I pack an overnight bag for the cabin in upstate New York. It’s not really upstate upstate because it’s only 2 hours outside of Manhattan. But New Yorkers have a curious tendency to call everything outside of Manhattan upstate.

Looking through my closet, I don’t know what to bring. I look up the weather on my phone. It should be in the high 40s and low 50s there this weekend. So really cold, at least for me. I know it’s going to get even colder.

I pull a small suitcase from under my bed. I’m not a good packer. I don’t do it often and I lack practice, at least according to my parents who both fly practically every week and don’t think that there’s anything unusual about that. My head hurts and my arms feel heavy when I look through my closet for appropriate sweaters. I hate to admit it, but the main reason I’m having trouble packing is that I don’t really want to go. I’m not in that place yet with Simon. The going away for the weekend place. Why was he so insistent on us going? And why the hell did he go ahead and book this place without even consulting me? Girls like spontaneity in relationships. They like it when guys take initiative and book romantic gateways all on their own. I’m not different, of course. Except that what most girls won’t tell you is that we only want spontaneity from guys we already want to go on trips with. Otherwise, it’s awkward. Uncomfortable. Full of pressure.

If Simon had asked me about this trip before booking it, I would’ve said no. But he didn’t. He just said that he had booked it and that he couldn’t cancel without losing all of his money. That’s a lot of pressure!

I look the cabin up on my phone. It looks cozy and warm. A cute mountain gateway. If it weren’t for Simon, I’d be really excited about going on this trip. I haven’t been outside of New York ever since I’ve been here and I’m really curious about checking out the nature on the East Coast. It’s completely different from the kind of nature that I’m used to.

A knock on my open door breaks my concentration, startling me. I almost drop my phone.

What? I mouth to Tristan. He motions that the music is too loud. Reluctantly, I turn down Elle King’s “Ex’s and Oh’s” and turn to him.

Tristan is leaning on the frame of the door. It looks as if he’s actually holding it up.

“Can I talk to you?” he asks. There’s something unusual about his demeanor. He looks lost, somehow. Vulnerable.

I don’t say anything and turn back to my packing.

“Alice?”

“Go, talk,” I say, folding my favorite purple merino wool sweater with a wide turtleneck into my bag.

“Is that the sweater that I got you for Christmas last year?” he asks.

I nod and put another sweater on top of it. I won’t admit it out loud, but it’s one of my favorites.

“I’m glad you love it,” he says quietly.

I look up at him. His hazel eyes look green in this light and they search my face for something. Whatever he has to talk to me about is serious.

“I do love it,” I admit it.

I can’t lie. I don’t usually like wool. It’s usually bulky and hot or just itches like hell. But this sweater is amazing. Super comfortable and soft. Never itchy. It also goes with practically everything. Tights. Jeans. Even pajamas.

Tristan gave it to me on Christmas Eve on the beach in Malibu. We spent the day together surfing and kissing and drinking wine coolers. After having a picnic on the beach and watching the sun set, he handed me the box with the sweater. It cost him a month of his allowance.

“What do you want, Tristan?”

“I heard that you’re going away with that guy. Simon.”

I shrug.

“Are you?”

“I’m packing, aren’t I?” I ask. That’s bitchy and so not me. I regret saying that, but I won’t apologize.

“For how long?”

“Not long. Tomorrow through Sunday.

“That’s long, Alice. Very long,” he says. I stare at him. I have no idea where this is coming from.

“Do you think this is too soon?” he asks.

My patience is wearing thin. We’re not even talking and now I’m supposed to stand here and listen to a lecture about too soon from my ex?

“Too soon? Are you insane?” I say. “Get the hell out, Tristan”

I try to close the door, but he puts his foot in the crack. “No, listen, Alice. This has nothing to do with me. I’m just worried.”

I roll my eyes.

“You know that jealous ex-boyfriend act is getting really old Tristan. I’m sick of it.”

“No, it has nothing to do with that,” he says. The way he says it, I suddenly believe him. There’s sincerity in his voice.

“I found out something about Simon,” Tristan says.

“What?” I ask before I have a chance to think about it. “No, you know what, it doesn’t matter. I don’t care.”

“Alice, please. Listen. I don’t want you to go,” Tristan says. His eyes tighten. Pupils dilate.

“I don’t care what you want. This is none of your business,” I say, refusing to acknowledge the uncomfortable feeling in the pit of my stomach that says that maybe he’s right.

“He does drugs, Alice,” Tristan finally comes out with it. “I didn’t want to tell you, but you forced me. And I don’t mean that he smokes a little pot on weekends. Cocaine. Meth. And a lot of it.”

“Meth? Are you serious?” I ask, rolling my eyes. I definitely don’t believe that. “He does not. That’s a lie.”

“I heard it from Juliet a while ago. And she heard it from someone else.”

“Oh, wow, who can argue with testimony from ‘someone else,’” I say mockingly.

Tristan ignores me and continues, “I didn’t want to say anything at first ‘cause I thought you’d just find out on your own. But then I heard that you were going away with him.”

“I don’t believe you.” I shrug.

“He’s been arrested, Alice. He’s got a record.”

I shrug. I don’t know anything about this. But I don’t disbelieve Tristan. I just don’t want to give him the satisfaction. Besides, is a record enough of a reason to cancel? It’s a great excuse, I suddenly realize. But then I look at Tristan. He’s searching my face for some hope that I’m with him. No, I can’t give into him.

“Alice, please, don’t go. I have a bad feeling about this.”

“Tristan, I don’t understand what you want from me,” I say, even though he had just answered my question. I take a deep breath and try again.

“Tristan, we’re over. Don’t you know that? Why are you going around finding out dirt on my boyfriend?”

He doesn’t respond. Hoping that he’ll just leave, I go back to packing.

“Alice…” he starts, but I cut him off.

“You’re just jealous, Tristan. We’re not together and I’m not talking to you anymore because you’re an asshole. And now you’re mad. You want to make my life difficult. Really, I thought you were better than just a gossip.”

He shakes his head, but doesn’t make a move to leave.

“And by the way, please don’t put me in the middle of you and Tea, whatever it is you two have going. She knows that I’m mad at you for some reason, but she doesn’t know why. And she was pestering me about it. I don’t want to be involved in your drama, Tristan. You got that?” I say.

I turn toward him. He’s still standing in the doorway.

“Alice, please,” he tries again. I’m over it. I kick his foot out of the doorframe and slam the door in his face.