Obviously I’m not the only one affected by him.

I inhale harshly, wait a few seconds, then exhale, irritated with myself. The first hot guy I run into, literally, and I fall all over the place thinking I somehow know him. I’m probably getting him confused with some actor I saw during one of my Netflix binges this summer—he did have that look. The only thing I know for sure is I can’t afford falling for anything this year.

“I can’t screw up. I won’t,” I mutter in a fierce voice. “I will not wreck things this time.”

I turn away from the doors before the brunette girl comes inside the D-hall, and finish cutting through the cafeteria and out the front of the building. Pulling my map out of my purse once again, I hurry to the music building, which ends up being a five-minute walk away. I’m sweaty and out-of-breath when I reach the third floor, but I have two minutes to spare. There’s an Advising - Please Sign In & Have a Seat sign hanging on Professor Cameron’s door, so I write my name on the clipboard and sit in the seat provided.

Whatever’s going on inside that office doesn’t sound good. I can hear raised voices, but I try to tune it out. After ten minutes of waiting, though, I fish my phone out of my purse and check my messages.

There’s one from my dad that, in less than a hundred characters, tells me that A) I shouldn’t avoid his calls because B) I’m at school on his dime this year, which really serves to remind me that C) he’s still livid that I blew the whistle on his affair five months ago, he doesn’t think I deserve shit, and I need to call and let him know that I made it to school in one piece.

I’m fine, I message to him.

“And you can wait until tonight for a phone call,” I say as I open my other text. A picture from my closest friend. With her nose wrinkled and her lips twisted down in a dramatic pout, I almost miss that Kendra’s holding up a flash card. The message she’s written on it is short, simple, but it makes my chest clench.

Miss you. Be good.

We hadn’t become close until our senior year of high school. Before then, she was my sister’s best friend, and we’d tolerated each other for Lily’s sake. But here’s the thing: Loss does one of two things to those it leaves behind—it meshes us together, forcing us to let go of every feel we know so we can try to form some semblance of existence again, or it tears open the wounds, widening the divide so much that we’ll do whatever it takes to try and pretend the pain’s not real.

Losing Lily had done both for me, but Kendra ... she was one of those things that had worked out.

Last year it was Kendra who talked me into pursuing the music degree. Even though my training before then consisted of a handful of private voice lessons and a few semesters in the honor’s choir—definitely not the makings of a voice major—she thought I’d make it. And then, when I started spiraling out of control, she was also the only person who told me to slow my roll.

I hadn’t listened. Which is why I’m here. Sitting outside of a new advisor’s office, listening to her rip another girl—someone who’s probably a classmate—to shreds.

My fingers feel wooden as I text my response to Kendra. Miss you, too.

Professor Cameron’s door creaks open, and I look up. A petite blonde who looks like she walked right out of Bring It On darts out of the office, bright patches of red blooming on her cheeks. She gives me a look that tells me I should probably escape while I can, and then she rounds the corner. Before I have a chance to consider taking her wordless advice, a bespectacled woman with a salt and pepper pixie cut pokes her head out the door and glances down at the clipboard.

“Evelyn Miller?” Professor Cameron doesn’t meet my gaze as she scratches out my name with a fine-tipped black permanent marker.

“Yes, that’s me.”

Crooking a scarlet-nailed finger, she motions for me to follow. “Come on in.”

In spite of her almost chilly attitude, there’s a warm vibe inside her office. Photos are everywhere—everything from what appears to be family pictures to snapshots of her in costume for several musicals. She takes her place in a vintage-looking, yellow and brown striped chair behind the desk, and I sit on the edge of a smaller, matching seat across from her. I focus my gaze on the tabletop fountain sitting on the corner of her desk until she clears her throat.

“For a voice student, you’re incredibly quiet. My students are usually talking before they make it through the door.”

“I—” But she immediately stops me, shaking her head and leaning forward to look me directly in the eye. Instead of wilting under her stare, I straighten my back and plaster on a confident expression.

“Why are you a voice student, Ms. Miller?”

I think on it for a moment before I answer. “Because music has always been my life.”

The corners of her mouth tug, but I’m not sure if she’s trying to smile or frown. “Honestly, I’m looking for a response that’s different from what you put on your entrance questionnaire.” She waves her hand down to a bunch of papers spread out on the desk. “I can’t tell you how many girls—and boys—have sat in that chair, telling me that music is their life only to change their mind a semester or two down the road.”

“Well ... I was a music major last year, too.”

“I’m aware. I’m also sure you’re aware that I didn’t think you were ready for my program.”

I’ve known that ever since my aunt Janine, my dad’s older sister who studied piano here in the early eighties, had approached the head of the entire music department about my acceptance. I was lucky to get into the school, period. The fact that I was let into the voice program with only an audition tape that was made two years ago was a miracle. A miracle that I’m starting to worry might be my downfall with Professor Cameron.

“Yes, I’m aware,” I say softly.

I don’t want to be known as that girl, the one who moved forward thanks to connections instead of hard work. Maybe a couple years—or hell, even a year ago—I would’ve been fine with it, but now the thought makes my stomach twist into knots.

I refuse to be that girl no matter what it’s in reference to.

“You can’t sight sing, which is so essential,” she points out gently, and I nod in confirmation, my face tingling more and more with each bob of my head. “Your grades last year were—excuse my language—bullshit. Your application left much to be desired. But—” She pauses, makes a teepee with her hands, and rests her bow-shaped lips against it. “You have the right voice. You can be amazing at anything else involving this program, but if you don’t have the talent ... well, there’s no point in racking up thousands of dollars in student loans, is there?”

“Glad to hear that.” My voice is tinged in sarcasm, which she obviously notices because she purses her lips. She gathers all the paperwork before her into a neat stack and drops it in a file organizer.

“I don’t think that—” she begins, but I’ll never know what she was going to say next because someone knocks on her office door. A split second later, before she can give the word for whoever is outside to come in, it opens. I’m stunned to see The Body from the D-hall on the other side staring back at us.

When he looks at me, a slow grin slinks across his face. “Sorry I’m late,” he drawls, taking the seat beside me. He’s changed into a pair of cargo shorts and a turquoise polo shirt that highlights his piercing blue eyes. I stare at him dumbly and try to process why he’s here until Professor Cameron speaks up.

“Evelyn, this is my TA—one of my best students, and your new best friend for the next semester. Although you’ll be working with me as well, you’ll have additional lessons with him each week—on Mondays and Fridays—to get you up to snuff by finals this December.” At my raised eyebrow, she explains, “Your fate in this program depends on how you do during the music department exams, your midterms, and your recital performance.”