Sitting cross-legged on my bed, I close my laptop and shove it away from me. Finally. I’m done, thank God. I’m so tired of this shit, I don’t even have the words for it anymore.

But even as I think these things, I know I’m being whiny. I know this is totally a first world problem, even if that doesn’t make the tedium of this task any easier.

Maybe it’s because my heart isn’t in it. Grad school seems like the thing I’m supposed to do—which is why I’m filling out financial aid forms and contemplating tossing myself out the window—but it’s not what I want.

And anyway, defenestration isn’t really a good option, either. Since my room is on the second floor of our little old house, I wouldn’t fall far. Then I’d have to go to grad school on crutches. That would be even worse, so I guess the window is out.

I lean back against the headboard, sighing. Applying for college wasn’t like this. My mom is a Women’s Studies prof at Colby College in Waterville, Maine, so me getting in was pretty much a done deal, and I got free tuition. I know I’m lucky as hell. All my undergrad friends had loans. My mom makes good money, but she’s also the main breadwinner, because my dad is a painter and doesn’t always have steady commissions. We live in an expensive area—Blue Swan Cove, which is a little coastal suburb of Portland—and there’s not a lot left over to help me out.

So the gravy train ends now that I’ve graduated. My tuition waiver doesn’t apply to master’s-level programs, and the sticker shock of what it’s going to cost to go to grad school is depressing me beyond belief. Hence my whining over financial aid applications. I’ve been accepted to three master’s programs, but I’m basically going to have to go wherever I can get the most aid—and that probably means leaving Maine, and my family, and all my friends.

After all, what am I supposed to do with a degree in education and economics? Go to grad school, that’s what. That’s what I get for choosing majors that were interesting, instead of unique or profitable. Or both.

I wonder what kind of degree would be both unique and profitable, and conclude that such a rare unicorn does not exist.

At least my degrees are perfect for my summer job. Ever since high school, I’ve worked for KidFUN—it’s a nonprofit camp for underprivileged kids in the Portland area. Portland is only two towns over from Blue Swan Cove, where I live, but it might as well be another planet. Blue Swan Cove is a small, coastal town, populated by mostly well-to-do people, and Portland is the biggest city in Maine, which means it’s much more diverse and there’s a fair amount of poverty. So KidFUN hosts summer camps, daily as well as sleepaway, for kids who qualify financially.

I started out as a counselor, but just after my freshman year of college I applied for one of the administrative positions. So now, in the summers, I work half the time as a counselor and half the time in accounting, helping out with fundraising and anything else money-related. I love it.

Unfortunately, that isn’t something I can do for the rest of my life. So here I am, swimming in the deep end of the self-pity pool today.

Great. Super productive.

I hear the doorbell ring downstairs, and someone—Mom, probably—walking across the front hall to answer it.

A minute later, my door pushes open and Garrett comes in. He smells like summer: grass, sunlight, and a hint of Cool Water. I don’t know how he does it. He always smells good, and it’s never too much—not like the guys who think men’s body spray means wrap it around you like a coat.

And it’s the smell of safety and comfort. Garrett Crawford’s been part of my life for as long as I can remember. For the most part, that’s a good thing. He’s always there. I’m an only child, and he’s like the brother I never had. He’s looked out for me since … well, since I can remember.

The thing is, I was really sick as a kid. It started with a fever, and ended up being cancer—acute lymphoblastic leukemia, to be exact. I was diagnosed when I was seven, which is a bit on the old side if you want a good chance of beating it. My first round of chemo took two years and ended with relapse. Another round, another three years, and I was cured. Which is, of course, amazing—but there was a cost. I missed most of elementary school, and even though my parents brought in tutors whenever I felt up to it, I was way behind. I had to bust my ass and do all sorts of outside tutoring to get up to speed during my middle school years so I could be totally caught up by high school.

And while I got better, the threat of cancer lingers like the proverbial sword over my head. Which means that everyone in my life worries. Looks after me. Makes sure I’m safe—even when that’s so annoying I could scream.

Garret’s always been one of those people. For as long as I can remember, he’s been my best friend. From sleepovers when we were tiny kids to holidays together, he’s always been there. He studied with me every day after school for three solid years, helping me catch up on all I missed when I was sick. That sounds crazy, but it’s true, and it’s because we’re basically family.

Our parents are that kind of couple-best-friends that you see sometimes. My dad is an artist, and Garret’s mom manages an art gallery. My dad and Garrett’s get along like a house on fire, and his mom and my mom do all their feminist marches and stuff together. We go on vacation together—well, honestly, my family kind of tags along, because Garret’s family is rich. Like, one-percenter rich.

You wouldn’t know it, though. Garrett could have gone anywhere for undergrad, but what did he choose? The University of Southern Maine. And then he decided to go there for law school as well. He loves Maine, and always says he feels sorry for the rest of the world that doesn’t live here.

It’s one of the goofy things I love about him. No one’s ever had a better friend. Even now, when the expression on his face tells me he has decided to be a pain in my ass.

“Gross, Beck.” His nose wrinkles. “What the hell is going on in here?”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s a funk in here.”

I try to be subtle as I lean my head over and get a whiff of myself. I smell okay, I think? “What are you talking about?”

“It smells a lot like Pity Me.”

I roll my eyes. “If you smell Eau de Pity, it’s only because I’m thinking about how long I’ll be paying off the student loans I’ll probably have to take out.”

“You don’t have to go to grad school,” he reminds me, for the four-hundredth time. He’s heard all my nonsense before.

“What else am I going to do? I can’t do much without at least a master’s.”

“Well, one thing you can do is get dressed.”

I look down. Sweatpants, giant wool socks. I’m comfy. “I am dressed. You got a problem with sweatpants?”

“Well, you look cozy, but I’m afraid cozy isn’t gonna cut it for what I’ve got planned.” He opens my closet and pulls out my overnight bag, tossing it on the bed. “Get your shit together. I’m taking you away for the weekend.”

“What?”

“I’m taking you and Levi and Brianna to Boston, and we’re going to have a good time.”

I make a face.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. No good time for poor Beck! Life’s so hard, with her brand-new college degree and a birthday coming up, boo-hoo.”

“Shut up,” I say to Garrett, turning my head away from him. Okay, sure, I’ve been a bit of a drip lately, but in my defense, my boyfriend—former boyfriend—Sam just broke up with me like a month ago. Well, a few weeks ago.

Okay, three weeks and four days ago, but who’s counting?

We’d been dating for most of the school year, and I’d just told him I loved him. He’d said it, too. Yet here it was, summertime, and me single.

What’s worse? The bastard did it via text. Who does that?

An asshole, that’s who.

But it still hurt. I thought I was keeping that under wraps, putting on a brave face and all that. Apparently not.

Garrett sits down on the edge of the bed and puts his hand over mine. “Look,” he says, “I know this summer sucks so far. So let’s change that. It’s gonna be your birthday! Let’s celebrate.”

I sigh. “I don’t feel a lot like celebrating, is all.”

He gives me a one-armed hug. “I’m sorry I missed things this last few weeks. I know I wasn’t there for you when Sam split. I’ve been doing things for my internship, but that’s no excuse. Let me make it up to you. Save me from my guilt.”

I look over at him, and he’s doing his best sad puppy face.

“Besides,” he says, “if you say no, you have to be the one to go out and tell Levi and Brianna you chickened out.”

I narrow my eyes. “I don’t chicken out.”

“Then learn to live with the fact that we’re about to embark on a weekend of fun.”

“A weekend of fun, huh?” I can’t help smiling at him.

You can’t not love Garrett. He’s a total sweetheart, even if he’s a little bossy.

He’s also really handsome, in that hot guy who’s totally comfortable with himself kind of way, but I don’t look at him like that—he’s my brother in every way but blood. He’s fit, but not super-built in that gross way, with sandy hair and a panty-melting smile. But I don’t see him that way.

“Yes. And we’re going to run late if you don’t get your ass in gear.”

“Fine! Get out, so I can pack my stuff by myself.”

He grins and walks to the door. I wait for it to close behind him, and then sit back down on the bed for a minute, tears filling my eyes. Garrett doesn’t know the half of it. Sam is more than just my most recent shitty boyfriend—though he is certainly that. He’s also the first guy I ever slept with.

That was a huge step for me, and I thought it was magical and special.

My mom once told me that you need to love the people you sleep with, that it isn’t worth getting undressed unless you love them. She’d never been the sort to lecture about saving yourself for marriage or whatever, anyway, but the summer I turned fourteen, she figured it was time to give me some home truths, I guess.

We were out in the garden. Maine gets something like fifteen minutes of good weather for the summer, so we were enjoying that, just sitting in Adirondack chairs, drinking big glasses of iced tea and looking at the flowers my mom had once again managed to coax out of the fairly unforgiving ground of the side yard.

“Listen, honey,” she said, “I know we haven’t had that talk—”

“Oh, God, no, Mom!” I held up my hands in defense. “We don’t need to have the talk!”

She laughed. My mom has the best laugh—open and free, the kind of laugh that’s never mean, but just invites you to laugh along with her. “We do. You need to humor me. I won’t feel like a proper mother otherwise.” Her expression got sober. “Sex is wonderful—”

“Mom!”

She just steamrolled right over my objection. “And even if you don’t love the person you’re with,” she said, “it can be nice, because we’re programmed to enjoy it. No matter what my ancestors said.”

Her eyes twinkled. She could trace her lineage all the way back to the Puritans, and they weren’t exactly big public fans of the sexytimes.

“But I’ve always figured that it’s so damn wonderful when you’re with the person you love, why bother otherwise? To me, it’s just not even worth the effort of trying to get undressed. Because no matter what anyone says, wiggling out of jeans is not inherently sexy.” She laughed, and looked down, and when she looked up, her cheeks were pink. “It is, however, when you’re undressing to get naked with the one you love. So. That’s it.”

She reached over and patted my hand.

“There’s my big talk. Do what you want. Don’t do anything you don’t want to. Call the cops—and me—if someone tries to make you do something you don’t want to. And always consider if the person you’re thinking about getting naked with is worth the trouble of getting undressed for.”

Not your normal sex talk, but it’s always stayed with me. When I’d been dating Sam for about four months, I decided that if I wiggled out of jeans, he’d be in all sorts of awe.

And he was.

I shake my head and get up to pull my suitcase out of the closet. I don’t want to think about what happened next. I want to forget the whole thing, frankly, but I can’t. As I choose clothes and pack them, it runs through my head like a hamster on a wheel. Like a hamster on crack on a wheel. It’s never-fucking-ending.

About a month ago, I brought him home for a family weekend. My parents were getting together with their friends and having a big bash on Saturday night. Garrett was there with his family; he and Sam hadn’t met yet, and I was so excited for that. I proudly held Sam’s hand, and introduced him to all the people in my world, the people I loved—especially Garrett.

Sam was quiet when we got in the car Sunday morning, and I couldn’t get him to tell me what was bothering him. He dropped me off at my dorm, and even though I asked him to come in and talk to me, he said no. Said he had to “think about things,” whatever the hell that meant.

For a couple of weeks after that, we went through the motions, I guess you’d say. We went on our usual dates, I stayed at his off-campus apartment on the weekends, but everything was just off-kilter. He was quiet, reserved. Everything felt so precarious that I didn’t know whether it was safe to push him, so I didn’t.

We went through the motions of graduation, too, and I came home while he went back to his parents’ house in Lewiston. We kept in touch, somewhat, although it was weird that he didn’t come to visit me at all.

And then, just a few weeks ago, I got a series of texts from him that shattered my world. He told me it was over. He’d met someone else. He was sorry, but he was “sure I’d get over it fast.”

What the fuck? I called, no answer. Just more texts. He said I should stop lying and go be with the person I really loved.

Garrett. It was crazy town.

Garrett, my best friend. Garrett, who I’d never so much as kissed. Garrett, who can’t keep a girlfriend for more than a couple of months. As if.

I replied and told him he was nuts, but it was no use. The next day, he dropped off the few things I kept at his house. He refused to discuss things with me. I haven’t seen him since. I’ve replayed his words over and over in my head. I deleted his texts from my phone shortly after he sent them, but the words are burned in my brain.

Brianna said he was just making excuses—that he met someone else and needed a reason to paint himself as the victim rather than a cheating asshole—and that I should just forget everything he said, because it was ridiculous.

And of course Brianna’s right. Sam’s an asshole—a crazy asshole. I don’t love Garrett—not like that.

Ridiculous.

I zip my suitcase shut and drag it behind me as I head out to meet my friends.