down and cry in the middle of this class, I won't be able to show my face here for the rest of the semester.

Right as the professor is about to close the door and begin the usual first-day spiel, another person slips in the room. She adjusts a messenger bag slung over her shoulder and looks up for a seat.

I recognize her small frame and pretty face.

Stella.

She catches sight of me, too, and waves on her way to fill a seat at the back of the class. I try to smile in return, but my stomach sinks.

It's not that I don't like Stella. Really, I think she's hilarious and confident and cool. But that's part of the problem. She's a hilarious, confident, and cool girl who's slept with the guy who is no longer my . . . whatever we were.

So, not only does she remind me of him.

She reminds me of the fact that he's going to be sleeping with other people soon. And more than that . . . I just get the feeling that she understands and identifies with him in a way that I can't. I have to think about how he would react to certain things, sit back and try to pinpoint his motive and perspective, and she just always seems to know.

Stella walks into a room, and she's automatically everyone's favorite person. Even mine sometimes.

It's hard not to be jealous of a girl like that.

But I try. Especially when she comes up and hugs me after class.

"It's so cool that you're in this class," she says. "I figured it was going to be all stuffy, brainy, political types."

I smile.

Stuffy? Sometimes.

Brainy? Definitely.

Political? Inevitably.

That's me.

She shakes her head. "You know I don't mean you. You're awesome. I just . . . I'm only taking this because my art photography professor from last semester suggested it. I did a project about where artistic photography and media photography overlap, and ta-da! Here I am."

"That's awesome." I sound pitiful, not even remotely believable. "I'm sure you'll bring a really interesting and different perspective to the class."

"And volume. I always bring a lot of volume."

I force a smile.

"Listen," she says. "I'm meeting Dallas for lunch. You want to join?"

I've only had minimal interaction with Dallas since the night she and Carson gave us a ride from the sheriff's office. There's some kind of bad blood between her and Silas, and since I'm always with Silas, we tend to usually end up on opposite sides of the room whenever I'm around his friends.

Except I'm not with Silas anymore. If it weren't for this class, I probably wouldn't have ever seen these people again.

"Um . . . I don't know."

"Oh honey." Stella smiles at me. "I wasn't really asking. You're definitely coming."

"What if I have class?"

"Do you?"

I should lie, but I don't. I shake my head, and she says, "Great! Let's go."

I follow her to the Student Center, in the middle section of campus, and Dallas is already there at a table waiting for us. She's got a salad already in front of her that she's picking at with her fork.

"A salad? Really?" Stella asks her. "You can't even live a little on the first day?"

"If you'd seen how in shape all those girls were this summer, you'd be telling me to eat a salad, too."

Stella rolls her eyes and fills me in. "Dallas went to this super-elite dance intensive this summer, and now she's got a bit of a complex about staying competitive."

"I bet that's stressful."

Dallas throws up a hand. "Thank you! At least someone has a little empathy."

Stella throws her bag down in the chair by Dallas and says, "You say empathy, and all I hear is empty. As in . . . empty stomach, which I'm about to fix with a big, greasy slice of pizza smothered in as much ranch as I can convince the stingy checkout lady to give me. Wait." She pauses. "Make that two slices. First day back and all."

As Stella heads off to find her pizza, I opt for a chicken sandwich from one of the other food court stalls. The pizza place has a longer line, so I make it back to the table first, and Dallas asks, "So did you two run into each other outside or something?"

"No, we actually just had a class together." I hesitate before taking a seat. "I hope it's okay she brought me."

"Of course, it is," Dallas says. "Why wouldn't it be?"

I put my tray down and loop my bag over the back of my seat. I shrug and sit down across from Stella's open seat. "I don't know. We just don't know each other that well."

"Sorry about that. I'm just not the biggest football fan, so I tend to keep to myself when Carson and I go to stuff with the team."

"Oh. Okay."

"Why? Did Silas say something?"

She crinkles her nose in a way that might be distaste.

"So do you hate Silas, too?" I ask. "Or just football?"

Stella takes a seat at that moment and cuts in, "Oh, she definitely hates Silas."

Dallas points her fork threateningly at her friend and says, "Hush, you. I don't hate him."

Stella takes a sip of her soda as she scoots in her chair and adds, "Fine. She strongly dislikes him."

"Why?"

I don't know why I'm torturing myself, but I have to know. Dallas hesitates, and I have zero desire to pick up my chicken sandwich.

"It's nothing. It's old news, and I'm over it."

Stella turns a loud laugh into a fake, hacking cough. "Right. Totally over it."

"Did you . . ." I take a breath and push the question out. "Did you two date or something?"

Stella doesn't even bother hiding her laugh behind a cough this time.

"No," Dallas answers. "Nothing like that."

"Oh, just tell her," Stella says. "She should at least know what kind of stuff her boyfriend has gotten up to in the past. Give the girl some leverage, for God's sake."

"Oh, we're not . . . he's not my boyfriend."

Stella stops with a slice of pizza halfway to her mouth, ranch dripping off the end onto the table.

"You're joking, right? You guys are always together. You're not fooling anyone."

"I don't know what we were. It was this weird nonrelationship-relationship, but whatever it is . . . it ended. Last night."

Both Stella and Dallas stop chewing.

It's Stella who talks first. "That son of a bitch. I knew he was gonna screw this up." She turns to Dallas. "You should definitely tell that story now! That way we can all hate on him together."

"Actually . . . I think . . . I think it was mostly my fault."

Shocked doesn't even begin to describe the way they look at me.

"Long story short . . . we ran into my parents, and I lied about how we knew each other rather than introduce him. I thought he would be relieved not to have to meet them, but instead he was hurt. And then some other stuff happened, and it all just kind of snowballed, and he says we're too different. That we don't fit in each other's worlds."

"Sounds like bullshit to me," Stella says.

"It's not. I think . . . I don't know. Maybe he's right. I kept pretending like we were just messing around, but deep down I think maybe I knew he was serious. That he wanted it to be more."

"Well crap," Dallas says. "Totally didn't see that one coming."

I offer a sad smile. "Me either." And then because I need a distraction, but also have this sick need to keep thinking about him, talking about him, I ask, "Will you tell me why you don't like him? Is it bad?"

Dallas sighs. "There was just this stupid bet that my ex-boyfriend started that involved guys on the team trying to sleep with me. Silas and Levi, my ex, were friends, and Silas hit on me at a party in an attempt to win the bet."

"But you guys didn't . . ."

"God, no. I heard the two of them talking about sleeping with me, and I bolted as soon as I saw Silas with Levi. I didn't need to know about the bet to know he was bad news."

Dallas jerks and mumbles, "Ow," and I think Stella kicked her under the table.

"What she means is . . . Levi was bad news. But Silas isn't friends with him anymore."

I'm not sure if she's defending Silas to me because he's her friend or because she doesn't want me to think I made a stupid mistake.

I still haven't touched my chicken sandwich, but I'm feeling the need to wrap up lunch early anyway. I've tortured myself enough for today.

I hadn't let myself think about him actually getting serious about me. I'd just assumed it wouldn't happen. Instead, I'd been focusing all my energy on making sure I didn't get too serious. I've made myself write off each sweet, tender kiss, every time he called me baby, all the mornings he's pulled me in close like he didn't want to let me go.

Now it's like someone has taken the lens cap off, and I'm seeing everything from a new perspective . . . but I'm too late. Way too late.

I make some excuses and get up to leave, but Stella grabs my arm.

"You should go to the game with us on Saturday."

I shake my head. "I think that's the last place I should be."

"Oh come on. He won't even be playing. Besides, Dallas and I could use some new girl friends. We're kind of drowning in testosterone at the moment.

"I'll think about it," I tell her.

I DO END up going to the game.

Because something I'm discovering about my new nonshell self . . . I'm a bit of a masochist.

Besides . . . I've never been to a college football game. I've never been to a football game period. I go with Stella, Dallas, and Matt to a pregame tailgate party, wherein I see a lot of very drunk guys with painted chests and faces acting like idiots. I find them obnoxious, but Stella assures me it's a classic football tradition. I don't ask whether she means the body paint, the drunkenness, or the acting-like-idiots part. I assume it's all three.

When we finally make it into the stadium, the sun has set, but it's still suffocatingly hot in the bleachers while we wait. Dallas brought blankets that I don't understand until she lays them down on the hot metal seats so we can sit down without feeling like our butts are on a George Foreman grill.

And while we wait, the three of them teach me about football. And I try my best not to connect everything I hear back to Silas.

Dallas begins: "So each team has offensive players and defensive players. Obviously, the offense's goal is to score, and the defense's goal is to stop the other team from scoring."