I rolled my eyes. “Why don’t you try out the free psychotherapy on someone who needs it,” I barked, trying really hard not to take my frustrated bitterness out on him. But he was there, and my hostility was about to go thermonuclear.

“Okay, so a heart-to-heart is out of the question. Just tell me where the hell you’re going. You’re freaking me out a little here,” Brooks said.

I leaned down and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Stop being such a worrywart. I’m fine. I just forgot that I need to grab a book from the library for my Social Psychology paper that’s due in a few weeks. I’ll only be an hour or so. You can hang if you want. Renee won’t be back until later,” I told him, trying to be as nonchalant as possible.

I just needed to get out of there. I needed to walk, clear my head. My mother’s accusations bounced around in my mind and threatened to pry the lid off my carefully contained memories.

I had to move. I had to keep busy. My equilibrium demanded it. And sitting and studying with Brooks wouldn’t cut it. I required a change of scenery. I had developed carefully constructed coping mechanisms over the years for combating the nastiness that swirled in my head.

“Fine, whatever,” Brooks said, grabbing his stuff. I knew he was pissed at me. This wasn’t the first time he had tried to climb over my wall. It had been a frequent source of conflict when we were dating. He just didn’t understand that no one could get over that massive barrier I had created. He needed to stop trying.

“I’ll call you later. Maybe we can grab some dinner,” I suggested, offering the only olive branch I could give him. I didn’t want him to be upset with me. He was one of my best friends, one of my only friends, and even though I couldn’t let him in the way he wanted, he was still important to me. And I needed him to know that.

Brooks stiffened, and he turned away from me. “I’ll probably be busy,” he answered brusquely, heading for the door.

I grabbed his hand before he could leave my apartment. “Brooks, I am who I am. You know that. Don’t get angry because I can’t be the person you want me to be,” I pleaded tiredly.

His shoulders drooped, and he covered my hand with his and gave me a squeeze before leaving.

The emotional exhaustion threatened to undo me. So without another thought to Brooks or my mother, I hurried out of my building and onto the sidewalk. The routine movements of walking the familiar path toward campus did exactly what I needed them to do. I felt the tangled knots loosen and the aching in my heart lessen.

I went to the library, found the book I needed. I purposefully fit all my displaced pieces back to where they were supposed to be. I went into the bathroom and smoothed my hair and fixed my makeup.

Leaving the library, I cut across campus toward the commons. I noticed a couple of guys with buckets of white paint by the wall with the graffiti. I slowed my steps and watched as they took giant rollers and started covering the vibrant colors, drowning them with muting neutrality.

I walked closer, feeling sort of sad to see the Compulsion picture disappear. I stopped and stared at the men as they slowly and systematically erased all signs that the artwork had ever been there.

“Hey, Maxx! Where are those drop cloths? I’m getting paint everywhere,” one of the guys called out.

I froze. Maxx? What were the chances?

One of the painters turned to the speaker, and I could see clearly that it was indeed Maxx Demelo. And just because my day couldn’t get any worse, I noticed the pile of cloth by my feet.

I thought seriously about running, because that couldn’t be any more embarrassing than getting caught standing there staring at him like a moron.

Come on, feet, move!

But some masochistic part of me seemed to enjoy the sense of impending mortification.

Maxx turned around and started to walk in my direction. It was obvious he hadn’t noticed me yet. I still had a chance to get away if I wanted to.

But I didn’t. Because I sucked like that.

He was dressed in worn jeans and an old gray Longwood University sweatshirt. His blond hair was sweaty and matted to the sides of his face. He had white paint smeared across his forehead.

He looked gorgeous, and he walked like he knew it.

His arrogance was obvious in his every movement, and it annoyed me. I hated his confidence. I hated that he clearly didn’t give a shit what anyone thought. I hated that he seemed to possess every characteristic that I wished for myself.

And then he looked up and met my eyes. His lips quirked up into a self-satisfied grin as though my being there fit into some great plan of his.

“Hi, Aubrey,” he said, stooping down to pick up the pile of drop cloths.

I thought about ignoring him. But that would be rude. And he was in the support group I was co-facilitating. I was supposed to create rapport—which was difficult when he seemed to bring out this primal instinct to scream at him.

“Hi,” I replied shortly. The wind whipped my hair into my face, and I spit strands out of my mouth. Awesome. Way to look cool and collected, Aubrey!

Maxx cocked an eyebrow and regarded me steadily. He didn’t say anything. And neither did I. I started to feel uncomfortable under the weight of his scrutiny. Again I was bothered by a niggling sense of déjà vu. I felt like I should know him, though from where, I had no idea.

Maxx’s lips were curved in a teasing smile, as though my discomfort amused him. And still he said nothing. He acted as though he had all the time in the world to stand there and make me feel awkward.