Frustrated and confused, I put my cell on silent and flip it over on the table I’m using as a desk; I don’t want to see the stupid notification if the dumb jerk finally decides to message me.

Deep breath, Skylar.

Focus on yourself and your studying and the fun you had this weekend with your friends.

We laughed our asses off at the comedian over the weekend, and Hannah’s parents were awesome enough to put us up in a hotel so we didn’t have to drive all the way back to campus so late at night.

“Don’t think about that great guy who turned out to be kind of an ass. He even admitted he wasn’t going to turn down the chance to get laid—that’s probably what he was doing this weekend while you were drinking virgin daiquiris and giggling in your cat pajamas.”

Great. Now I’m talking to myself.

Yes, out loud.

Me, in my cat pajamas.

I glance down at the white, two-piece set with its orange tabby cat printed top and matching bottoms.

I don’t even own a cat, let alone a tabby, yet here I sit dressed as one—a joke from my friends, who tease that I’m going to wind up a bitter, old cat lady if I don’t put myself out there.

“Meow.”

Oh my god, stop before you completely lose your damn mind.

Nearby, my phone vibrates and I roll my eyes at it, playing the game I love to play with myself before I grab it: the Who Is Messaging Me game.

Jessica.

No—she went home for the weekend and isn’t driving back until tomorrow.

Hannah? Yeah, it’s got to be her. She ran to the grocery store and is probably asking if I need anything.

I do kind of wants chips and salsa. Or popcorn. Because I’m only going to pretend to study for twenty more minutes before ransacking the kitchen and vegging out in front of the TV. I’ll text her and put in my requests.

My phone vibrates again.

And it’s not Hannah.

It’s the LoveU app, and there is only one person I’ve been talking to, though more than thirty guys have swiped to match with me.

One guy. One conversation.

JB.

Ugh. It’s been days.

Am I just an asshole with high expectations, or should he have messaged me at least once?

Although I did tell him I was going to be gone this weekend.

On the other hand, who cares? He can still shoot me a note if we were having a good time talking and he still wants to chat? Right?

I want to be mad, but he’s just so good-looking. And insightful, and quick with the comebacks.

Reluctantly, I tap open the conversation.

JB: Hey stranger. How was your weekend? Does your throat hurt from laughing last night?

Aww, he remembered I went to see a comedian! Oh my god, he is so sweet for asking.

Me: It was so fun—we had a blast. I’m exhausted, though. I was about to wrap up “studying” and eat my feelings on the couch.

JB: Sounds like my kind of Sunday.

Me: You’re allowed to eat your feelings?

JB: Well, no. I mean—I can eat as many lean proteins and vegetables as I want…

Me: Why does that sound kind of gross?

JB: Lean protein sounds gross?

Me: It doesn’t sound like chips and salsa, that’s all I’m saying.

JB: So, no to chicken and hardboiled eggs.

Me: Maybe to chicken. No to hardboiled eggs.

JB: Noted.

JB: What are you binging on Netflix right now?

Me: Everything. I think I’ve been through them all, and now I don’t know what to do with myself. Which is why I subscribed to Hulu.

JB: It sounds like you have a procrastination problem.

Me: It’s genetic. My sister has the same affliction. She’s a solid C+ student like I am. We’re basically winning at colleging.

JB: Is she at Iowa, too?

Me: No, she goes to small private university in Missouri. Our parents are so proud of their mediocre students. Every semester they send us newspaper clippings of the dean’s list.

JB: Why?

Me: Because we’re never on it. It’s my dad’s idea of a sick joke, although my brother more than made up for it. He’s the only one who ever got good grades without even trying.

JB: Do you get along with him?

Me: Yes, mostly. He’s…a riot. But he’s a pain in the ass, always up in our business.

JB: How?

Me: He lives in Iowa too—I’m actually from Indiana—and every once in a while he’ll “pop in” unexpectedly to check up on me. It’s so annoying.

JB: That sounds kind of cool.

Me: You haven’t met my brother.

JB: How old is he?

Me: Twenty-four. He thinks he’s thirty, and he thinks his shit doesn’t stink because he started his own company with his dumb friends. Now he knows everything about everything.

Me: What about you—any brothers or sisters?

JB: Me? Um, no.

Me: Dang, you’re lucky.

Me: I would trade my brother for a few dollar bills and a package of Tim Tams.

Okay, I really have to stop making stupid jokes at my brother’s expense. He might be a total, grade-A pain in my ass, but he’s a pretty decent guy, and he only butts into my life because he loves me.

I’m kind of impossible not to love and adore.

My siblings would throw up in their mouths if they heard me saying that, and then they’d both laugh in my face.