Her phone beeps and she pulls it out again. She frowns.

I give her a side-eye. “Everything all right?”

She scrolls through her email.

“Earth to Gail?”

Nothing.

“Gail Morgan O’Sullivan.”

“What? Oh!” She shoves her phone into her back pocket. “Sorry, sorry. Do you ever feel like you’re forgetting something?”

“My underwear. All the time,” I say with dead seriousness. “Sometimes I give myself a wedgie just to make sure I have them on.

Oh—and Darien?”

“Yeah?”

“Diet. Don’t forget. I think the third floor has a cafeteria.”

I make a face. “Cafeteria food? That’s cardboard, bro.”

“Bro, get a salad.”

I purse my lips. With my new workout regimen and my personal trainer (who reminds me of Wolverine with the personality of a wet cat…so basically just Wolverine), I’ve existed on protein shakes and rabbit food. And chicken. So much chicken I could sprout feathers. And it’s not even seasoned

That guy seemed like a douche-bro.”

It’s one of the longest sentences she’s ever said to me. I don’t even know how to answer.

Really, if you don’t want to, you don’t have to,” I say. “You can duck out—”

“Elle.” She comes around to my side of the truck and extends a hand inside. “Let us flee to yonder basement room and sew thy starry helm.”

When I don’t move, she yanks the passenger door open and grabs the duffel bag, pulling me out with it. 

You don’t put a soap opera star in charge of an entire galaxy.

And may the force be with those chimichangas.