Free Third Degree by Julie Cross Page A

true—I was home-schooled for several years—but I don’t remember telling Marshall that fact. “Right, the home-school thing.”
    “But you’re eighteen now,” Kelsey points out. “You can’t fall back on that excuse for much longer. According to one of the psych classes I’m taking this semester, socialization is often thought of as the most important component of education. Every living being desires skills that allow integration of functionality in a society made up of their same kind.”
    I hate psych majors.
    “True, that’s totally true …”
    She cracks a smile and eventually laughs. “You’re a terrible liar, you know? It’s fine if you don’t believe that. Yet. But we’ll get there. Between me and Marshall, you’re going to figure this shit out. Got it?”
    “Got it,” I repeat, my emotions bouncing between relief and anger. “Thanks,” I mumble before turning and heading back to Marshall. If I stay any longer, I’ll come up with scientific arguments and specific case studies to counter the ridiculous textbook theory she just recited.
    Marshall’s standing in the hall across from the bathroom. I grab his arm and pull him inside his room. “You totally cheated.”
    He runs his fingers through his hair and gives me that lopsided grin. “I don’t recall establishing any terms to our agreement.”
    “Well, we can fix that right now.” I snatch some paper and a pen from his desk. “And why would you prep me with that big apology speech if you’d already made excuses for me?” I spin around to face him, the paper now hanging limply in my hand. “When did you give Kelsey the weird home-schooled-girl story? You haven’t left my sight since before the dart throwing.…”
    He busies himself with sliding his feet into a pair of brown leather flip-flops.
    “You talked to her before we even made our deal, didn’t you?”
    “I may have run into her earlier while you were shopping , and I may have felt compelled to undo some of the damage. Especially with Becca riding my ass about the reports.” He takes the paper and pencil from my hand. “Let’s take this and my anatomy book and go get some dinner.”
    “Dinner?” I say, like it’s a foreign concept.
    “Dinner.” He tucks his book under one arm and opens the door for me. “I’m starving. I can’t concentrate unless I have food.”
    My stomach chooses this moment to grumble. “Okay, dinner it is.”

Chapter 8
    Turns out that dinner for Marshall meant a triple burger—no cheese—at a fast-food place in the student union. And he admitted to having eaten in the dining hall at five, but now that nine had rolled around, it was time for his “second dinner,” apparently. Working on my social skills, I’d managed to not turn my nose up at the sight of fast food and instead selected a salad with grilled chicken and fat-free dressing.
    So far, I’ve lasted twenty minutes without commenting on Marshall’s dinner. Which is why I decide that it’s okay to break the ice right now. Just this once. I’ve been good and deserve a reward. “Why not get fries with that burger? You’re already aiming for clogged arteries thirty years from now.”
    He polishes off the last bite and wipes his mouth with a napkin. “Not really a fan of fried foods.”
    I open my mouth to respond but clamp it shut when I see his look of warning. “So … this should be a fun semester. My roommate’s taking me on as some kind of charity psych project. That’s exactly what I had in mind when I decided to work on being normal. And then my parents—”
    Shit. I totally didn’t mean to say that out loud.
    He leans on one elbow, facing me. “What about your parents?”
    My gaze falls to the salad in front of me. “Nothing. Just that they’re … you know, worried about me and that kind of stuff.” I pile our collective garbage onto the tray, organizing it and then reorganizing it in order to avoid his gaze. “How long have you lived in