On the Friday of my first school week, I go to the library. It isn't because I have homework or even a test for which to study. Curiosity is my only reason for going, because really, all English majors need to explore their campus's library at least once, right? Once I'm inside though, I know I'll be spending much more time here than planned. The building is huge with rows upon rows of heavy and light, thick and thin books of varying resources and literary novels.

Although I want to scour through the entire selection, book by book, to see exactly what the University of Montana campus offers, I head down to the basement floor. It's the level my sister claimed to be the most conducive to learning and study. Plus, it's got all the really cool old books with frail pages and thick spines.

My steps echo as I clomp down the stairs. I try to ease the sound of my snapping flip flops, but there's no use. Everyone in the library can likely hear me as I parade through the quietest building on campus. I pause at the library's map to make sure I'm in the right place (which, of course, I am) before pushing through a set of double wooden doors. The shiny wood holds my attention for only a moment before my eyes are stolen by the massive room before me.

Luckily, this room is covered in a hard blue carpet, which immediately silences the slap of my flip flops. There are less than five people within my view, and all are silently typing on their computers or scribbling in their notebooks. One girl sits in the far corner with her face literally pressed against her book. Above all else, however, I am struck by the billowing silence that fills the room. It makes me self conscious of every breath, every movement of my limbs.

I let myself wander the aisles for twenty minutes, but I'm too nervous to actually touch the books. Most look as though they will crumble to dust if I do, so I keep my fingers locked on my short khakis. When I start to get bored of looking through the titles, I find an unoccupied corner table near the entrance. I sit with one of my English textbooks unfolded before me, and whenever someone walks past me, I pretend to read. Really, I'm just enjoying the strange silence that encompasses this floor.

When my phone buzzes, I jump, and so does the girl nearest me. She lifts her face from the book, looking oddly high, and gives me a half-scowl, half-grin. I quickly flip my phone to silent-mode and balance it on one of my thighs. I wait until the book girl resumes her odd position with her nose against the book before I click open my text message. Immediately, my lungs deflate. It's from Wes.

Wes: Hey where are you? I need to talk to you.

I fiddle my thumbs together, anxiously staring at the text. I could pretend not to see the text, but that seems like a childish move, especially when Wes knows I always have my phone with me.

Me: I'm at the library, but I'm busy studying. We can talk tonight?

Wes: Okay.

I roll back my shoulders, letting a silent breath leak from my lungs. It's an unexpected victory these days. Now that Wes has decided I'm healed, all he ever wants to do is be near me. It should be flattering, and I guess in some ways it is, but for the most part, it makes me feel terrible about myself. My veins squirm with the idea that Wes only likes certain parts of me—or more properly, he'll only deal with the healthy parts of me. As for the depression, anxiety, anorexia—he'd rather pretend those don't exist.

But they do.

I start doodling in one of my notebooks, occasionally glancing at my phone to check the time. My next class is in about forty-five minutes, which means I'd have plenty of time to head back to the dorm for a lunch break. Every few minutes, my stomach lets out a quiet growl, but I don't feel like eating. So I instead sit in my boredom, drawing stick figures and bubbly hearts, resisting the urge of drawing my and Lex's initials in the middle.

"This is some intense studying," says Wes.

I jump so hard my neck pops. He came out of nowhere, so silent I didn't hear him come into the room at all. When I look up, he's grinning at me like we're both on the same side of a joke.

I clasp my hand over the doodles and snap shut the notebook. Wes arches an eyebrow, but I don't say anything. After all, we're in the library, and it's supposed to be silent in here. Wes just obviously didn't get the memo.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you," he says.

"Wes, be quiet," I hiss.

"Why? They don't mind," he says, nodding his chin toward the other studiers. They all stare at us with malicious frowns.

"Wes," I say again, my voice falling even lower. "I said we'd talk later."

"This is important," he says, keeping his voice at a comfortable level. "It'll just take a minute, I swear. And then, you can go right back to your diligent studying."

I fold my bottom lip over my upper one and try to level my options. Of course, I know I have no choice but to talk to him now. He already busted me for not doing anything important, and it'd be too awkward to physically run away from him. Plus, he'd most likely report to his parents that I refused to speak to him, even after he said it is something important. Then, it'd get to my parents, who would be pissed at me...

"Addie?"

"All right," I whisper, sliding my notebook into my bag. "But let's talk outside."

Wes gives a quick nod. He looks all too comfortable today, wearing a baggy hoodie and grey sweatpants. Most boys probably couldn't pull off the look (though I'm sure Lex could), but Wes actually looks good. He's always had a nice ass, and even I can't help but check him out as we jog up the stairs, his footsteps falling even louder than mine.

By the time we get to the main entrance, Wes has checked over his shoulder about fifty times, making sure that I haven't escaped. And believe me, if there'd been any opportunity, I probably would have.

"How's school going?" he asks as he pushes through the glass door. I jog to catch up to his side. Even though his voice is casual, I know there's something more...and then, I realize why he wants to talk. He's mad at me—how could he not be?

"If this is about the other night, I'm sorry," I say, my words spewing quickly. "I shouldn't have ditched you at my dorm with someone you don't even know. It was mean and uncalled for—"

"That's not what this is about," says Wes. He doesn't look at me, but his voice suddenly gets quiet. "Listen, I know you hate me now. You have every right to never want to talk to me again."

I squirm slightly, wishing there was somewhere to sit to distract myself. Instead, we're standing, face-to-face, in front of the library's entrance. When I don't respond, Wes touches my shoulder, causing me to jump.

"I already told you I don't hate you," I say. "Remember? It's just—"

"You don't trust me," finishes Wes. He brings his other hand to my shoulder. "I know, I know. But I've done a lot of thinking, even talked to my mom. I shouldn't have assumed you're better, and honestly, it doesn't matter if you are." He puckers his mouth, as if realizing that didn't sound right, but he keeps talking. "We belong together, Addie. I can't not be with you."

It's the most romantic thing Wes has ever said to me. He's never been one for feelings or emotions, except for the last week. Suddenly, Wes is the guy who is open and honest and, well, trustworthy.

"Wes," I say, but my voice bounces in my throat. "I wish—"

Wes's lips suddenly press against mine, almost crumbling with all the emotion behind it. My immediate reaction is to pull away, but then, Wes moves his hands into my hair, gently tugging me closer. And I can't help it, I fall into him. My fingers grasp at the front of his sweatshirt, knocking against the hard muscles of his chest.

His tongue delves into my mouth, making me forget that we're in public, where anyone could see us. Everything about the kiss is familiar, safe, warm. I don't think about the past or about Wes's eventual downfall. I just think about him holding me close, not for a second trying to pull away.