“You’re kidding, right?” I was staring at the piece of paper that my Experimental Psych lab’s TA had just handed out.

He’d numbered us all off as we’d come into the room, made us stand by number, and then had just informed us we all had a surprise group project due on Friday. I was paired with STONER, a guy who smelled like a skunk, INFLUENCER, who was busy taking pictures of herself against a blank wall, and CHEATER, an unassuming guy who—well, I didn’t know what he cheated on, but it didn’t sound good. While I recognized their faces from my classes thus far, I didn’t know their real names, and I didn’t need to, to know that I didn’t want to be paired with them.

I raised my hand, then started talking before being called on. “Is this some sort of meta thing? Are you testing the effects of suddenly stressing college-aged students in their second to last semester?”

The TA’s laugh ensured me that no, he was not, as he gave us all hand-outs.

**

The only thing that made the morning tolerable was feeling my phone buzz in my pocket. I pulled it out covertly and found, Good morning, Sunshine, from my KILLER. How’s your day going? he asked.

I crossed my legs to hide my furtive typing as my TA rattled on. You remember at mini-golf when you offered to murder someone for me? I sent.

Hypothetically, Byron replied.

Good. I’m making a list.

The three dots of his response spun for a very long time. Do you require immediate rescue? was what he wound up sending.

I bit my lips and snorted. No, I texted back, And I think I have to pay attention in class now…but thank you for texting.

You’re welcome, he sent, and a second later, Let me know if anything changes.

**

What followed was the longest-shortest week of my life. The long parts were getting STONER, INFLUENCER, and CHEATER to agree on the fastest research project of all time, pulling the data ourselves, and finding the one time we were all free to discuss it—Thursday night, of course, the day before it was due.

The shortest parts were the text conversations I had with Byron along the way. He texted me Good morning, Sunshine, every morning, and Good night, Sunshine, every night, and in between he’d keep in touch at random. I’d opened up to him at the diner this past weekend, and told him things about my mom, childhood pets, and how I thought figuring out how brains worked was fun…and so he sent me things. An interesting picture of a sun-bleached blue wall—presumably because I’d told him it was my favorite color. A list of the actual ancient wonders of the world, none of which involved windmills. Silly galaxy brain memes.

And when I wasn’t panicking, holding down my current heavy class load, and preparing to have this entire stupid extra project dumped on me, I texted him back. Some surreptitiously taken photos of old guys, asking if they were his uncle, which I knew made him laugh. An actual Rorschach blot—which had led to a conversation about ink, and tattoos, which he claimed to have but wouldn’t send me photos of, which led to me endlessly guessing what they were and where they were located on him.

And by Thursday morning, I decided that my fingers weren’t broken, Free this weekend? I texted him, mid-afternoon.

He got back to me quickly. No, sorry. I wish though.

I sighed, going back through everything, trying to separate the truth from my feelings—him not having time to hang out with me only felt like rejection, but it wasn’t, really, right? And he’d gone out of his way to be available, on his phone at least, all this week so far.

And then thirty minutes after that he sent, I got tonight off. Movie?

My jaw and my fists clenched. I wanted to strangle my TA. But I forced myself to type out, No, and put in a sad face. I have a big project due tomorrow. I sent it, before I could decide to blow off this grade.

Funny how I was willing to trust a KILLER, and not an INFLUENCER, but here I was.

I’ll let you know when I have time off next week, he promised, and I chose to take him at his word.

**

My motley experimental psych crew all met at Whitney and I’s apartment to create our final presentation. STONER and INFLUENCER had half-assed their portions, where I was fairly sure CHEATER’s data was entirely made up. And when I offered to be the person who put it all together to make it passable, because I wanted to pass, they eagerly took me up on it.

Whitney was listening from the other room. “Did you just promise to do all the work for them?” she asked after they’d left, the stench of cheap weed lingering behind.

“Yes.” I was still frowning at the closed door.

“Why?”

“Because,” I told her. “You don’t know them like I do.”

“Uh, okay, if you say so,” she said, watching me disconsolately shuffle papers. “What’re you doing this weekend? Any plans?”

“No,” I groaned. Though I could’ve been out at a movie with Byron right now. And maybe I should’ve given him more credit all along. No one talks about the good KILLERs, like when TAs get murdered right before giving out dumb, last-minute assignments.

“Well, Chance and I are going to go on a hike on Sunday. Want to come?”

I nodded deeply. I’d need something to do this weekend—and this stupid project would already be turned in. “Sure.”

**

I was up till 2 a.m. doing our statistical analysis, but by the time I was finished I knew we’d get an A.

It wasn’t until right before crashing out I realized that Byron hadn’t texted me Good night, Sunshine, like usual.

Had it really only taken three days to feel like a routine? Maybe my project should’ve been about that instead: Dating Expectations of Girls in their Early Twenties, or Appropriate Lack Thereof.

Had I pissed him off somehow? I hoped not, but if I had it wasn’t meant to be and all that. School was important to me. And he’d cancelled on or ignored me how many times? I’d be a little hurt, sure—okay, maybe a lot hurt—but, it wasn’t like I should even want to be with him, except for my complete inability to do other things that were good for me, like eat vegetables, avoid taking charge of projects, and not wish teaching assistants to get hit by lightning.

I woke up feeling like I needed a triple-shot. I stumbled through my morning, and made it out the door…to almost step on a little stuffed purple unicorn. Its tiny iridescent horn pierced the top of a note that said, “Good Luck, Sunshine.”

I picked it up, helplessly grinning, put it into my bag, and pulled out my phone.

Good morning, Shadow, I texted Byron, and suddenly, somehow, it felt like a mere single shot might suffice.