THE NEXT COUPLE of days were quite hectic.

As much as I wanted to sit around and whine about the outcome of my choices, Kelsey and I had an apartment to move into. She was overeager, and I feared my anxiety and aversion to change was starting to come off as disinterest, so I forced myself to match her enthusiasm. Eventually, I tricked myself into believing the excitement was mine.

Kelsey spent an unhealthy amount of time scrolling through online forums and articles, just to make sure she got everything about the move-in process right. I didn't think it was that serious or complicated—we learn by doing—but she insisted, so I left her to it. When she was satisfied enough with her "research," and without seeing how I felt about it, she gave Mark a call and demanded another walkthrough of the apartment. Mark, unsurprisingly, accepted.

The first thing my mind saw fit to settle on after that was Jason Rivera. What if we ran into him again? What would I say?

Admittedly, it didn't make a lot of sense. In no time, I was going to be living on the same floor as him, and it was definitely going to be harder to avoid him then. Depending on how thin the walls were, I'd probably hear his movements as he moved around his apartment, hear his laugh while he hung out with friends, hear his keys jangle as he locked and unlocked his front door. I couldn't not pretend he wasn't there. I couldn't avoid him forever.

Regardless, I complained to Kelsey about a headache on the morning we were supposed to go for the second walkthrough. She looked a little skeptical of my excuse, but didn't badger me about it. Later that afternoon, I went for a writing class I barely paid attention in.

I must've refreshed my Instagram notifications about fifty times at that point, and other than account suggestions and old follow announcements, it was dry. Jason still hadn't accepted my follow request.

I put my phone away and tried to focus as our class coordinator called out our next assignment—an expository essay on sleep deprivation—but my mind continued to drift in and out.

Kelsey returned invigorated, going on about the lease agreement, and cleaning the apartment, and moving slash settling in before midterms. She told me about checking the faucets and the windows, asking about pest control, mold, and leaks, demanding the deadbolt lock be changed, checking light switches to make sure everything was in good condition before we moved in, etcetera.

She didn't mention anything about Jason.

Granted, I'd been silent about what transpired between us at the party. Upon my return, she'd been a little too inebriated to notice that a, my lipwork was messed up, and b, my lips were a bit swollen. Not to mention that my cheeks stayed flushed until I got back to our dorm room, and I thought I carried his scent with me. All these considered, I guessed even if she did spot him, she wouldn't have thought it important to tell me about it. That, or she was too excited about the apartment to process anything else.

Between putting my things together and attending scheduled classes, Sydney and I built somewhat of a steady texting cadence, our conversations random but enjoyable. I didn't want to overproject and start hoping this would become part of my routine, so when I caught myself getting elated over how good of a conversationist he was, or how he seemed to always ask the right amount of questions, I reminded myself to backtrack.

During my shift on Wednesday, he walked in thirty minutes before we were supposed to open, and I was hit with yet another round of déjà vu. This time, he stood by the door not in a hoodie, but in a black layered tee with a gothic script 13 on the front. The white of the long sleeve that peeked out from beneath the shorter sleeve of his shirt popped against his skin, and he offered me the smallest of smiles as I admired it, as if he could tell. 

I took a moment to let my lips tilt in response as I righted the stack of branded paper cups. Then I said, "We don't open until eight."

"That's already been established," he answered, that smile still on his face.

"Hi."

"Hi, De."

The whole time, he stood by the counter and watched me make his coffee, asking questions here and there, and keeping me occupied enough to forget that I was supposed to lose all ability to function. I could feel his eyes darting between my hands and face the whole time, but I pretended not to notice. Regardless of how intently his focus stayed on me, I didn't make eye contact, didn't stand still for more than five seconds at a time, didn't dwell on the fact that we were being friendly with each other.

When I slid his coffee over to him, he gave me a small nod. I returned it.

Later, I walked past the basketball court with my head down and my feet moving quicker than usual. I didn't feel Jason's presence there, but I wasn't in a hurry to prove that theory wrong.

On Thursday morning, I attended two classes, back to back. Then Kelsey and I got email invites to the digital lease, and we spent our time carefully reading through it before we signed.

By Friday morning, we were officially tenants.

Before I left for work, we agreed to go over to clean that evening.

When Sydney walked in around the same time he did on Wednesday, I was seated in a corner behind the counter, in the middle of a quiet anxiety attack, but I was quick to shove it down and propel myself closer to him. Wordlessly, we fell into what I assumed was our rhythm now—he watched me brew and kept me entertained, I answered questions and tried not to smile too wide.

As I wiped down the counter while we waited for his coffee to be ready, I noticed my hand trembling around the rag. Short, anxiety-fueled spasms. A trigger. An unwanted flashback to freshman year of high school, biology class.

I was too terrified to take a glance at Sydney and check if he noticed, so I balled the rag as tightly as I could and threw it into the bucket at my feet.

I didn't make further eye contact after that, busying myself with irrelevant positionings so he wouldn't have to focus on me too long.

Still, he must've sensed something was wrong, because when I slid his coffee over, he reached forward before I could draw my hand back, something bold about it. His fingers were cold and firm. Loose enough for me to slip mine out if I wanted to, but present enough to pass across a message.

I didn't know how long I stared at our pressed fingertips for, but when I looked up to meet his eyes, he was already looking at me.

Hazel. His eyes were hazel.

"You okay?" It sounded genuine, and so did the pause after. I didn't respond, just stared and wondered if to lie or just stay quiet long enough for him to understand.

My heart climbed into my throat when I realized that my hand was probably still in a state of unrest, and he could feel it. I wanted to leave, go to the backroom, maybe. Or back to Carlton. Why was I here today?

"I'm fine," I heard myself say. "I'm just stressed out."

He moved his hand forward so he could gently pry mine away from the paper cup. After our joined hands dropped to the counter, he held my fingers not too far past my nailbeds, and ran his thumb over the backs of them. "Are you sure?"

I nodded, maybe a little too fast to be true. But he didn't pester.

For the rest of my shift, I thought about going over to clean my new apartment with a knot in my stomach.

The drive there was somewhat quiet, not filled with curated songs from a playlist or a radio station. Just the hum of a car engine and the anticipatory dread that pulsed from me.

At this point, all my worries had fused to one, and I wasn't even sure what exactly bothered me.

After Kelsey killed the engine in the quiet parking lot, she stared out at the building through the windshield, a dopey smile stretching her face.

"I could get used to this sight," she said, and I also looked at the building, trying to find a feeling in my depths that wasn't tied to the young man that lived two doors away from us.

I came up short.

While Kelsey pressed the button for the elevator, I stood with my shoulders squared and my jaw tight, hands around the bucket that held cleaning supplies. You'd think I was prepping myself for war. In the corner of my eye, I saw Kelsey staring ahead at the chrome doors with that same smile. Quietly, I wondered when—or if—she'd notice something was off with me. She seemed so in her own world at that moment.

The trip up was short, but I utilized the time to level my breathing and prepare for the worst case scenario. What could be worse than seeing him? Remembering, definitely. But he was less likely to be home, and I had a hectic curriculum to thank for that. Last week, he mentioned something about working, and I could only hope he was doing just that. And if, for some reason, he was home, he was probably either studying or sleeping the week's stress off. Many late nights and early mornings, he'd said.

This wasn't that bad. I had more chances in my favor.

Still, I held my breath as we walked past his door.

The moment we were inside our apartment, Kelsey let out a breath. "Well, I hope our neighbors don't mind a little music."

I walked to the middle of the living space and put the bucket down. "It's not that bad," I said as I took in the room. It definitely still had to be cleaned, but it wasn't a dump either. And so far, there were no signs of bugs or droppings. "You said you asked about pest control?"

"Yeah. They apparently bring a guy in regularly. However they define regular." She was distracted by her phone, and I understood why seconds later, when a tune came past the speakers. She offered me a smile before putting her phone down on the kitchen counter. It was a nonverbal kick off, so I proceeded to changing into more lightweight clothes—old, frayed jean shorts, and a gray tank top—and got to work.

I put all the months I'd spent cleaning floors and counters and booths at Grace's Place into practice, hyperfixating on making the place as clean as humanly possible so I wouldn't have to think about anything else. Furniture was moved, cabinets were thrown open, as well as windows and doors for ventilation, tiles were scrubbed, and sweat beaded across my forehead and down my back. In an hour, I smelled like chemicals and exhaustion.

The process went fairly well, save for all the lifting Kelsey and I had to do.

I'd just moved to start cleanups in what was going to be my bedroom, when knuckles rapped gently against the front door. My back was to it, and I was a little too engrossed in confirming that the broom was in good condition to realize that it was something to be worried about.

My senses only fully came back to me after Kelsey spoke from the couch. "Oh, hey." She dragged out the Y so it was a little exaggerated and dramatic, and I looked over my shoulder with my hands gripping the broom handle like it was life support.

There, at the door, stood Jason Rivera in business casual, his hands in the pockets of his pants. His eyes were brief on Kelsey before they came to settle on me, and just like that, I was reminded of all the reasons why last Friday happened in the first place.

"Hi," he said.