Sabrina put her hands on her hips and looked at me the way she looked at problems she'd already solved. "You have one bra, Tyler." I leaned against the railing across from the entrance and crossed my arms. The sports bra was digging into my ribs right now — had been all day, a low-grade ache I'd been ignoring through sheer stubbornness. I wasn't about to admit that. "I'm good." "You're not good. You've been adjusting that thing every ten minutes since we left the dorm." "I have not." "You have. You do this." She mimicked tugging at a strap. It was annoyingly accurate. "You need at least three," she continued, counting on her fingers. "And underwear. Real underwear. Not whatever hostage situation your boxers have going on down there." "My boxers are fine." "Your boxers surrendered yesterday
