The thing about small towns—or small schools, or small anything, really—is that avoiding someone becomes an Olympic sport. And I was going for gold.

It had been three weeks since the mailbox incident. Three weeks since I'd discovered that not only would I have to see his insufferable face in almost every class, but now I'd have to work with him on the school newspaper. Two weeks since my father had forcibly shackled me to Drew Wilder's car, breathing his stupid cologne and pretending I didn't notice the way his hands looked on the steering wheel. And one week until our second staff meeting, where we'd have to prove to everyone that we could remain civil.

The newspaper. My one sanctuary. My chance to do something I actually cared about, something that reminded me of home and my mom and all the reasons I'd fallen in love with writing in the first place. And now it was tainted by his presence.

I'd gotten very good at strategic positioning. In Calculus, I sat in the front row, as far from his usual back-corner spot as possible. In Physics, I claimed a lab table with Zoey before he could even think about partnering with me. In Government, I made sure Via was between us at all times, using her as a human shield against his smirks and commentary.

It was working. Mostly.

The problem was that Drew Wilder seemed to find my avoidance tactics amusing rather than discouraging. Every time I pointedly ignored him, every time I took a different route to class, every time I pretended not to hear him call "neighbor" across the hallway, his grin just got wider.

Like he was enjoying the challenge.

Over the past few weeks, Drew and I had fallen into a begrudging, insult filled routine.

He honked three times as obnoxiously as he possibly could, even if I was already walking out the door, after which I'd threaten to dump my tumbler of iced coffee over his head. After which he'd remind me that caffeine is a drug, and I was basically an addict, and hadn't I ever heard of tea before? At which point I would crank up the Bluetooth, which I had trained to connect to my phone over his, playing Bikini Kill at full volume.

When we arrived at school, I would do everything in my power to shake his tail as I sped-walked through the halls to find Via, leaving him behind with whatever unfortunate admirer had cornered him in the parking lot. It was a delicate ecosystem of mutual antagonism, and I'd grown comfortable with its rhythms.

Until Wednesday morning, when everything went sideways.

I woke up late—my phone had died overnight and my backup alarm had failed me spectacularly. I stumbled through my morning routine in a haze, threw on yesterday's skirt, still crumpled on the floor, and twisted my hair into a quick ponytail. I was halfway down the stairs when I realized I'd forgotten the most crucial element of my daily survival kit.

Coffee.

I stared at the empty counter where my travel mug should have been, feeling something close to panic rise in my chest. My dad had apparently made a pot earlier, but it sat cold and abandoned in the machine, looking as unappetizing as dishwater.

"Shit," I muttered, just as Drew's signature honking symphony began outside.

I could make instant coffee. I had packets somewhere in the pantry, left over from a camping trip two summers ago. But there wasn't time, and the thought of drinking that bitter, watery excuse for caffeine made me want to crawl back into bed.

Three more honks, increasingly impatient.

I grabbed my bag and trudged outside, already dreading the day ahead.

"Well, well," Drew said as I slumped into the passenger seat, probably looking like I'd been dragged backward through a hedge. "Someone's not firing on all cylinders this morning."

"Don't," I warned, clicking my seatbelt with more force than necessary.

"Where's the coffee?" He gestured at my empty hands, eyebrows raised. "You know, the liquid life force you usually clutch like a security blanket?"

I turned to glare at him, which was a mistake. His hair was still damp from the shower, curling slightly at the edges, and he smelled like that stupid expensive cologne that probably cost more than my monthly allowance. He looked infuriatingly put-together, which only made my own disheveled state more apparent.

"I said don't," I repeated through gritted teeth.

Drew studied my face for a moment, something like recognition flickering across his features. "Oh, this is going to be fun."

"Just drive, Wilder."

The ride to school was torture. Every little thing set me off—the way he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, the volume of his music, the fact that he kept glancing at me like I was some kind of fascinating science experiment.

"You know," he said about halfway through the drive, "there's a Starbucks on—"

"I don't want your charity coffee," I snapped, cutting him off mid-sentence.

"It's not charity. It's self-preservation. You look like you're about to murder someone."

"Starting with you."

Drew chuckled, which made me want to reach over and grab the steering wheel. "There she is. I was wondering where my favorite neighborhood sociopath had gone."

"Stop talking."

"Or what? You'll glare me to death?"

I crossed my arms and stared out the window, trying to summon some semblance of human decency from the depths of my caffeine-deprived soul. It wasn't working. Everything felt too bright, too loud, too much. My head was starting to pound, and we weren't even at school yet. By the time we reached the parking lot, I was practically vibrating with irritation. Wow. My caffeine addiction had really gotten out of hand. But that was a problem for another day.

"See you in Calc," Drew called cheerfully as I stalked away, not bothering to wait for him.

"Hopefully not," I muttered under my breath.

I found Via and Zoey by Via's locker, both of them looking disgustingly perky for eight in the morning.

"Morning, sunshine," Via chirped, then stopped short when she saw my face. "Oh. Oh no."

"What's wrong with you?" Zoey asked, more direct as always.

"Nothing's wrong with me," I said defensively, shoving my bag into Via's locker since mine was on the other side of the building and I couldn't be bothered.

"Elle," Via said gently, "you look like you want to set the world on fire."

"Maybe I do."

Zoey and Via exchanged a look—one of those wordless conversations that people who've known each other forever can have.

"Did you eat breakfast?" Via asked.

"I'm not hungry."

"Did you sleep okay?"

"I'm fine."

"Coffee?" Zoey guessed.

I paused just long enough for them to know they'd hit the mark.

"Oh, honey," Via said, like she was talking to a wounded animal. "We need to get you caffeinated immediately."

"I don't need—"

"You absolutely do," Zoey interrupted. "Trust me, I've seen what happens when you go without coffee. It's not pretty."

"When have you ever seen me without coffee?"

"Last Tuesday, when you spilled yours in the parking lot and spent the entire day looking like you wanted to start a small war."

Had I really been that obvious? I thought back to last Tuesday, trying to remember if I'd been particularly murderous. Probably.

"We can go later," Via said, linking her arm through mine. "We have a free today."

I wanted to protest, to insist that I was fine and I needed to work on the newspaper during the free. But my head was pounding harder now, and the thought of trying to survive AP Physics without chemical assistance made me want to lie down on the hallway floor.

Dance first period with Annika without coffee was pure torture. She made us do abs and I was about ready to kick her in the throat by the end of the class.

We had just started walking back toward the main building, when a familiar voice called out behind us.

"Sterling!"

I turned to find Drew jogging to catch up, holding a coffee cup in his hand.

"Thought you might want this," he said, slightly out of breath. "It's from that place you actually like. The one with the cat."

I stared at the cup he was offering me, then back at his face. "You went off campus?"

"Art history was canceled. And you looked like you were about to commit a felony."

Via and Zoey had gone suspiciously quiet beside me.

"I don't need it," I said. "We're going to go during our free later."

"You're funny if you think you can make it to later," Drew replied dismissively. "I'm surprised you haven't dropped dead already. Besides, this is the good stuff. Iced cold brew with almond milk, extra shot. Right?"

It was exactly my order. Which meant he'd been paying attention during all those mornings when I'd threatened to pour my drink over his head.

"Take it," he said. I could smell the coffee, could practically taste it already. I was salivating. But I couldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing he was right. But— coffee. "She's squinting like that because she knows she's about to give in and take the coffee," Drew smirked, nudging Via.

I was squinting. Damn it.

"I know things," Drew said with a grin, waggling the cup temptingly.

I snatched it from his hand before I could change my mind. The first sip was perfect—cold and smooth and exactly the right amount of bitter. I may have made an involuntary sound of pleasure.

"Better?" Drew asked, looking unreasonably pleased with himself.

"Don't let it go to your head," I warned, but the fight had gone out of me along with my caffeine headache.

"Too late. I'm already composing my acceptance speech for the Nobel Peace Prize."

"Stop grinning or I'll pour it over your head," I growled.

The bell rang, and Via practically bounced on her toes. "This has been fascinating, but we need to get to class."

As we walked away, I could hear Drew calling after us: "You're welcome, Sterling!"

I raised my middle finger over my shoulder without turning around.
We'd meet after school or at one of our houses to work on the newspaper, and slowly—very slowly—we started to figure out how to work together. It helped that we were both perfectionists. We might argue about everything, but we both wanted the paper to be good.

"This intro is garbage," he announced during our first official work session in the library, red pen hovering over my carefully crafted opening paragraph.

"Excuse me?"

"It's boring. Reads like a press release." He scratched out an entire sentence. "Where's the hook? Where's the story?"

I snatched the paper back. "It's informative. Not everything needs to be Entertainment Tonight."

"Everything needs to not put people to sleep." He grabbed it back, scribbling in the margins. "Look—what if we start with the budget numbers? Show them what's actually being cut before we tell them why they should care." I blinked at the revision. It was... better. Significantly better.

"Fine," I muttered. "But I'm rewriting your conclusion. It sounds like you're campaigning for student body president."

"Deal."

And that's how it went. Every Thursday afternoon in the library, we'd tear each other's work apart and somehow make it better. Drew had an annoying talent for finding the weak spots in my arguments, while I had an equally annoying talent for making his scattered brilliant ideas sound coherent.

"You can't just throw around words like 'dilettante' and hope people know what you mean," he said, highlighting half my article in yellow.

"It means—"

"I know what it means."

I paused, pen hovering like the smirk on my lips, "You sure?"

He ignored me, scratching out another sentence, "And stop using semicolons like they're going out of style. This isn't The New Yorker."

"Says the boy who wrote 'furthermore' three times in one paragraph."

"I did not." He scrolled through the document, counting. "Okay, maybe twice."

"Three times."

"Shut up."

"Elle, you look like you're about to murder someone," Via observed at lunch, sliding into the seat across from me with her usual grace.

"Just your cousin," I muttered, stabbing my salad with unnecessary violence. Via giggled, sipping her iced tea.

"Still fighting the good fight, I see," Zoey commented, unwrapping her sandwich. "How's the newspaper dynasty coming along?"

"We're not a dynasty. We're barely functional."

"That's not what I heard," Priya sang, appearing with her lunch tray. "Derek said you two were practically finishing each other's sentences in the library yesterday."

I choked on my water. "We were not."

"He said Drew suggested changing the headline and you immediately knew exactly what he meant and started rewriting it."

"That's called professional collaboration."

"Is that what we're calling it?" Priya pulled out her phone to show me a photo. It was clearly taken from across the library—me and Drew hunched over a laptop, his hand pointing at something on the screen while I scribbled notes, both of us completely absorbed. "Milo took this."

"And if you could see my face it would look something like the head exploding emoji."

Two weeks into our partnership, Drew started getting restless with our library limitations.

"The printer's broken again," he announced, slumping into the chair across from me. "And they're closing early for some faculty meeting."

I looked up from my laptop. "So we reschedule."

"Or we could work somewhere with functioning technology and decent coffee."

"The coffee shop closes at five on weekdays."

"My place has both those things."

I gave him a flat look. "Not happening."

"Why not?"

"Because I like maintaining the illusion that you don't exist outside of school hours."

"Harsh." He leaned back in his chair, studying me. "What if I promise to behave?"

"Your definition of behaving and mine are probably very different."

"Come on, Sterling. My mom makes excellent cookies. And our WiFi doesn't cut out every ten minutes like the school's."

I was about to refuse again when my browser crashed. The library's ancient WiFi had claimed another victim.

Drew raised an eyebrow. "The universe is speaking."

"The universe has terrible timing."

"So is that a yes?"

I sighed, looking at my blank screen and the pile of unfinished work. "No. We'll go to mine."

Drew's face lit up like Christmas morning. "Really?"

"Don't make it weird."

"Wouldn't dream of it, neighbor."

The drive home was mercifully short.

"Cozy," he commented as we walked up to the front door.

"It's not really home yet," I admitted, fumbling with my keys. "Still feels like we're house-sitting." Inside, I led him to the living room, where I'd set up what had basically become my office. Legal pads and highlighters scattered across the coffee table, my dad's case files stacked neatly to one side.

"Your dad's a lawyer?" Drew asked, settling onto the couch.

"Corporate law. Hence the..." I gestured vaguely at the pristine but impersonal décor. "Sterile aesthetic."

"It's not sterile. It's just... waiting."

I looked at him, surprised by the observation. "Yeah. Something like that."

We worked in relative harmony for the first hour. Drew sprawled across one end of the couch while I claimed the floor, both of us editing different sections of the same article. It was almost... peaceful. Then my laptop died.

"Shit," I muttered, frantically pressing the power button.

"Charger?"

"Upstairs."

"So go get it."

I hesitated. My room was directly across from his bedroom window. I'd spent the last month carefully timing my movements to avoid any accidental visual encounters, and now I was supposed to just waltz up there while he was in my house?

"Problem?" Drew asked, noticing my hesitation.

"No. Just... stay here."

I bolted upstairs, grabbed my charger from my desk, and when I turned around, Drew was no longer on the couch. He was standing at the window, looking directly across at his own house.

"Nice view," he commented casually.

My cheeks burned. "I don't—I mean, I never—"

"Relax, Sterling. My curtains are usually closed." He turned to me with that infuriating smirk. "Usually."

"You're disgusting."

"You've said. Now can we please finish this article before midnight?"

We worked for another three hours, and somewhere around hour two, something shifted. Maybe it was being in my space, surrounded by my things, but Drew seemed... different. Less performative. He still argued with every edit I made, but there was less venom in it. More genuine disagreement and actual collaboration.

"This paragraph flows better if you move this sentence to the end," he said, leaning over to point at my screen.

His shoulder brushed mine, and I tensed.

"Like this?" I moved the cursor, hyperaware of how close he was.

"Perfect."

Our eyes met for just a second, and I felt sick.

"I need your phone number," Drew said suddenly.

I blinked. "What?"

"For coordination. This whole 'messaging through Via' thing is ridiculous." He pulled out his phone. "We're supposed to be co-editors. We should probably be able to contact each other directly."

"We can coordinate through email."

"Email is for old people and college applications."

"Then we can use the school messaging system."

"Sterling." He fixed me with a look. "Just give me your number. I promise I won't abuse the privilege."

"Your promises aren't exactly reliable."

"When have I ever broken a promise to you?"

"Fine," I sighed, handing my phone over. "But this is strictly professional."

"Of course." He typed my number in, trying not to smile. "Strictly business."

Within thirty seconds of handing my phone back, it buzzed.

Drew: Test

I looked at him. "Really?"

Drew: Just making sure it works

Me: It works

Drew: Good. Now I can properly annoy you 24/7

Me: I'm regretting this already

Drew: No takebacks

Me: Why did I agree to this

Drew: Because I'm irresistibly charming

Me: Because you're insufferably persistent

Drew: Potato, po-tah-to

"Can you call my phone?" Drew asked, just as he was about to go. He was finally packing up his things, preparing for his arduous journey across the street where hopefully he would keep his curtains firmly shut, but his phone had gotten buried somewhere in our mess of a living room.

My dad wasn't home yet, and Waverly had locked herself in her room hours ago. The house was quiet. I liked it quiet. Or at least, that's what I'd been telling myself for the past couple years. Drew was not quiet.

"Fine," I huffed resignedly, scrolling to find his name in my contacts. Whatever it took to get him to leave. I needed to finish my Calc homework. Almost immediately, the unmistakable tones of Nelly Furtado began blaring through the cavernous rooms and high ceilings.

What song, you ask? Maneater.

My ringtone on his phone was "Maneater." The look I threw him—I could have hit him over the head with my dad's case files.

My eyes narrowed to slits, and I arched an eyebrow. "Seriously?"

The grin on his face was so shit-eating I wanted to smack it off.

"You don't like it?" Drew smirked.

My nostrils flared in irritation, and I folded my arms, mouth tightening into a thin line. "You're a child."

"C'mon, Lizzie," wheedled Drew, with one of those long, slow Wilder smiles. "I thought you appreciated accuracy." Why did he insist on tormenting me? It wasn't enough that I had to work with him. Or that his cousin was my best friend. No. He had to go out of his way to make my life miserable. Maneater. He was such a dick.

"Don't call me Lizzie," I snapped.

"I'd consider it an honor to be eaten alive by you, Eliza Sterling," he murmured, dragging his tongue over his bottom lip. He raised himself up to his full height, tilting his head slightly. "If it's any consolation."

I lifted my chin, leaning in so close that I could count the freckles on his nose, and with as much venom as I could muster: "Fuck you, Drew."

He grinned again, a dirty, crooked one this time, blue eyes molten. "I wish you would."

God, he was such an asshole.

"Just take your fucking phone and go," I growled in response, rolling my eyes.

Drew dug around in the couch cushions for a second, before emerging with his phone secured once again. "See you through the window, neighbor," he sang sweetly. And with that, he blew me a kiss and attempted to tap me on the nose. Thankfully I dodged, so appalled and enraged I could barely manage to yell at him.

"Try that again and I'll bite your finger off," I threatened, regretting the words the minute they fell out of my mouth.

I heard him humming "Maneater" as he sauntered out the door, winking just before I slammed it firmly shut. I wanted to scream, but I knew he could probably hear me. He was the literal worst.

Later that night, when Via called and I couldn't find my phone buried somewhere in the newspaper chaos, I had to text Drew from my laptop to call it.

Justin Timberlake's "SexyBack" started playing from under a pile of AP Government notes.

I was going to kill him.

Me: Are you KIDDING ME

Drew: What? It's a great song

Me: I'm changing it

Drew: To what?

Me: Literally anything else

Drew: How about "Hot for Teacher"?

Me: DREW

Drew: "Fever"?

Me: I'm blocking your number

Drew: No you're not. You need me for newspaper coordination

Me: I hate you

Drew: Sleep tight, Sexy

I threw my phone on my bed and yanked my curtains shut.