Thank God I met Brady at the parking garage rather than having him pick me up. When I get back to my car, I send him a quick text saying I’m so sorry I ditched him, but I don’t feel well. He doesn’t answer right away, but I don’t have any energy to worry about it. I’ve never just abandoned a date in my life, not even one that was going badly, so I do feel bad, but I have to get out of here.

I’m so proud of myself for not crying. I almost did—when I saw those fucking swans, and again when I told Garrett we weren’t friends anymore—but I didn’t, and that matters. I didn’t show weakness. I walked away with my head held high, and I didn’t let him see how much it hurt.

I wish I could really not be hurt—I want to not give a shit about Garrett—but the fact is, this emotional roller coaster has got me upside-down and turned around. Up to a couple of weeks ago, if I felt like this, I would have called Garrett. Garrett’s safe; he’s how I get grounded when there’s a storm.

But the thing is, right now Garrett is the storm. I’ll have to ground myself. That means getting home.

When I pull into my driveway, I park beside my dad’s car and check my phone. There’s no message from Brady, but there is one from Garrett. I block his number without reading it, then I open Messenger and block him there, too.

I’m serious. We’re done.

And that’s when the tears fall. I rest my forehead on the steering wheel and let them come—heaving sobs that leave my throat and eyes aching. Every time I think I might be out of tears, a fresh wave of grief swamps me, and I cry until I can’t even understand how I have any tears left.

It feels like the world is ending. I guess, if you think about it, my world is. I just cut off contact with one of the people who makes up the foundation of my life.

I just lost my best friend.

But no matter how awful that is, I can’t cry forever. Eventually, the tears slow down, and I wipe my eyes with the hem of my shirt. Judging from the smudges on it, my mascara is all shot to hell; if I’m lucky, I can get upstairs without my parents seeing me.

I’m not lucky.

My mom actually opens the door for me, and when she opens her arms, I start to cry again. She folds me into a hug, then leads me into the kitchen. My dad’s at the stove, and I can smell hot cocoa. It should be a comforting smell—my dad makes hot cocoa from scratch for special occasions, or when I’m sick—but neither seems to apply here.

I sit on a barstool at the counter and my mom sits next to me, keeping an arm around my shoulders. Dad moves to the fridge.

“Honey,” my mom says, “what happened?”

I take a deep breath and shrug a little. “I don’t really want to talk about it. How did you know something was wrong?”

“Garrett called—”

“Garrett needs to mind his own business,” I snap. “He’s not my babysitter.”

“No, but he’s your friend, and—”

“He’s not.” My voice wavers alarmingly. “We’re not friends anymore.”

My mom makes a startled noise as my dad sets a cup of cocoa in front of me.

“Beck,” Dad says gently, “tell us what happened?”

“Daddy…” I turn to look at my mom, silently begging her to get me out of this, then turn back to my dad. “I can’t talk to you about this.”

“You can talk to me about anything, pumpkin.”

I shake my head. “Not this.”

They’re both silent for a moment, then Mom lets out a quiet ohhhh. Dad’s hands tighten around the mug, then he lets go. I look at him and his jaw is clenched.

I don’t say anything. The awkwardness is excruciating.

Finally, he pats my hand. He still looks pissed, though. “Okay, Beck. Will you talk to your mom, if I go?”

I nod, and he comes around the counter, kisses me on top of my head, and walks quietly out into the dining room. His studio is on the other side of the dining room, and I wait till I hear that door close before I speak.

“I’m sorry, Mom.” I can’t think of anything else to say. I mean, I don’t have anything to be sorry for, but at the same time I feel like this must be such a shock and disappointment. Garrett’s always been family. Surely she can’t have expected something like this.

“Are you—” She falters, tries again. “Are you saying that you and Garrett…”

Since she’s clearly having a hard time actually saying it, I let her off the hook. “Yeah,” I say, pushing away the cup of hot cocoa. I don’t even want it. “That’s what I’m saying.”

“When?” she asks, softly. Her arm is still around me, and I rest my head on her shoulder. “When did this happen?”

“When we went to Boston,” I choke out. Even though I was sure I was all cried out, the tears come again. “We had a lot to drink and…” I shrug. “It just happened.”

I tell her just the bare bones of that night’s events, glossing over all the mortifying parts and hitting the highlights instead: booze, argument, oops, and waking up to see him sitting there on the bed.

She sighs and runs a hand over my hair. “Did he—” There’s silence, as she seems to search for words. Eventually, leaving the question unasked, she gets up and goes over to the fridge. She pours me a glass of Pinot grigio, something I don’t think she’s ever done unless we’re having a fancy dinner, and presses it into my hand. “I don’t generally advocate drinking as a solution, but I think you need this. I know I sure do.” She smiles a little, pours one for herself, and comes back to sit beside me. “Did he act like a jerk?”

“Not exactly,” I say. “He just said it was a mistake, and I agreed, and I’ve been trying so hard to be a grownup about it. But it hurts.” I swallow a big gulp of wine. “I’ve been trying—we’ve been trying—to carry on like nothing changed. But it did. Everything changed.”

She reaches out to pat my back, and we sit like that for a minute, with her rubbing my back in small circles. Finally, she asks, “So what happened tonight? Garrett called and said you weren’t answering his calls and he was worried. But he didn’t tell us any of this.”

I take a deep breath, then try to explain about the double date. Her face is incredulous, but she lets me tell the whole gory tale. When I’m done, she’s silent again for what feels like a long time. I take another big drink. I feel like I’m going to crawl out of my skin with embarrassment. It’s bad enough talking sex with my mom, but it’s even worse talking to her about this.

She sets her empty glass down with a sharp click. “Okay, that’s so absurd it’s off the scale. But I guess the question is, what do you want, Beck?”

That almost brings a fresh round of tears, but I fight them off. “I don’t know.”

“Then I don’t have any advice for you,” she says, “assuming you even want my advice.”

“I do,” I say. “I’m obviously not doing any good trying to figure this out on my own.”

“Well, this mess isn’t going anywhere. Why don’t you get some sleep, and we can talk more tomorrow?” She takes my glass from me, and I’m surprised to see it’s empty, too. Great. In addition to being a complete loser in love, I’m also well on my way to being a lush. And drinking was what got me in this trouble in the first place.

Wasn’t it? I mean, I certainly never thought about Garrett this way before all those drinks in Boston.

Right?

“Okay,” I say. “Are you going to tell Dad?”

She nods.

I suppose I knew that. They haven’t stayed married all this time by keeping secrets and stuff. They have such a good, happy marriage, and … I realize, in horror, that I’ve spent literally my entire life hearing my mother say things like I married my best friend.

But I never thought of Garrett that way. Right?

“Make him promise he won’t say anything to Garrett,” I say. “Please?”

“You’re an adult, Beck.” She sets the glasses on the sideboard next to the sink and comes over to hug me again. “We love you, but it’s been a long time since we’ve had to fight your battles for you.”

I hug her back, fiercely. I’m so lucky, and I need to remember that. Garrett was like family, but I still have family. And friends. I’m not going to lie down and die over this. I’ll get through it.

But as I head up the stairs, I hear my mom cross the kitchen—heading to Dad’s studio, no doubt. I scurry up to my room and force myself not to imagine the conversation going on downstairs.