Westbrook Elite

Making decisions I regret is basically a hobby. So I guess it really wasn’t that surprising when I went out on a date with an Elite. And then he tried to assault me. I might be small, but I’m strong. I fought him off...then went straight to the dean. He didn’t believe me. No one does. And now my date from hell is in revenge mode, and I somehow end up in the campus pool. Did I mention I can’t swim?

Ever feel like you’re being watched? It’s an awareness so familiar I adapted to it long ago. Then I enrolled at Westbrook University to chase my dream and make up for someone else’s lost one. The prying eyes I’d known almost since birth.... They closed.

For me, choice might as well be a wish. My parents died in a fiery car crash when I was barely sixteen. I’m gay. I’m also totally in love with my brother. I didn’t choose any of that. In fact, I’ve tried like hell to deny it. But here I am in all my gay, brother-loving, no-parentals glory. Technically, Max isn’t my brother. Not by blood anyway. That should make it less ick, right? Considering he calls my parents mom and dad, probably not. Also, did I mention he’s straight?

I don’t do commitment. And though I swing both ways, I don’t do men either. It’s too messy, too stressful, and just asking for trouble. I’d rather shine bright like the sun than drown in the rain, so I adopt a pounce-and-bounce lifestyle for which my sparkling charm keeps me from being hated. When I show up in Sweden for a semester abroad, I expect a roomie. What I don’t expect is Lars. The storm to my sun.

Pretty sure I was a serial killer in my past life. Because karma is kicking my ass in this one. Everything was copasetic. I was coasting on the wave of life… until a gnarly swell pulled me under, and I washed ashore to a nightmare. A nightmare there was no waking from. So I packed my shit and moved all the way to the other side of the country—to the only place someone was willing to give me a second chance.

Most people think I’m a moron. In actuality, I’m a man with a plan. It’s one of those three-year plans that takes longer than three years. Still, I’ve been making it happen. Checking off those to-dos and turning them into to-dones. Everything is almost lined up. And then my phone rings. By the time I get to Jess, she’s unconscious and bleeding. My carefully crafted plan blows up in my face. I tell the hospital we’re engaged. We aren’t, but apparently, in that place, you need a permission slip to see your most important, so I do what has to be done.