“You look nice in purple,” he says, stepping closer to me on his way to the dining area, his voice low enough Lindsey doesn’t hear as she finishes setting the table for our awkward dinner-for-three. He doesn’t linger, and he doesn’t look at me, not directly anyhow. His eyes hover along my shoulder, tracing a line down to my fingertips, to my hand—the one he held when I was sixteen and unsteady on my feet.

When we were young, and nothing bad had happened.

My fingers tingle as a short burst of adrenaline runs through my body, and I flex my hand wanting to force the feeling away. I remind myself to breathe, repeating a mini version of my useless calming exercise from earlier, and I follow Andrew to the table, noticing his hand down along his side, flexing just as mine did.

Our table is a circle, a small one, the space not made for anything large, meaning we’re all technically sitting next to one another. I wish it were bigger. If it was, there would be more too look at. I hyper-focus on my spoonful of noodles, on the sauce I drizzle from the hot pan over them, on the salad I put in the bowl—I spend as many minutes as I can making my plate perfect, ignoring the laughter and banter between Lindsey and Andrew.

“Here, you didn’t get enough,” Andrew says to me after everyone’s plate is full. He stands, and my eyes catch the frame of his body, the tight gray shirt he’s wearing, how it clings to his waist, his stomach and the expanse of his chest underneath the thin fabric. I look up to see him watch me take him in, and his cheek dimples as he raises the corner of his lips, careful to keep his attention on my plate the rest of the time.

“Thank you,” I say, and he chuckles.

“You’re still welcome,” he says, this time a little bite to his tone.

I drag my fork through the noodles, wrapping them around the prongs and lean forward to take my bites, doing my best to become small. I’m taking mental measurements of the amount of food on my plate, cross-referencing it with the amount of time it’s taking me to swallow each and every forkful, and I grow discouraged. I feel like a child with a bowl of broccoli—no dog to feed it to.

“Oh, you missed it earlier, Em. I was telling Andrew about how we met—me and you?” I choke when Lindsey speaks, reaching for my glass of water while I wave them both off that I’m fine.

I’m fine—only that I met Lindsey in perhaps the worst way possible for this very moment. We met at driving school. It was the summer before our freshman year. I had run a red light near campus, trying to make it to the admissions office before a deadline. When the officer pulled me over, I had a panic attack—to the point that he had to help me lie down on the side of the road so I didn’t collapse and crack open my head. He still gave me a ticket. Just the flash of his lights brought so many feelings back, but I never told Lindsey that. And I don’t think Andrew’s interested in that part now.

Lindsey was in my class for blowing a stop sign. We were the only two people in the class under fifty, and when we both found out we were going to Tech and would be freshmen pre-med, we decided to room together.

“Lemons out of lemonade,” Lindsey said at the time.

It goes down like venom now.

“Yeah, Linds tells me you’re quite the speed demon,” Andrew says through a mouthful of food. He’s remaining aloof, but I know better. I can see the truth in his eyes.

I open my mouth, partly to defend myself, and partly to explain, but the way he pauses—leaning with one arm along the back of his chair and his body to the side, so he can hold me hostage with the look on his face—makes me forget the words to say. Not that I had the right words ready. I don’t. I never have.

“Hey, I didn’t say that,” Lindsey says, the laughter escaping her teasingly and sweet as she swats at his thigh with her hand. He catches it and holds it, his lips curling into a grin as he brings her hand up to his face so he can kiss the knuckles, his gaze shifting to me as he lowers her hand back down, never letting go.

I look down at my plate, admonished. I’m struck with an overwhelming sense of shame, but it’s more than that, too. I’m hurt, and I’m jealous, and I don’t understand what any of this is about. Why are we keeping our history a secret? Why am I allowing it?

“So, Lindsey says you two have lived together for three years now. And you’re both…med students?” he asks.

I find myself spending too much time studying him, trying to find the next double meaning so I can be prepared for it. But he doesn’t look up again, instead, going back to his dinner plate.

“She’s my best friend,” I say, smiling at her quickly, genuinely, but returning my attention back to the table in front of me. I don’t know why those are the words I say. There’s a part of me that wants to make sure he realizes what he’s messing with, I guess—that he’s being personal. Lindsey is personal.