chapter seventeen

The evening of the Burnham Sports Banquet, Choo, Crosbie and I look on as Dane paces in front of my television, speaking into the end of a broomstick. It’s a blustery cold December night, the pitch black outside making the interior of my small apartment feel warm and cozy. Four empty beer bottles sit on the coffee table, interspersed by three sets of socked feet as we watch Dane’s performance.

“And of course I want to thank my parents,” he’s saying, “for raising me to give great monologues. I want to thank God, for making me so handsome, and I want to thank all the ladies in the room, for appreciating my Pitch Face.” He freezes in an exaggerated pitching stance, his lips pursed together like he’s posing for a drunk selfie.

“Boo!” Crosbie calls through his cupped hands. “Sit down! You suck!” 

“You’re not very handsome!” Choo cries.

Dane points at him with the broom. “Too far.”

We crack up as he starts a new speech, this one about being thankful for his powerful throwing arm, but equally thankful for his other arm, too, so he’s balanced.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t anxious about tonight, and not just because there’s an awesome job on the line. People have seen me and Andi around campus and generally know we’re dating, but going to the banquet together sends a message. We’re together. Kellan 1.0 is gone, Kellan 2.0 is here to stay. It’s nerve-racking, but it’s time.

It’s about thirty minutes before we’re due to leave, and the guys got ready at my place while the girls met up at Nora and Marcela’s apartment to get dressed. We’re all wearing our tuxes, jackets off and bowties loose. I’m not the only one who’s anxious; despite his bravado, Dane’s been covertly rubbing his damp palms on his dress pants for the past half hour.

“Relax,” I tell him. “We all know your date’s not real. When you’re seated beside an empty chair, we’ll pretend not to notice.”

“Ha ha,” Dane says. “I don’t know why you’re mocking me when Choo’s going with Marcela.”

“We don’t mock him because he’s already suffering,” I explain. “I’m not going to add to his pain. I’m a good friend.”

“You went from perfectly average to horrible,” Choo says, “when you didn’t intervene when she invited herself. That’s what a good friend would have done.”

“I’m not putting myself in her line of fire. She saw an opportunity for free food and she took it.”

“She saw an opportunity to see your face up close when you lose tonight,” Dane corrects, “and she took that. And two cameras.”

I concede the point. “True.”

“Speaking of dates,” Choo says. “Let’s talk about Andi.”

“What about her?”

“Is she your girlfriend now? That’s the rumor.”

“There’s no need for rumors. She’s a girl and she’s my friend.” I haven’t actually asked her to be my girlfriend, but I think she knows. “I like her,” I add. Then for good measure and good karma I also add, “I really like her.”

Their eyebrows fly up as though I’ve just confessed to killing her. “Ooh!” Dane exclaims, clapping his hands together. “Go on.”

“That’s it,” I say. I point at Choo. “She’s not crazy.” I point at Dane. “She’s not imaginary.” I point at Crosbie. “And she’s not...Crosbie.”

“It’s not fair to expect her to be perfect,” he says reasonably.

“We’re here, bitches!”

We all jolt as the front door bangs open and Marcela’s voice whips in alongside a gust of frosty air. High-heeled footsteps stomp up the stairs and we watch as the girls come into view, Marcela in the lead in a skin-tight gold dress that makes her look like she’s been sculpted by very gifted hands. Nora’s behind her in a lacy black sheath, her attention focused on Crosbie, who’s equally focused on her. I’d cringe at their smitten-ness, but then Andi enters and I forget I’m disgusted. She’s wearing a strapless blue dress that reaches the floor, showing off her toned shoulders and arms. She left her hair down, curled slightly at the ends, and she looks phenomenal.

“Wow,” I exclaim, springing to my feet. “Andi...wow. You’re... I don’t know what to say.”

“What’s new?” she asks.

“You’re beautiful.” I brush a kiss over her cheek. “And your hair... I’m kind of obsessed. I never get to see it down.”

“I know. That’s why...” She trails off.

“For me?”

“Just for tonight. It’ll probably get caught in a door and ripped out.”

“I’ll hold all the doors for you.”

She smiles. “A perfect gentlemen.”

I lean in so my lips touch her ear. “Then later I’ll hold it in my fists while I fuck you from behind.”

She shivers when she laughs. “Even more perfect.”

We linger for another ten minutes before putting on our coats and driving to the banquet hall in separate cars. The hall is in the middle of campus, near the administration buildings and a small set of staff residences. Like the rest of the structures, they’re made of old brick and covered in twining ivy, frost-covered leaves glimmering in the light. The trees out front are draped with white fairy lights that wink as we hurry toward heavy wooden doors engraved with the school’s insignia.

The foyer is crowded with people waiting for the coat check, the tiny space too hot in contrast to the icy air outside. The dress code for the banquet is formal and everyone looks like they’re here to either host the show or receive an award. There’s a photographer snapping pictures and two starch-collared servers flank the entrance to the hall with trays of sparkling cider. Faint classical music wafts through the doors along with the din of hushed voices and clinking glassware.

“Wow,” Andi murmurs when we get our coats checked and make our way inside. “This is amazing.”

I don’t disagree. The enormous hall is lined with four of the longest tables I’ve ever seen, each covered in a white tablecloth and so many glasses and pieces of cutlery I worry I won’t remember how to eat. The building itself is more than a hundred years old and still boasts gilt-framed paintings of its founders, heavy metal wall sconces, and chandeliers with flickering candles instead of bulbs.

At odds with the old-fashioned ambiance is the large screen at the back of the stage, prepared to broadcast backstage winner interviews live after each award presentation.

The various sports teams are seated together, with me and Crosbie at the table on the far right, the baseball team beside us at table two, and the basketball team on the opposite side of the room.

“This is where we part ways,” Choo says, pointing to the left. “I’ll mention you in my acceptance speech.”

“Losers don’t make speeches,” Dane informs him.

“Forget them,” Marcela says. “Mention me.”

“You get what you deserve,” I tell him when he looks at me for help.

“Who got what?” a deep voice asks.

We turn to see Crick approaching. He wears a white tux and looks like a huge douche, but that’s not the surprising part. The shocker is his pint-sized and very familiar date.

“Jack—Jazzy,” I say, trying not to look stunned. “Hi.”

She sniffs. “Hey.”

“Oh right,” Crick says dryly. “You two know each other.”

“Not really,” Jazzy says.

“Not at all,” I add.

He nods at Andi. “Hey. You look nice.”

“Thanks, you too.”

That’s enough of that. “We should take our seats,” I say, steering her away. “Enjoy the show.”

“You know,” Andi whispers as we hustle off, “it’s possible to be civil to people you used to date.”

“I can be civil,” I reply. “You should be scornful. Mock him. Hate him!”

“All right,” she says drolly. “Next time.”

I pull out her chair, then push it in as she sits. Crosbie and Nora do the same on the opposite side, and servers immediately swoop in to offer us our choice of beverage.

The centerpieces are bare branches in glass vases, the wood spray painted silver and off-set with red berries and tiny pinecones. Each name card has a tiny picture of an athlete stamped at the top.

“Are any members of the volleyball team here?”

“A couple of the fourth-years, that’s it. I’m not sure where they’re sitting.” She drums her unpainted fingernails on the table, making the water in her glass tremble.

I cover her hand with mine. “Nervous?”

She glances around. “I feel like a fraud. This dress. These painted branches. You. What am I doing here?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Look around, Kellan. Everyone’s watching us. Watching you.”

I got used to the attention pretty quickly in my first year. At first I coveted it, then I reveled in it, then I forgot about it. Now a covert glimpse tells me that Andi’s not mistaken. Lots of people are watching us, taking note. Wondering if she’s just my date or something more.

And that’s when I know it’s time to stop postponing the inevitable. It’s entirely possible that everyone else in this room knows I love Andi, but not the woman herself. Because I’ve never mustered up the nerve to admit it to myself, and certainly not to her.

“Hey,” I say, leaning in. “After the show—”

“Hair pulling,” she replies. “I know. Can’t wait.”

“No. Well, yeah, but that’s not—”

“Mr. McVey?”

I do a double-take at the sound of my last name and twist in my seat to see one of the servers hovering, an older, skinny guy that will probably be Crick in twenty years.

“Yes?”

“Coach Lungull would like to see you.”

“Er...” I look around warily. “Where?”

“Back stage.”

“Guess we know who won,” someone says.

I try to ignore the stares and whispers as I follow the server down the narrow walkway between the table and the wall, but I’m fully aware of the weight of the room’s attention. Now that I’m feeling it, it seems impossible that I ever could have forgotten. Though instead of making me want to take off my shirt and preen, it feels stifling and controlling. Like having the attention was a job in and of itself, a responsibility. Like my name was a definition and not an identity.

We pass the front of the stage just as the spotlight brightens and Dean Ripley approaches the microphone, his bearded face, straining pot belly, and custom Versace suit making him look like a very wealthy Santa Claus.

“Good evening,” he says. The room returns the greeting and the rest of his speech is cut off as the heavy metal stage door closes behind us and blocks out all sound. There’s a short, brightly lit hallway that connects to the side stage door, and in front of that is a little alcove with a green screen, two stools arranged in front of it, and those daunting cameras. Ivanka Ling is perched on a seat, eyes closed as a makeup artist brushes powder on her face.

“Stay here,” the server instructs me. “I’ll find your coach.”

Ivanka opens her eyes and spots me, smiling slowly. “Hi, Kellan.”

“Hi, Ivanka. You look nice.” She does. She looks gorgeous, in fact. Like a perfectly polished mannequin, her expression gives away nothing about tonight’s winner.

She gestures to her red lace dress. “This old thing? It seemed like the right outfit for a dingy hallway chat with the athletes after they’ve won. Kind of a nice segue way to the announcement, don’t you think?”

I’m saved from responding when Coach approaches from the far end of the hall, the harried-looking server hustling past. “McVey,” he rasps hoarsely.

“Hi,” I say. “You sound...different.”

“I’m sick,” he says bluntly. “And we’ve got the team MVP award later and I need you to present it.”

“Me?”

“Yeah.” He gestures vaguely toward Ivanka. “I mean, you auditioned for this thing right? You like talking, people seem to listen to you, and you’re on the team. I’d ask Crosbie but he’d probably do some trick to make the plaque disappear.”

“They’re illusions.”

“What?” He coughs into a tissue. “Doesn’t matter. We’re the last award of the evening. Someone will come get you when it’s time.”

“What do I say?”

“You say yes, obviously.”

“No, I mean, when I’m presenting.”

“There’s a cue card. It’s basic stuff. You just read.”

“Okay, but—”

“Good. Go enjoy your dinner.”

Everyone’s watching when I return to the banquet hall, looking for some sign that I’ve just been secretly told I’ve won.

“Coach is sick,” I announce when I retake my seat. “He asked me to present the team award later.”

Appetizers were delivered while I was gone, tiny mushroom tarts topped with micro greens. Everyone’s plate is empty but mine, and I pick up my fork self-consciously, aware of the heavy pause as they wait for the punch line. And I got the job!

“That’s it,” I say. “I don’t know anything else.”

“Congrats,” Andi says. “It’s a nice compliment that he picked you.”

Maybe last year—or even last month—being asked would have meant something to me. But right now it just feels like another interruption, something to distract me from the things that really matter.

“You should do an illusion,” Crosbie suggests, reaching over to steal a mushroom. “I know this one where it looks like you break the—”

“Don’t do that,” Nora interrupts. “Just hand out the award.” To Crosbie she adds, “This is probably why Coach didn’t ask you.”

The next two hours pass slowly. They pause the awards for each new course of food and play clips of Ivanka interviewing the winners backstage. It’s equal parts funny and awkward, and if they intended it to be a constant reminder of the job that’s at stake, it works. Dozens of people in the room probably auditioned, and tension ratchets up as the night wears on. The food is great and the wine is free, but I can barely consume either. No one can. We’re all waiting for the same thing, and it’s not the chocolate cake.

The awards portions nears its end, and the server who found me earlier returns to usher me backstage again.

“Good luck,” Andi whispers as I leave.

I kiss her cheek. “I don’t need luck.”

I arrive in the back just in time to see Crick coming off the stage, fresh from his win as the basketball team’s Most Improved Player. I hover off to the side as he chats with Ivanka, holding up his little trophy and smiling for the cameras like that’s not the only thing he’s going to win tonight.

I do my best to ignore their conversation and listen through the stage door to the presenter currently speaking, skimming my cue card and preparing not to make a fool of myself.

“Thanks for chatting with me,” Ivanka says, shaking Crick’s hand.

“Pleasure’s mine,” he replies.

Ivanka flashes me a quick smile before hopping off her chair and hurrying down the hall toward the bathrooms. Then it’s just me and Crick and his trophy and his awful white suit. He stays seated on his stool like she might come back to continue the conversation.

“Congrats,” I make myself say. “The trophy’s very...shiny.”

He smoothes his hand over the top of the bronze player’s tiny skull. “Maybe you’ll win something one day.”

I’m about to retort when the stage door swings open. I shuffle back next to Crick so I don’t get hit, and the assistant peers out. “Good,” she says when she spots me. “A minute for the thank-you speech, another thirty seconds for Dean Ripley to introduce you, then you’re up. Any questions?”

“Why does Dean Ripley have to introduce him?” Crick interjects.

The assistant darts a confused glance his way. I’m pretty sure the questions were supposed to come from me. “To explain why Coach Lungull isn’t presenting.”

“Oh. Not because he’s like, good, or anything?”

Her brow furrows. “Right. Okay. Bye.”

The door closes and she disappears.

I turn on Crick. “Really? You just won an award. You’re bitter that I’m presenting?”

“No, I’m bitter you stole my girl.”

I scoff. “Andi was never yours. Plus you’re here with someone else. It looks like you’ve moved on.”

“And you? How long until you get tired of her and start another list?”

“I’m not keeping any lists.”

“Why not? You think you’re in love with her?”

“What?” I’m definitely not going to tell Crick I’m love with Andi before I tell her. “Of course I’m not in love with her. We’re friends. I mean, we’re not just friends, it’s complicated because—”

The stage door opens again. This time it’s not only the assistant that comes through, but the soul-sucking sound of a hundred people inhaling at the same time.

I glance around. “What?”

The assistant sighs. “You’re up.”

“And you’re out.” Crick winks at me.

“What are you...”

He strides back out into the hall, leaving me looking helplessly at the assistant. “What am I missing?”

Her gaze is pitying. “Everything. Come on.”

I trail after her into the stage wings, passing the newest winner as she descends. Dean Ripley is at the microphone, finishing his explanation about Coach Lungull’s illness, and behind him the screen is frozen on a shot of Ivanka’s interview area. She’s already back on her stool, smiling at the new winner.

Dean Ripley steps aside and it’s my cue to take the mic. His smile is strained and I try to look past the blinding lights into the crowd, searching for a familiar face, some glimmer of understanding. But I can’t see Andi or Crosbie or Dane or Choo. I can’t even see Crick or his stupid white suit.

I blink and study the cue card in my hand, forcing myself to read the introduction. “Graham Walmsley led the cross country team to two national titles,” I begin, feeling sweat beneath my arms and in the small of my back. “He did this while maintaining a 3.9 GPA and volunteering...” I’m too hot and my hands are shaking but I somehow finish the speech and join in the applause as Graham takes the stage to accept his award. I’m supposed to stand off to the side and wait for the speech to finish, but instead I inch my way to the exit.

The assistant snags my arm as I reach the stairs. “You need to wait.”

“What’s going on?” I demand. “What did I do? What did I miss?”

She sighs. “The cameras were rolling.”

“What?” Behind me I’m all too aware of the giant screen silently broadcasting Ivanka’s interviews.

“Your conversation with Julian Crick,” she adds. “The sound’s on between award presentations.” Suddenly his slimy wink suddenly makes sense. The baiting questions I was all too quick to snap up. Informing him—and the world—that I don’t love Andi.

“Oh, shit. No. No!” I shove past her and out the door, banging through into the banquet hall just as Graham finishes his speech. People are torn between cheering for Graham and gawking at me, and it’s an uncomfortable mixture of pity, anger, and applause that greets me.

I know even before I see the empty chair that Andi’s gone. Her untouched dessert sits on her plate and I stare at it like it’s a ransom note.

“Where did she go?” I whisper. The room is now divided between watching Ivanka and her producer take the stage and eying the drama unfolding at my table.

“I don’t know,” Crosbie whispers back. “She just took off.”

“I didn’t mean what I—”

“Twelve hundred auditions,” Ivanka begins, her cultured voice ringing through the room. “The best of the best from colleges across the state. In our quest to honor the greatest young athletes in the Pacific Northwest, we met the cream of the crop. Your passion, your creativity, and your charisma put four Burnham students into the top ten spots for the coveted, once-in-a-lifetime chance to win an on-air segment host position sitting next to me. But only one person...”

I look desperately toward the heavy wooden doors at the far end of the hall. I want to run out of the building, chase after Andi, wherever she is, and apologize. Tell her what I should have told her two hours ago and two months and two years ago.

“Sit down!” someone hisses, and I sink into my seat. She’s not going to leave campus, I tell myself. We have exams. No matter how mad she is, no matter how hurt, she’s too smart to run away. I can find her after the announcement—

My stomach seizes. Oh God. The announcement. If they call my name after what just happened there’s no way I can go up there. The whole room would boo me. Fuck, I would boo me. I run clammy hands over my face, trying to calm down.

“And with no further ado...” Ivanka is saying, holding a dramatic red envelope in her hand and unsealing the flap with a fingernail. “We are thrilled and excited to announce that the person joining me for a minute-long segment on She Shoots, She Scores is none other than Burnham’s own...Gary Zhang!”

There’s an excruciating moment of confused silence. It feels like everyone’s looking at me, waiting for me to stand up and announce that my name is Gary Zhang.

“Hell yeah!” Choo hollers from the far side of the room, yanking the focus away from me. Even in the dim lighting I can see the exuberance on his face, his hands thrust into the air, fully willing to celebrate his victory even if everyone else is about fifteen seconds behind. He runs up to the stage as murmurs of “Who’s Gary Zhang?” ripple through the crowd.

Ivanka’s smile flickers uncertainly as Choo barrels up the steps with an unlit torch in his hand. I have no idea how he got it in here.

“Light it up!” he shouts into the microphone, eliciting laughter and belated but enthusiastic applause from the crowd. He fumbles in his pocket for a lighter, the flame sparking as Dean Ripley rushes out from the wings.  

“Gary!” he snaps, the microphone picking up his words. “What are you doing? We’re indoors. You can’t start a fire!”

“It’s my thing!”

“No, it’s not!” Dean Ripley confiscates the torch and lighter and stands by like a sentry in case Choo produces another one.

“Oh man,” Choo says, grinning at the crowd. “I can’t believe this. I mean, I can believe it, but I also can’t believe it. I wanted this so bad...” His genuine ebullience is sufficiently moving and distracting, and most people’s attention fully shifts from me to someone who truly deserves it. I try my best to listen and be happy for my friend, but my heart is crumbling inside my chest and it feels almost as impossible to stay in this chair as it does to imagine myself somehow convincing Andi to forgive me. Because I’ve done this before. At Petco Stadium I convinced 42,000 strangers that I didn’t love her. Worst, I convinced Andi. And just as I’d started to convince her to take a chance on me—again—I did it—again. A smaller crowd, but a more personal one. A more painful one.

The room gets to its feet as Choo wraps up his speech and I stand on shaky legs and make myself clap, plastering a smile on my face even as it feels like my cheeks will crack from the effort. Eventually we retake our seats as Dean Ripley approaches the microphone for the wrap up. I stare miserably at my still-full wine glass, counting down the seconds until I can leave.

“Dude!” a voice whispers from over my shoulder. “What are you doing here?”

I jerk in my seat and find Choo crouched behind me. “Wha... Don’t you have to talk to Ivanka?”

“Why are you still here?” he demands, ignoring my question and nodding at Andi’s empty seat. “Why didn’t you go after her?”

“You won. I didn’t want it to look like I was bitter so I stayed...”

He heaves an exaggerated sigh. “Kellan, when are you going to stop worrying about what everybody else thinks and worry about the people that matter?”

“I—”

Nora leans across the table. “He’s right. For once.”

“For always,” Choo corrects her. To me he adds, “Get out of here, you idiot. Go find her.”

“Yeah,” Dane chips in from the next table over. “Get lost. And for fuck’s sake, say something when you find her.”

Something soft and heavy hits me and I find my coat thrown in my lap, Marcela glaring down at me, having fetched it from the coat check. “What are you waiting for?”

I look at Crosbie. “You heard them,” he says. “There’s nothing for you here.”

And finally I look at my friends—at Crosbie and Nora, Dane and Choo, and, reluctantly, Marcela—and see not the life I thought I wanted, but the one I have. The one I need. Everyone else is white noise. Background, middle ground. This is the foreground, the stuff that should have been in focus all along. And a huge part of it’s missing.

“Okay.” I shove to my feet and pull on my coat. “I’m going.”

“Don’t screw up,” Marcela suggests.

“Your kindness is touching.”

She shrugs and looks at Choo. “Is your name really Gary?”

“Congrats,” I tell him. “I’m happy for you.”

“I know,” he says. “Now go be happy somewhere else.”

Every face I pass on the way out is a blur. I shoulder through the wooden doors, the freezing night air a slap in the face that’s a little too late in coming. The parking lot is a nest of cars so I run across campus instead, covering the distance to McKinley in record time. The light is on in Andi’s window so I know she’s home, and I catch the door as another student leaves. They should really work on the security at these places.

I run into the stairwell and emerge on Andi’s floor breathing hard. I take a second to catch my breath, then knock on her door. I expect her to pretend not to hear me, or maybe shout through it to tell me to fuck off, but to my surprise the door swings open immediately. She’s still in her dress, her cheeks pink with rage or cold or probably both. Her hair is tousled like she’d run here the same way I did, but all I can really see is the banked fury in her eyes. I’ve been on the receiving end of this look many times, but there’s something different about it this time. Something resigned. Something resolved.

Anxiety tightens my chest, like starting a race I know I’m going to lose. But I have to try. “I’m sorry,” I say before she can slam the door. “I didn’t mean it.”

Her jaw tightens and I can almost hear the wheels turning as she tries to find the right response, eventually settling on, “I want you to go.”

Everything I’d rehearsed on the way over rushes out of my head. I don’t know what I expected her to say—something more than game over. I mean, it’s Andi. I expect her to fight. If not for me, then with me. But she’s already out of the game. “I didn’t know the cameras were on,” I say, even though I know how weak it sounds. “I lied to Crick. It just didn’t seem right to say to him what I’d never said to you. What I’ve never had the balls to say to you.”

Her stony expression doesn’t soften. “Do you know what the definition of insanity is, Kellan? It’s doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result.” She blinks, tears clinging to the ends of her lashes. “I have loved you my whole life and all it’s ever gotten me is a broken heart. A humiliated, broken heart. When you kissed Lacey at that baseball game, I thought for sure that was the worst thing you could ever do to me. And then when you drove off to go to college, I thought for sure I’d never hurt more than that. But it turns out I can.”

“I’m—”

“Leaving me was the kindest thing you could have done. It gave me two years to see my life without you, to figure out how to be myself, how to live outside of your shadow. I finally saw that I didn’t have to be your sidekick.”

“Please—”

“People don’t turn down scholarships to Burnham, Kellan. They’re pretty hard to come by, especially when you haven’t even been in school for two years. But I considered it. Constantly. I thought about giving up everything I wanted because you were here. Because everything I want always comes second to everything you want.”

I scrub a hand over my face. “I never meant—”

“I came here because I thought I could do this. I thought two years was enough time to get over you. And it wasn’t.”

“Let me—”

“I’m not leaving Burnham, Kellan. But apparently no Ivy League education can cure whatever stupidity overcomes me when you’re around.”

“Andi, I’m so sorry,” I say again. “I swear. I should have said it before, but I lo—”

“Don’t you dare say it!” she shouts, planting a hand in the center of my chest and shoving me back so hard I stumble into the opposite wall. “I don’t care if you’re sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’ve always been so convenient for you. I’ve made this way too easy. And it’s not going to happen again.”

I gape at her. “Convenient? You’re the opposite of convenient. You’re fucking impossible. You’re terrifying. You’re—”

“I’m done,” she interrupts. “I can’t do this with you. If the past fifteen years have been proof of anything, it’s that.”

“Hear me out,” I plead. Of course now I want to tell her I love her, now that she’d never believe me. Now that the words would just be mountains of dirt being shoveled into the new hole I’ve dug for myself, burying me so deep I’ll never find a way out.

“Leave, Kellan.”

“No. I left you once before, I’m not doing it again.”

“Leave. I need you to.” She steps back toward her room, one hand on the knob, and I know if she goes in there, if she closes that door, it’ll be final.

“Andi, I love you,” I say desperately. “I love—”

She slaps me.

Hard.

Holy fuck it hurts.

My eyes water and my cheek burns and I think I tweaked something in my neck. It’s a slap for a lifetime worth of heartbreak. For all the other girls who wanted to do this very thing.

“Stay away from me,” she says quietly.

I look at her through watery eyes. “I mean it. I know you don’t want to hear it right now, but I—” I don’t dare say the L-word again. “I care about you.”

Her nostrils flare, like she’s either warming up to another slap or talking herself out of one. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, of course I’m sure. I’ve never been more—”

“Then promise to stay away,” she says. A single tear eases from the corner of her eye. She doesn’t wipe it away, just lets it fall, punctuating her plea. “I can’t do it by myself. Help me get over you.”

There are so many things I want to say, but none of them will weaken the resolve in her face. Her words. Her shining eyes. Good or bad, Andi has always been a girl who knows exactly what she wants, and for fifteen years, like it or not, that thing has been me.

And now it’s not.

For too long I’ve given her every reason to believe I didn’t care about her, not the way I should have, the way she wanted, the way she deserves. I didn’t know how to show her, to tell her. And now I do.

So I nod very, very slightly.

Her lower lip quivers, the only sign of emotion, and she twists the knob and backs through the door. I watch her through the narrowing gap, my oldest friend, my best friend, my girlfriend. I watch until the door closes, until the lock turns, until there’s nothing left.