“Hey,” he said. “Leaving already?”

I glanced back toward the house. I knew I didn’t have a ton of time, if Sloane did go through with ending it, like I was fairly sure she was going to. Sloane didn’t fight with people, ever, so even if Sam wanted a long, drawn-out breakup, he wasn’t about to get one. “I am,” I said slowly. I had no idea what—if anything—I should tell him. I had no doubt that Sam would soon spin this story whatever way suited him.

“I forgot my phone,” he said, nodding toward the house.

“Listen,” I said quickly. Between his curfew and the fact that I had a feeling that Sloane wasn’t going to want to linger, I had to make this fast and get it over with. Because Gideon and I were done. I felt a small pang as I realized this, but I pushed on past it. We had always been the add-ons to our best friends’ relationship, and it wouldn’t make much sense for us to continue, just the two of us. There probably wasn’t enough there to last on its own. Better to get out now, before we’d had the chance to try and preserve something that wouldn’t have worked. “I think Sloane and Sam are breaking up,” I said, glancing back toward the house.

“No,” Gideon said, his face falling. “Are you sure they’re not just fighting? Because—”

“So I just . . . ,” I started, then stopped when I realized I didn’t know how to finish the sentence. I’d never had to break up with anyone before. “This has been really great,” I said after a moment. “But . . .”

Gideon just looked at me, and I saw understanding slowly dawn on his face. “Wait,” he said. “Emily. What are you saying?”

“Just that I think it would be too hard now,” I said, realizing as I did that there had been very few actual nouns or verbs in that sentence. “I just do.” The door opened, and Sloane came out barefoot, carrying her ruined flats. “So . . . take care, okay?” I asked, hating myself even as I asked it, but telling myself that this was for the best. It would be better to end it right then, rather than drawing it out.

Gideon was still looking at me like he was hoping that at any moment, I might tell him this had all been an elaborate joke. But I made myself turn away from him and headed to my car, but not before I got a glimpse of the xoxo I’d drawn on his skin not very long ago.

Two hours later, the cake had been eaten, the birthday song had been sung, and most of the guests had departed.

And I was tipsy.

It wasn’t something that I had planned on, at all. But when I arrived at the picnic table, Collins had given me a red cup of beer and a fork—he hadn’t remembered to get plates for the cake. He’d gotten the cake at a discount, since someone hadn’t picked it up, which was also the reason it read You Did It, Wanda! There was no indication of what, exactly, Wanda had done, just a few lopsided red sugar roses on the corners. The cake was sickly sweet, and at first, I’d just sipped at my beer to balance out the taste. But as I’d had more, I found it made my strained conversations with Frank’s other friends a little easier to get through. None of them could understand why I was there, most of them appeared to think I worked with Frank and Collins, and the remainder seemed to be convinced that I was dating Doug.  And it wasn’t until I’d finished my second cup that I realized I was officially tipsy. I was baffled as to why until I realized I hadn’t had anything to eat that day except for birthday donuts with Frank, hours and hours before.

Which explained my current state, but didn’t help me do much about it. I ended up sitting on a picnic table with Collins, who was finishing up the last bites of the cake and bemoaning his romantic woes to me. It was perfect, because it seemed like he was more interested in a monologue than a dialogue, and whenever I had too much to drink I got oddly honest and told people things I never would have otherwise.

“And I’m a catch, right, Emily?” he asked, waving his fork in his general direction. “I mean, the C-dawg’s got style. He’s got panache, you know? And he knows how to please the ladies.”

I started to feel slightly sick, and I wasn’t sure it was the beer. “Um . . .”

“And yet all these girls just passing up their ride on the C train! Their loss, though. Am I right or am I right?” He took a big bite of cake and ended up with frosting on his nose.

I reached over, held his face steady, and wiped it off while Collins blinked at me, surprised. It was another thing that I did when I’d had a bit to drink—I acted without thinking first, without running through possibilities and outcomes, and just did. “I don’t know,” I said, thinking back to the girl he’d been hitting on earlier that night, and all the girls he was forever making a spectacle of himself in front of at school. “Did you ever think about asking out someone maybe a little less . . .” I paused. I had a feeling that I was going to insult him if I kept going and said something along the lines of “on your level.” But my brain at the moment wasn’t coming up with any other alternatives. “You know,” I finally said. “Someone that you’re maybe already friends with.”

Collins shook his head. “Dawn said the same thing last week,” he said dismissively. “But you can’t help who you fall for. The heart wants what it wants.” I didn’t feel up to arguing with that at the moment, and just looked around at the dwindling crowd.

“Too bad she couldn’t make it,” I said.

“Yeah,” Collins agreed. “I tried my best, but apparently she had to ‘work.’ ” He put air quotes around the last word, shaking his head dismissively. Dawn had been invited, but her manager apparently had been calling into question how long she was taking with her deliveries ever since she’d started hanging out with us, and so she didn’t want to push her luck.

“I think that was the last of them,” Frank said, coming to join us as he waved at two guys—they’d been convinced I worked at IndoorXtreme and seemed insulted when I’d said I couldn’t get them free passes—as they headed to the cars.

“Did you have fun?” Collins asked, like he couldn’t have cared less what the answer was, but I knew him well enough by now not to believe it.

“It was great, man,” Frank said, hitting him on the back as I rolled my eyes. I had no idea why boys, when they became affectionate, got violent. “Thanks a lot.”