I make it twenty minutes into one of those shows where two people take over decorating a couple’s house when my phone buzzes with a text from Lindsey. I’m tempted to read it after I watch the big fight—the guy hates everything they’re doing to the house, but the wife loves it. But my phone buzzes again right away, so I mute the TV, brush the few oatmeal crumbs from my lap, and lean forward to read my text.

Help! Please.

I panic at her first text, getting to my feet fast and moving to the front door for my shoes as I scroll to her next one.

Sorry. I didn’t mean to make that sound that urgent. I just feel like an idiot. I don’t think this guy is going to show up. I texted him…twice. Now I just feel stupid, and I’m sitting here at Mello’s alone drinking wine like a loser.

I relax a little knowing Lindsey’s not in trouble, but I move forward with my shoes, grab my keys, and put the lid back on the cookies so we have something to share when I get to her.

On my way.

She writes back fast: You’re the best!

Mello’s is one of those places we always wanted to try, but just haven’t yet. We spent our first three years in the dorms, and decided it was easier to concentrate in a place of our own without freshmen running around screaming and hooking up with each other next door at all hours of the night. Lindsey’s parents pay most of the rent, but I chip in with what little I earn in summer jobs and the money I get from home and financial aid.

It takes me five minutes to get to the restaurant, and I find my friend sitting near the wall by the front door the second I step inside. I brush by the host table, beelining toward her and sliding into the other side of the booth quickly so I can tuck my sweatpants and sneakers underneath.

“I didn’t really dress for this,” I whisper to her, pushing the tin of cookies on the table in front of us.

“I wasn’t planning on making you my date,” she shrugs, her lips a tight smile that I know is hiding her disappointment. She pops the lid from the tin and laughs to herself when she sees the top layer is missing. “You get hungry?”

“They’re my favorite,” I smile. “Good thing you forgot them.”

“Yeah, sorry. I was just so nervous, I left without my key, too, so I would have had to call you or ring the doorbell like mad anyhow,” she says.

Lindsey pushes half a cookie into her mouth before sighing and relaxing into the plush back of her seat.

“So he’s a no-show?” I ask, breaking one of the cookies in half to nibble on.

“Looks like it,” she sighs. “I texted him about ten minutes ago. And oh my god, Em, I sound like an idiot.”

She hands me her phone, and I read her messages that at first asks if maybe she has the day and place wrong, noticing that he texted her right above that with the exact time and place for them to meet on Wednesday—today. Then she tried to fix it with a: duh, I could have just read your last text. Okay, so I’m here. I’ll just be here waiting.

I cringe when I hand it back to her, and tilt the lid on my cookies a little higher, encouraging her to take one more to console herself.

“I know, right? So bad,” she sighs, falling back into her cushion. “Do you want some of my wine? I got a whole bottle.”

“Sure,” I say, reaching for one of the upside down glasses at the end of the table. I pour a small glass, and hold it up to toast when Lindsey grabs my wrist, making me spill a drop or two on the sleeve of my favorite Tech sweatshirt. Damn.

“Oh shit! He’s here!” she whispers excitedly, immediately brushing off the front of her dress, wiping the corners of her mouth and fidgeting in her seat. I’m blotting at the now-purple spots on my super-soft, I’ll-never-find-one-like-this-again, white sweatshirt when Lindsey drops her uneaten half of a cookie back into the stash to hide what we were doing. She’s making me nervous now, too.

“Oh…crap…uh…I’ll go,” I rush, grabbing my cookies and lid and chugging my glass of wine quickly while I try to exit the booth gracefully. I don’t realize what’s happening—what has happened, what this would feel like or the fact that I could feel anything like this at all—until I stand and stumble forward, letting my hand land flat in the center of his chest.

I’m sixteen the second our eyes meet.

I’m sixteen again, and I’m right back at the kitchen table with my parents, and they’re telling me how right they were, everyone was, about Andrew Harper.

I’m sixteen, and I’m looking at the aftereffect of my lies—my omissions.