“I get all that,” J.P. said when I was done. “I mean, I can see Lana asking you to go shopping with her. She’s wanted to get in good with you for years. But why did you say YES?”

I don’t really know how to explain what happened next. I mean, why I said what I did. Maybe it was because it was just the two of us in the Hakim Babas’ quiet kitchen (well, quiet except for the dishwasher, cleaning our pizza plates. But it was one of those super silent ones that just went swish-swish all softly).

Maybe it was because J.P. looked so out of place sitting there—this big, raw-boned-looking guy in this fancy kitchen, with the sleeves of his charcoal cashmere sweater shoved up to his elbows, and his faded jeans and Timberlands and his hair kind of sticking up in tufts because he’d been wearing a hat outside. We’re having a surprising cold snap, for September. The meteorologists all blame global warming.

Or maybe it was the hot thing again—that, you know, he did look…well, pretty cute.

Or maybe it’s just that I DON’T know him—at least, not as well as I know Tina and Boris and the other friends I have left, now that Lilly’s no longer speaking to me.

Whatever it was, suddenly, before I could stop myself, I heard myself going, “Well, you see, the thing is, I’m in therapy, and my therapist says I have to do something every day that scares me. And I thought shopping with Lana Weinberger would be really scary. Only it turned out it wasn’t.”

Then I bit my lip. Because, you know. That’s a lot to unload on someone. Especially a guy. Especially a guy with whom you’ve been romantically linked in the press, even if there is absolutely, categorically no truth to the rumors, whatsoever.

J.P. didn’t say anything right away. He just sat there peeling the label off his bottle of root beer with his thumbnail. He seemed really interested in the level of liquid left in the bottle.

Which wasn’t the best sign, you know? Like that he couldn’t even look at me.

“It’s weird,” I said, feeling totally panicky all of a sudden. Like I was slipping farther down that hole than ever. “It’s weird that I just admitted I’m in therapy to you, isn’t it? You think I’m a freak now. Right? I mean, a bigger freak than before.”

But instead of making up an excuse about how he had to go now, as I expected him to, J.P. looked up from his bottle in surprise. And smiled.

And I felt the sliding sensation I was experiencing subside a little. And not just because the smile made him look cuter than ever.

“Are you kidding me?” he asked. “I was just wondering if there’s any kid at Albert Einstein who ISN’T in therapy. Besides Tina and Boris, I mean.”

I blinked at him. “Wait…you, too?”

J.P. snorted. “Since I was twelve. Well, that’s when I developed this total affinity for dropping bottles off the roof of our high-rise. It was a stupid thing to do…somebody could have gotten killed. Eventually I got caught—deservedly so—and my parents have seen to it that I haven’t missed a weekly session since.”

I couldn’t believe this. Someone else I knew was going through the same thing I was? No way.

I slid onto the kitchen stool next to J.P.’s and asked eagerly, “Do you have to do something that scares you every day, too?”

“Uh,” J.P. said. “No. I’m supposed to do FEWER scary things every day, actually.”

“Oh,” I said, feeling vaguely disappointed. “Well. Is it working?”

“Lately,” J.P. said. He took a sip of his root beer. “Lately it’s been working great. Do you want one of these?”

I shook my head. “How long did it take?” I asked. This was amazing. I couldn’t believe I was actually talking to someone who’d been through—was going through—the same thing I was. Or something similar, anyway. “I mean, before you started feeling better? Before it started working?”

J.P. looked at me with a funny smile on his face. It took me a minute before I realized it was pitying. He felt sorry for me.

“That bad, huh?” he asked. Not in a mean way. Like he genuinely felt bad for me.

But that’s not what I want. I don’t want anyone to feel bad for me. It’s stupid I even feel so awful about everything, when, in general, I have a fantastic life. I mean, look at what Lana has to put up with—a mother who sold her beloved pony without even telling her, and a threat that if she doesn’t get into an Ivy League college she can kiss her parents’ financial support good-bye. I’m a PRINCESS, for crying out loud. I can do whatever I want. I can buy whatever I want. Well, within reason. The one thing—the one thing I don’t have—is the man I love.

And it’s my own stupid fault that I lost him in the first place.

“I’ve just been a little down,” I said quickly. I didn’t mention the part about not wanting to get out of bed all week.

“Michael?” J.P. asked. Not without compassion.

I nodded. I didn’t think I could have spoken if I had wanted to. This big lump had formed in my throat, the way it always does when I hear—when I even think—his name.

But it turned out I didn’t have to speak. J.P. let go of the root beer bottle and put his hand on mine, instead.

I sort of wish he hadn’t, though. Because that just made me feel more like crying than ever. Because I couldn’t help comparing his hand—which was large and guylike, but not quite as large and guylike—to someone else’s.