It’s nearly ten when photogenic provinciality gives way to collegiate Gothic campus buildings. I take in the brick towers, the granite-rimmed windows, trying to distract myself from uncomfortable questions by examining the architecture.

Matt springs out of the car when we park. He gives me a feeble grin, and I truly can’t tell if he’s sensed the current at our feet or if I’m the only one. He calls his mom while we find our way to the admissions building.

Waiting for the tour to begin, I check my phone once more. Nothing.

Hiding my disappointment, I start to worry. I thought dog-earing the page of Fitz’s dictionary would work. None of the other pages was dog-eared—I figured the message I left should be impossible to overlook. But Fitz either didn’t notice my number scrawled on the page or he’s ignoring me. Both possibilities preoccupy my thoughts for reasons I don’t fully understand. I try to focus on the tour, but I’m distracted, my mind snagging on Fitz like a loose thread while we’re led to the student union, the mascot statue, the campus bookstore.

Which is where I’m halfheartedly perusing sweatshirts with Matt when my phone finally vibrates. Unable to control the tiny thrill tugging up the corners of my mouth, I turn from Matt to read the text.

It’s from an unknown number: +1 and ten inscrutable digits. Foreign inscriptions. I know the translation without recognizing the content.

Fitz.

Then, the message.

 So, Juniper. Where will you be making memories today?

The typing bubble forms below. I wait.

 I won’t follow you if you tell me. We’ve established I’m not a stalker.

I bite back a laugh. Matt follows a saleswoman into the T-shirt section, and I turn into an empty aisle of license plate frames to reply.

 UConn. I definitely don’t condone stalking, but I wouldn’t hate it if we ran into each other again . . . As friends, of course.

 As friends. Did I ever suggest otherwise?

 Do you really want me to answer that, Fitz?

 Hey, you hardly know me, remember? I could have some amazing girlfriend in New Hampshire.

I quickly recall our conversations in the North End and on the rooftop. There’s no way he has a girlfriend. If he does, that means he deliberately chose not to tell me, which would make him somewhat shady. I may hardly know him, but there isn’t a part of me that thinks he’s capable of such dishonesty. He’s a good guy.

A good guy who I definitely wouldn’t begrudge having a girlfriend.

 Do you have an amazing girlfriend in New Hampshire? The way we talked on the rooftop would suggest otherwise.

 What way? (And fine. No, I don’t currently have a girlfriend.)

 You know what way. I have a boyfriend, remember?

It takes him a couple of minutes to reply. I watch the typing bubble appear and disappear, possible conversations erased.

 I do remember. Unrelatedly, why did you give me your number, Juniper?

I hesitate. The truth is . . . I don’t know why. I didn’t let myself overthink it. There was one moment last night when I looked over at him, the unruly flip of his hair and the straight incline of his nose illuminated in profile under the moonlight. He was staring up at the expanding universe suspended above us, and I realized I could determine whether I went the rest of my life without saying another word to him. I don’t know what I expected or wanted, except to ensure our universe continued expanding.

 To talk to you.

 I’m glad.

It’s the perfect response, somehow. It’s everything Fitz is, reserved and understated, and yet open and heartfelt. There’s another pause, this time without the typing bubble. I wonder what he’s doing, what school he’s visiting, whether he’s in a college bookstore somewhere across the state.

 Tell me about UConn. What do you like about it?

His question makes something in my chest flutter. A girl who looks about my age walks into my aisle, trailed by two younger boys, probably fourth or fifth grade. One of the boys crashes into the rack of key chains, and the other howls in laughter. The girl scowls.

“Go bother Mom,” she says, waving them off and turning her attention to the car decals.

I leave the girl and her brothers behind, heading for the stationery aisle.

 UConn is actually on Matt’s college list. There isn’t a whole lot of overlap in the schools we like, but UConn has a ton of programs and great resources.

“Hey,” Matt says, suddenly behind me. I startle, whipping around to face him. He’s holding a UConn polo shirt. “You talking to your dad?” he asks.

“Oh, no, actually,” I tell him, my stomach sinking guiltily. I don’t hide things from Matt. Whenever Tía is being impossible or I get a grade I’m unhappy with, Matt is the person I go to. “This is, um, Fitz.”

“Fitzgerald?” I hear puzzlement in Matt’s voice, not resentment. “I still think it’s crazy you ran into him again last night.”

“Yeah. I know.” While we walked home from the party last night, I told Matt I ended up talking with Fitz for a couple of hours. I didn’t mention how we went up to the rooftop, and Matt didn’t ask. “He’s smart. I’m determined to get him to diversify his college list.”

Matt rolls his eyes with a smirk. I know exactly what he’s thinking. For the past year, I’ve played unofficial college counselor to pretty much our entire grade. From telling Colleen O’Connell about Kenyon’s creative writing program to encouraging Tory to reach for Berkeley, I’ve become the go-to source for everything college-related. I’m College Confidential in human form.

“Tell him to apply here,” Matt says. His friendliness is touching and completely charming. He’s that kind of guy, inclusive and welcoming. “Then the three of us could hang out,” he continues.

My expression falters, and I hope Matt doesn’t notice. He’s been unusually engaged today—admiring the campus, asking questions during the tour, picking out this UConn polo. It’s honestly been wonderful to watch. I don’t know how I’ll muster the heart to tell him that after last night, I might be falling in love with Brown.

“I will,” I say weakly.

Matt nods and wanders off toward the sweatshirt rack, either not noticing or choosing not to remark on my hesitancy. When he’s gone, my phone vibrates in my hand.