Two things happen at once: I half-giggle and half-snort, causing a coughing fit I quickly recover from. I was in the library this morning before my upper level psychology class to work on a paper, but I didn’t notice anyone staring at me. Must be my bestie pulling a prank on me with someone else’s phone.

I quickly type a response. Skye? What happened to your date with Tyler?

It’s entirely possible she’s feeling sorry for me, has skipped out for a minute to check on me, and is using Tyler’s phone. Any minute now she’s going to ask if I’m still watching Michael Myers.

Another text comes in. I’m not on a date and I don’t know a Skye. Is she as hot as you?

Stop messing around, I send. I’ve had a tiny bit of vodka…okay, a lot.

I’m a dude. Swear to baby Jesus.

My brow wrinkles. Is it possible this isn’t Skye? But then who is it?

How did you get this number? I type out.

You put up a listing on the Help Wanted board in the student center a while back. I saw you and got the number. I saw you again today at the library so it must be a sign for us to get together. Wanna hook up, babe?

Babe?

Hook up?

What an assuming ass, I think as mortification shoots through me. No one has answered the listing I put up looking for a male partner to take a salsa class with me. Thankfully, the posting didn’t have my name on it (so embarrassing), just my phone number, and I’ve been meaning to take it down, but between working at the library and class, I haven’t found the time. I was in a weak place when the idea struck, and now, looking back, it reeks of desperation from a girl who’d recently been cheated on and was lonely.

I glare at the phone as if the jerkwad on the other side can actually see me.

I’m not your personal Tinder, I reply, my fingers flying across the screen. Go find someone else to harass.

Nothing comes through for the next fifteen minutes as I stare blindly at the television, not really seeing anything, just fuming, my mind racing through possibilities of who saw me posting the ad. Hundreds of students pass through every day, and it could have been anyone. I think back to my morning study session today at the library, trying to recall if anyone was watching me, but I was hyper-focused (as usual) and kept my head down.

I should probably block this number.

A new text pings.

Hey, look, I’m sorry. This isn’t the person with the horrible pick-up lines and offer of sex who first texted you. Those messages were from my asshole friend who took my phone and texted you without my knowledge. I have it back now so we’re cool, right? Sorry for the inconvenience and I hope you find a salsa partner. Later.

Finally, a polite text—except for the goodbye part, because I wasn’t done talking. I still want to know who these two people are. Part of me wonders if it’s Alex, feeling me out, maybe seeing if I’ve moved on. He has been texting me, trying to engage me in a dialogue, but I’ve ignored him. This doesn’t seem like his style though.

Hold your horses, stalker. Who are you?

Seconds tick by and I can see the dots on the screen indicating he’s replying. I’m picturing a loser at a frat house, the first one to fall asleep, and instead of drawing a giant dick on his forehead, they stole his phone and texted random girls.

My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.

I laugh under my breath at the iconic movie reference and part of me relaxes. Good one, I text.

You’re a fan of The Princess Bride?

One of my favorites. I even have a t-shirt with Buttercup and Westley on it, I type, referring to the two main characters.

I’ll remember that.

Is that why you’re texting me on Valentine’s Day? To talk about The Princess Bride? Are you lonely? My fingers move quickly, feeling comforted that I’m not the only one who’s a romance dud on the holiday of love.

I’m texting you because my friend was a jerk. He doesn’t mean to be; he just thinks we should hook up.

Not going to touch that comment.

So where are you right now? Dorm? Frat party? Off-campus strip club? My detective cap is on and I’m determined to figure out who this guy is. My mind goes back to a rather geeky, thin guy who hangs out in the romance section at the library. He’s given me a few lingering glances when I happen to walk past him.

I’m in bed, he says.

Alone? I’m being bolder than usual.

Yes. You?

I’m hesitant about responding. After all, he could be a serial killer, but I don’t get that vibe, and I trust my instincts.

Just me and my cat, a scary movie, and a bottle of vodka—hell of a way to spend V-Day.

At least two minutes go by—a damn long time in the world of texting—and I wonder if he’s left or grown bored of me. Chewing on my bottom lip, I’m in the middle of chastising myself for revealing as much as I have when a new message comes in.

Is it crazy and weird that we’re talking and you don’t know who I am?

Do you know who I am? I ask, adjusting my cat-eye glasses on my nose. If he saw me put up the ad, he probably does. Waylon is small, with an enrollment of around six thousand, so it’s likely we’ve seen each other or even had a class together.

You’re Delaney, a junior from North Carolina.

My pulse kicks up as I feel my heart beating in my chest, but those are basic facts he could have gotten off my social media.

He sends another text. Truth: I think you’re gorgeous. We also know each other…sorta.

He thinks I’m gorgeous? My bruised ego is flattered, and I shoot a look at Han. “Did it just get a little hot in here or is that the vodka talking?” He rolls his eyes and flounces off to the kitchen. “Are you saying I’ve had too much?” I call after him, but he pointedly ignores me by not turning around.

I stare down at my phone, wondering what else to say. I should probably end this, but I feel an odd connection with my new texting partner.

I could talk to a random guy.

I want to.

Do it, Delaney. I mentally dare myself.

Are you still there? he says. Did I go too far? I tend to do that. I should just apologize in advance for anything I’m about to say or do.

He hasn’t gone too far. My interest is piqued. So who are you?

I’m a badass athlete.

I roll my eyes. So you play a sport here at Waylon?

Yes.

Crap. My heart does a little sputter and takes a nosedive—it’s likely he knows Alex. The athletic dorm is situated on the west side of campus, and most of the players reside there. Football, baseball, and wrestling take up one side of Byrd Hall, while soccer, volleyball, tennis, and the minor sports occupy the other.

I purse my lips. Which sport? I’ve sworn off football for the moment.

Let’s keep that a secret, but if you need a name, you can call me He-Man.

And I’ll be She-Ra?

His reply is swift. Hell no—they were siblings. Pick another name, something that suits you.

Does He-Man suit you? I type. Do you live at Castle Grayskull? Are you fighting Skeletor?

Damn straight. I kick his ass every day.

I grin. You’re very serious about this. I’m starting to wonder if you might be crazy.

Just pick.

Princess Leia.

Perfect, he replies. I’m picturing you with cinnamon buns on your head.

I giggle. I’m picturing you as a muscled blond dude with a brain the size of a walnut.

Don’t be fooled by the dumb jock stereotypes.

And you shouldn’t be fooled by my nerdy, quiet girl status. I’m a red-blooded woman with needs. God. I can’t believe I just typed that. I take another sip of vodka. What I MEANT to say is I don’t do athletes anymore, specifically football players. Okay, that sounded stupid. Clearly, I need to stop texting.