“Says who?” Aaron starts to reach for me again. “Nicole—” But he breaks off when I don’t move, can’t even look at him. For a horrible long moment, as we sit there next to each other, the air between us is charged with something cold and terrible, as if an invisible window is open and a storm is blowing through the room. “You’re serious,” he says finally. It isn’t a question. His voice has changed. He sounds like a stranger. “You’re not going to take it back.”

I shake my head. My throat is tight, and I know if I look at him I might break. I’ll start to cry, or I’ll beg him to forgive me.

Aaron stands up without another word. He snatches up his shirt and yanks it over his head. “I don’t believe this,” he says. “What about spring break? What about Virginia Beach?”

Some guys from the basketball team plan to take a road trip to Virginia Beach in March. My friend Audrey is going with her boyfriend, Fish; Aaron and I had talked about going together and renting a house with everyone on the beach. We’d imagined clambakes on the beach and long days that tasted like salt. I’d imagined waking up with all the windows open, the cool sting of ocean air, and warm arms around my waist . . .

But not his arms. Not him.

“I’m sorry,” I repeat. I have to get down onto my hands and knees to pick up my shirt. I feel horrible and exposed, as if all the lights have been turned up by a factor of a hundred. Five minutes ago we were kissing, our legs intertwined, the beat-up couch taking on the impression of our bodies. Even though I’m the one who screwed it up, I feel dizzy, disoriented, like I’m watching a movie too fast. I put my shirt on inside out but don’t have the energy to fix it. I don’t bother with my bra.

“I don’t believe it,” Aaron says, speaking half to himself. When he’s angry he actually gets quieter. “I told you I loved you . . . I bought you that stupid stuffed cat for Valentine’s Day. . . .”

“It’s not stupid,” I say automatically, even though it kind of is. I’d thought that was the whole point.

He doesn’t seem to hear me. “What’s Fish going to say?” He shoves a hand through his hair. It immediately flops back into his eyes. “What are my parents going to say?”

I don’t answer. I just sit there, squeezing my fists so hard my nails dig into the soft flesh of my palms, gripped by a terrible, out-of-control feeling. What the hell is wrong with me?

“Nick . . .” Aaron’s voice softens. I look up. He has his hoodie on now, the green one he got doing Habitat for Humanity in New Orleans the summer after sophomore year, the one that always mysteriously smells like the ocean. And in that moment I nearly break. I can see he’s thinking the same thing. Scrap the whole thing. Let’s pretend this never happened.

Upstairs, a door slams. Then Parker shouts, “Hey! Anybody home?”

Just like that, the moment vanishes, skittering away into the shadows, like an insect startled by a footstep. Aaron turns away, muttering something.

“What’d you say?” My heart is going again, like it’s a fist just itching to punch something.

“Nothing.” He zips up his hoodie. Now he won’t look at me. “Forget it.”

Parker must hear us, or sense us. He’s pounding down the stairs before I can yell up to him to stop. When he sees Aaron, he freezes. His eyes tick to me, and to my bra, still lying on the musty carpet. His face goes white—and then, a split second later, completely red.

“Oh, shit. I didn’t mean—” He starts to backpedal. “Sorry.”

“That’s okay.” Aaron looks at me. I know all his moods—but this expression I can’t identify. Anger, definitely. But there’s something else, something deeper than that, as if he’s finally figured out the answer to an impossible math problem. “I was just leaving.”

He takes the stairs two at a time, forcing Parker to squeeze himself against one wall so Aaron can pass. Parker and Aaron don’t like each other and never have. I don’t know why. The moment they’re together on the stairs feels electric, charged and dangerous; out of nowhere, I’m afraid that Aaron will hit Parker, or vice versa. But then Aaron keeps going and the moment passes.

Parker still doesn’t move, not even after the front door slams again, indicating Aaron has left. “Sorry,” he says. “I hope I didn’t interrupt anything.”

“You didn’t.” My cheeks are hot. I wish I could reach out and take my stupid bra—pink, with patterns of daisies on it, like a twelve-year-old’s bra—and shove it under the sofa, but that would be even more conspicuous. So instead we both pretend we don’t notice.

“Okay.” Parker draws out the word, superlong, as if he knows I’m lying. For a second he says nothing. Then, slowly, he comes down the stairs, edging closer, as if I’m an animal who might be rabid. “Are you all right? You seem . . .”

“I seem what?” I look up at him then, experiencing a hot flash of anger.

“Nothing.” He stops again, a good ten feet away from me. “I don’t know. Upset. Angry or something.” His next words he pronounces very carefully, as if each one is glass that might shatter in his mouth. “Is everything okay with Aaron?”

I feel stupid sitting on the couch when he’s standing, like I’m at a disadvantage somehow, so I stand up, too, crossing my arms. “We’re fine,” I say. “I’m fine.” I’d been planning on telling Parker about the breakup—the second I saw his stupid Surf Siders on the stairs, I knew I would tell him, and maybe even tell him why, cry and confess that there’s something wrong with me and I don’t know how to be happy and I’m an idiot, such an idiot.