And there went the calm. I had to bury my anger though. It hid beneath a contemptuous grin. "Fuck a dying girl? Sorry but I have no desire nor need to lift plays from your book, cretino."

Cecily laughed.

Logan's laughter turned mordent. "Just thought with your 'dying flower' experience it might be your preferred flavor."

"What experience?" Cecily inquired as she glanced between us.

But I knew what he meant. "The next words out of your mouth about mothers better be how badly you need to get home so yours can tuck you in, Logan."

"Sorry," he said, "didn't think the mommy wounds were still fresh. What's it been ten years or something? Hell, she must have been some mom. I mean I've seen all the sex-kitten pictures of Julep Rossi the actress, but I can only imagine the hotness of her baking cookies and being a good little housewife."

I stared at him with a silent prayer for self-discipline.

As usual, God left me hanging.

Logan met Callum Trovatto full throttle. My fist told his mouth to keep my mother's name out of it. My fist told his right eye to never look at another goddamn picture of her ever again.

Noelle shoved me off of him, and then kicked us all out.

Cecily laughed once we reached the sidewalk, free of Logan who stalked off with a bruised face in the other direction.

"Man," she snickered, "who'da thought a couple med students studying eating disorders would be so lively?"

Still riled up, I snapped, "She doesn't have a damn eating disorder."

Cecily grew quiet, shrinking away from my anger. It only made me more pissed off about Logan's comments. "I'm sorry," I said, "I just don't like anyone talking about my mom. Not like that."

"What did he mean?" she asked gently.

"It's nothing." Because only one girl held my secrets and it wasn't Cecily, no matter how much her skin smelled like coconuts, or how coyly she grinned when we accidentally bumped hands reaching for our coffee cups, or how cute her Italian big brown-eyed having face was. Her laughter held no pulse for me. It was just another hum in the clamorous streets of New York.

"I should probably walk you home," I offered cordially.

"I take the train. I don't live in Uptown, I'm a Brooklyn girl."

"That's fine," I lied. Last thing I wanted to do was waste time walking her to Metro let alone going forty-five minutes to Brooklyn and then another forty-five to get back home. Bless her dedication, but this was not my burden. She was not my girl. Walking her to the train remained my offer.

"Do you live in Lasdon?" she asked, regarding the school's housing most students chose during the latter years of school.

"No, I stayed at home ," I answered, leaving out the parts about father needing an adult babysitter.

"Where do you live-Trump Tower?" She rolled her eyes with laughter.

I shook my head. "My father did well, but not Al Pacino well. No. We have a two-story a few blocks from here."

"Rich boy," she ribbed. "I wish I were that lucky."

I stuck the coffee stirrer in the corner of my mouth. "If it makes you feel better it pisses off my step-mother."

"I've got one of those too," she laughed.

I would have kept talking, but her story had already been told. We were both runaways.

"So . . ." she asked as we walked to the train, "what do you think Everly has, if not an eating disorder?"

"I don't really want to talk about her." Head down. Hands in pockets. All business. I knew I was being rude, but I just couldn't help myself.

"Is it true-what Logan said-do you like her?"

I glanced to Cecily. "Why does it matter?"

"Because . . . I like you?" she smiled, and when she did, there wasn't any shyness, just hope that I'd return the same feeling.