• • •

From the way the professor is talking about the first assignment for my Literature of the Past course, you'd have thought it's the most important essay of my entire degree, let alone the first piece of work I'll ever complete. It's hard not to let his words get in my head as he spends almost the entire lecture outlining specific criteria and ways in which we'll fail.

Beside me, Gray is furiously scribbling notes while I've got the lecture pulled up on my screen to annotate the slides. I always type; Gray always writes everything out by hand, and when I drive him home each day, he compares our notes. His are usually better. I get lost in thought sometimes and realize I've missed a slide or two when he nudges me.

I've always been one to get tangled in the spider webs of my thoughts and it doesn't help that this course is dedicated to classic fiction. I can't stand the classics. I read enough of them in high school to know that: I hate the language and there's nothing I can relate to. I'd much rather lose myself in the latest releases, filled with voices that feel more like me.

When I can drown out the lecturer, I can see that this assignment is a drop in the ocean, only ten percent of one course out of five I'm taking, but I was there for that terrifying introductory lecture. A smiling woman stood at the front of a lecture theatre packed with English students, scanning us like a lion assessing her prey, and drilled into us that every assignment counts for our GPA.

It's not like I'm trying to get a 4.0. I haven't had such high grades since the first semester of sophomore year, and it's been a downward hill since there. At the end of my junior year, I was just about clinging onto a 3.7. Then Dad disappeared. My GPA plummeted to a 3.0 and the world didn't end any more than it already had.

I don't care about straight As. But it's hard not to be scared by the repetition that every moment of the next four years matters. I know it's not really true, but that doesn't make it any easier to digest.

Three fifty. At last. I heave a sigh when the professor reaches the end of his slides and I can stuff my laptop into my bag. Gray slings his satchel over his shoulder. He's got the put-together college student look down pat, though I know he's as confused as me most of the time. All the ACTs and SATs in the world couldn't have prepared me for the college reality.

"You ok?"

I press my lips together so hard it hurts. "Stressed."

"It's all scare tactics," he says. "We've got two weeks; we can figure it out together. It'll be fine."

I know he's right, and he's not saying anything I don't already know, but there's a difference between knowing and believing. It makes more sense when he says it. "Yeah, I say, holding my breath for a moment before I let it go.

"Storie?" He waits until I look at him and when I smile, he does too. "See you at nine?"

He knows my schedule better than I do. I have a five-hour shift at the bookstore today, inventively named South Lakes Books. It's my fifth and final shift of the week, and the latest. It'll be way after ten by the time Gray and I get back. Mom'll still be up though. She never goes to bed until I'm home.

"Yup. See you then."

I feel bad that he's stuck here, forced to hang out in Starbucks until I'm done, but he doesn't seem to care. He always has his e-reader in his hand when I pick him up, headphones clamped over his ears and an empty mug or two on the table in front of him.

He gives me an exuberant wave and heads off to the opposite end of campus. It's not far. South Lakes is a small city with more of a big town feel, and SoLa – what everyone calls the university – is even smaller. There are barely five thousand students and campus isn't even a square mile, including freshman accommodation.

At least it means classes are close. One of my biggest worries was turning up to class late and sweating and having to do the walk of shame to find an empty seat, and I count my lucky stars that at least this semester, I have Gray by my side. Everyone seems to know everyone, but we're in the same boat.

He went to high school on the other side of Five Oaks, closer to Cleveland, and he was the only one to even apply to SoLa. There's no way anyone I knew back in Queens would dream of coming here. Half my graduating class didn't apply to college but those who did had their sights set high.

At one point, all I wanted was to follow in Kris's footsteps and go to NYU, but life had other plans.

• • •

I make it to the bookstore with a minute to spare before my shift begins, having quickly tugged on the awful t-shirt I have to wear. The crew cut makes my neck look shorter and fatter and the unisex XL is too tight, clinging in all the wrong places, but I can't bring myself to ask for the size up.

At least the t-shirt is the worst part of the job, and perhaps the name tag that gives strangers an excuse to stare at my boobs. Proportionately, they're not that big. Below average, even. Being fat is deceptive that way: the guys who grimace at my stomach and thighs are the ones who leer at my breasts, and they don't seem to realize that if I lost weight, my chest would be the first thing to go.

I lost fifteen pounds right after Dad went missing and I was still too big for that to be noticeable, but I instantly dropped a cup size. It didn't take long for the weight to creep back on, and each pound that I lost returned with a couple of friends.

I'm on organizing duty today. It's my favourite job, rearranging stocks and creating arrangements and returning lost books to their homes. I get to explore every inch of the store and its maze of shelves, adding countless titles to my already staggering to-be-read list.

I'm not supposed to touch my phone when I'm out on the floor, but sometimes I can't resist snapping a photo of an irresistible new release. Once, a random middle-aged woman ranted at me for killing bookstores by taking photos to buy the book online later. I couldn't be bothered to explain myself, but she shut up when she saw the logo on my shirt.

Georgie's working behind the counter today. That's where I've been for most of the week, learning the workings of the register, and I don't envy her. I know she hates being the one in plain sight, fending off college guys who shamelessly hit on her. She's absolutely gorgeous, an intriguing mix of her redheaded mom and her African dad, but that invites a ton of unwanted comments.

But she's a pro. She's worked here for three years now and she has a whole arsenal of comebacks for people who think it's ok to ask about her auburn Afro or her thousands of freckles. I admire her confidence, but I'm much happier hiding out amidst the shelves.

As I'm trawling the crime section for misplaced books at six thirty, halfway through my shift, Navya passes me and stops with a smile. If I had to pick, she'd be my favourite: she has an open, welcoming smile that puts me at ease, and she never gets annoyed when customers assume she's a child. She may be twenty, but she could pass for thirteen.

"Nearly finished your first proper week," she says, taking a couple of books that are about to slide off the stack I'm clutching. "How're you feeling?"

"Pretty good," I say, and that's true. Tight t-shirt and target tag aside, I can't complain. I'm in my element here. Mom was right. I've spent my life working in a bookshop. It's second nature. "I love the store," I add for good measure.

"Great! I'm so glad you're enjoying it." A giddy smile breaks out as though I've just told her she's won the lottery. She and I may be chalk and cheese, in as many ways as I can count, but her bubbliness is infectious. "It's awesome having you here, Storie."

"Thanks, Navya." It doesn't feel right to shorten her name yet, the way Georgie and some of the other staff call her Nav, though I told everyone to call me Storie. They all thought it was hilarious, and Navya said I couldn't work anywhere else. My nametag bears my full name, though. The last thing I want is every customer thinking they're a comic genius.

The only person who doesn't buy into nicknames is our slightly off manager, Rich, who insists on calling us all by our last names. It doesn't bother me, though Sovany is longer than Storie – and Khatri is longer than Nav, for that matter – but it does seem to bother Rich that Georgie's last name is June. It puts a chink in the chain of his attempt to dewomanize us.

"I love your hair." She refrains from touching it. I run a hand through it. I never usually do more than run a brush through it in the morning but last night I braided it and now long black waves sit just above my waist, half of it pulled into a bun to keep it off my face.

"Thanks," I say again, and I wish I had something else to say but it takes me more than a couple of weeks of intermittent shifts to figure someone out enough to have a more fluid conversation. I end up thinking too much about what I'm about to say, until the moment passes and it's too late for me to return the compliment.

"I should probably head down before Georgie calls me out for avoiding the back room," she says with a roll of her eyes, like we're sharing an inside joke, and a flutter of friendship warms my chest. I'm one of them. Or at least, I'm on the way to becoming part of their group, which terrifies me as much as I want it. I love being back in a bookstore, but I miss bantering with my parents.

Navya disappears, her tiny body weaving around shelves and people until she's out of sight, and I head around the corner to rehome a book. This place was intimidating when I first started, so much bigger than our store, but my mental map of the shelves is starting to stick now, and I know exactly where I need to go with the handful of Brontës in my arms.

A corner of the store is dedicated to classics, tucked away in the back. People tend not to come in to browse the classics: anyone in that section is here for a reason, so there's no point putting it front and center. Although the books are my least favorites, I like the area and I feel right at home when I stock the editions that have gone wandering.

I'm only alone for a minute. When I have my finger on the spine of a pristine copy of Jane Eyre, there's a cough behind me and I turn around to come face to face with an attractive guy. Not quite face to face – he's nearly a foot taller – but definitely attractive. His eyebrows are completely straight and they twitch when I meet his eye.

"Can I help you with anything?" I ask.

He gives me a lazy once over and my skin prickles. His lips are slightly parted and he half smiles, a half-formed dimple in his right cheek. I tighten my hand around a hardback book, not that I would ever use it as a weapon and certainly not on the job, but it makes me feel a little more secure.

"Yeah," he says. His eyes drop to the book in my hand and his smirk grows. "This must be a library 'cause I can't stop checking you out."

He laughs at his own joke and I wish I was anywhere but the furthest corner of the store.

"Are you looking for something in particular?" I'm determined to stay professional. I've seen Georgie and Navya deal with creeps, though theirs usually look like creeps too. This guy is cute. Or he was, at least, before creep mode kicked in.

He fingers the edge of a novel. "A bookmark," he says. "Unless you like it dog-eared style?"

My cheeks are uncomfortably hot. We're the only ones back here. I doubt he'd do anything if I tried to run, but I can't bring myself to move my feet. I've never been in this kind of situation before. My size has always been an invisibility cloak when it comes to guys: the more of me there is, the less they see me.

"You can find accessories at the front of the store, near the register," I tell him. "We carry a wide range of bookmarks."

Stick to the script, I think. Maybe it'll bore him.

His eyes fall on the book he's touching, a William Golding classic, and he lets out a dry laugh when he picks it up and wiggles his eyebrows at me. "You can be the lord of my flies any time, baby."

I straighten my spine, standing as tall as I can. At 5'6", I'm not short, but he's over six feet and he manages to make me feel small.

"I'm going to have to ask you to leave," I say, pushing the book back into the shelf, though I don't dare turn away from him. I've heard too many horror stories to let my guard down.

"Aw, you sure about that?" He pouts. "You don't wanna take a look at my hardcover?"

When he winks, I feel sick. My skin is flushing hot and cold and my heart seizes in my chest like it's caught in the grip of an iron fist. The stupid t-shirt feels even tighter now and I can feel panic sweating out down my spine, beading at my hairline.

"You need to go." My eyes are burning, my throat beginning to ache, and I can't even reach for my phone. It's in my bag in the back room, where it's supposed to be for once.

"Must be 1984," he says, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth. "I could watch you all night."

I could cry or pass out or throw up. Or all three.

His eyes linger on my name tag. I can feel the burn of his stare searing through my chest.

"Astoria, huh?" He looks me up and down. "Suits you," he says, "'cause damn, girl, that ass tells a story."

Before my brain can decide just how to panic even further, my knees so weak that I know I'd fall if I tried to take a step, there's another guy at my side and for a moment, I'm convinced I'm about to die in the back of the bookstore.

But he grabs the creep's shoulder. "Dude. You need to back off," he says. There's an edge to his tone. "She told you to go."

The creep gives me an innocent smile and holds up his hands. "I'm just having a bit of fun."

"You're harassing her. Get out before I kick you out. Unless you want me to call the cops?"

Now I feel like I could faint with relief. Instead, I sink back against the shelf and try not to let my shallow breaths go to my head when the creep backs away. I recognize the lanyard poking out of the back pocket of his jeans – he's a SoLa student. I'll probably see him everywhere I go.

The second guy turns to me. He has a friendly face and eyes that bore right into me, as though he's trying to search my skin for answers when he asks, "Are you ok?"

I want to say no. I want to tap out the racing beat of my pulse. I really want to cry. But I don't. I just nod. "I'm ok," I say. "Thank you."

He smiles. It brightens his whole face. "Sorry about that. That wasn't cool. He was being a total jerk."

You're telling me? But I don't yell that. I just give him a stiff smile and nod. "He was a creep," I say, and I hate that my tone makes it sound like that's ok, like I should just let it roll off my shoulders. I take a deep breath and close my eyes for a moment. My face goes cold when my panic subsides and the air conditioning picks up on the sweat pricking my forehead.

The guy looks me up and down, taking me in as though he's choosing a turkey for Thanksgiving, and I'm about to shove past him to the front of the store before he says, "You don't look familiar. D'you go to SoLa?" He flashes me his student ID. His blonde hair is short in the picture but now it reaches his shoulders.

"Yeah." I try to rid myself of the unease that has settled deep within me. I dig out my own ID from my back pocket. I haven't got my hands on a lanyard yet, though I need one. I've already lost the card a few times.

"Freshman, huh? No wonder I don't recognize you." His smile isn't fake and predatory like the creep. It seems like he genuinely wants to make conversation and maybe it's because he got rid of the other guy, but I don't mind too much.

"I just moved here," I say, and I add, "from New York," before he can try and guess what country I look like I'm from.

"Cool! Always wanted to go there," he says. "So, what house are you in?"

My mind goes straight to Harry Potter and I have to bite my tongue to stop myself from saying Hufflepuff. I don't actually know what he means, and my confusion must show.

"You're not in a sorority?"

"Oh. No, I'm not. Are you?" I ask, and instantly curse myself for such a stupid question. He laughs and pushes his hair back.

"More of a frat kinda guy," he says, "but yeah. Theta Chi Theta."

He might as well be speaking ... well, Greek. I know nothing about Greek life except what I've seen on TV, and I'm not so naïve as to believe that's what it's like.

"I'm Liam," he says when I say nothing. I'm not sure why he's still here when I have the conversational prowess of a toddler.

"Storie," I say. He chuckles and glances around the room we're in.

"Fitting," he says. He's looking at me strangely. I can't tell what he's thinking. It sets me on edge.

"I need to get back to work," I tell him. I've only stopped for a few minutes, but it feels like a lifetime. "Thank you though."

"Any time," he says. "Though I hope it doesn't happen again."

"Me too."

He's still hanging around, one hand in the pocket of his jeans. "Any chance you wanna grab a coffee when you get off?"

I wasn't expecting that. My eyebrows jump up and then squash together. "Um, no. I can't. I need to get back home," I say, glad that I have an excuse. I've never had a guy show the slightest bit of interest – except for the creep, of course – except for the occasional joke, so I can't help the way my guard shoots straight up.

"How about Monday?" His smile is kind. "You're new; I know the ropes. Maybe I can give you a better intro to South Lakes than that douche?"

I don't like being put on the spot. I prefer having time to plan my responses, but I don't have time and it's not like he's asking me to run away with him. It's just a coffee in three days, so I nod, even though part of my brain is screaming that it's a set-up, that he just wants to humiliate me. "Ok."

His smile grows. "Awesome. Can I get your number?"

"Um ... no." I wince as though I have to apologize for not wanting to hand it out. "We just met."

He lifts a hand. "Yeah, of course. Sorry. Ok, when're you free on Monday?"

I tell him the classes I have that day, a two-hour break in the middle.

"I'm free then too," he says. "I'll be at the campus Starbucks at two. If you're still interested, just show up. The ball's in your court."

I like that. I smile. He does too.

• • •

My mind is still reeling when I reach the other end of campus shortly after nine. As predicted, Gray is sitting hunched over a digital book and he doesn't notice me until I'm right in front of him. I hardly say a word until we're in the car, and then I give him the breakdown of my shift.

"That's awful!" he cries out when I finish my rendition of the encounter with the creep. I find it easier to tell stories when I'm driving: I can keep my eyes on the road and only look across when I need a visual cue. And I need those cues: I can't talk on the phone. Without being able to see whoever I'm talking to, I can never fall into the right rhythm, no idea when it's my turn to speak.

"It was bad."

"That's horrendous," Gray says. "Oh my God. Are you ok?"

"I'm fine. He just made me uneasy," I say, and then I tell him about Liam. Gray hangs off my every word. He's addicted to words, even more than me. I've known him less than three months and he's already read a hundred books in that time.