Chapter 16

16

Danielle schedules a warm-up practice for the Friday before the new semester starts. It’s a nice way to ease back into school after the craziness of the holidays, and I’m ready to have a basketball in my hands and nothing on my mind except the game.

Until I walk into the gym and realize Irene has scheduled cheerleading practice for the same time.

It’s the first time I’ve seen her since our Christmas Eve kiss, and my initial glimpse of her is a moment where somebody has clearly made her laugh, because her face is one big, radiant smile. She’s gotten a haircut—just a few inches that shows in the length of her ponytail—and she’s wearing a vintage Tears for Fears tank over her leggings. Even though she’s sweaty and messy and not wearing any makeup, my breath catches when I look at her.

She notices me and a curious expression steals over her face. The corners of her mouth lift the slightest bit.

I start to smile back, but just then, the gym door bangs open. We turn to find the soccer team marching toward us, Charlotte Pascal at the front of the pack. She looks furious.

“What the fuck is this?” she says. “None of y’all are supposed to be here. I reserved the gym for soccer conditioning.”

“Since when?” Danielle says. “Friday before the semester starts has always been basketball’s day.”

“Not this year,” Charlotte says, hands on her hips. “Did you not check the reservation list?”

“Go run outside,” Danielle says dismissively. She spins away from Charlotte and turns to our teammates. “All right, start with layups. Split up so we have rebounders.”

She goes to pass Googy the ball, but Charlotte intercepts it, the ball hitting her palms with a sharp smack. The energy in the gym changes instantly. Everyone freezes.

Danielle looks ready to commit murder. “Give me the ball, Charlotte.”

“No, Coach, I don’t think I will,” Charlotte says, guarding the basketball under her arm.

I want to strangle her. My teammates are seething. Charlotte’s teammates are smirking, though some of them look uncomfortable.

“What’s going on?” someone interrupts.

There she is. Irene in her element, high ponytail in place, blazing eyes roaming over the scene. My heart lodges in my throat.

“You’re not needed here, Ireenie,” Charlotte sneers. “This discussion is for athletes.”

Irene’s eyes sizzle. “Then it’s a good thing we came over, Char. Because not only are we athletes, we’re also very good at determining who to root for in these situations.”

The air prickles with tension. Charlotte takes a step forward, basketball still trapped under her arm. Her focus is entirely on Irene.

“And who is it you’re rooting for?” she asks in a deadly quiet voice. She turns around and gestures to me. “Your girlfriend?”

My heart beats forebodingly.

“’Cause I heard you’re no longer an item,” Charlotte continues. “At least, that’s how it looked when I saw Scottie with Tally Gibson at my boyfriend’s New Year’s Eve party.”

Irene’s jaw twitches almost imperceptibly. Her eyes flicker toward me.

I do everything in my power to stop my body from flushing red, but it’s no use. My skin is on fire as everyone looks at me. It’s the exact signal Charlotte needs.

“Wait,” she says in a faux surprised voice. Her mean eyes bore into mine. “I thought you said you told Irene that you were there with Tally.” She spins around to Irene. “Didn’t Zajac tell you?”

My body burns so hot I think I might pass out. Irene’s cheeks have turned a patchy dark color. We lock eyes for a splintering second.

Charlotte pulls out her phone. “Lord knows we’ve had our differences, Ireenie,” she says, “but for old times’ sake, I’ll do you a solid. It’s only fair for you to know.”

She drops the basketball carelessly and walks toward Irene with her phone. My pulse is hammering; I’m sweating like I’m in a nightmare. I have no idea what’s on that phone, but I know it’s bad.

Charlotte leans in toward Irene so no one else can see what they’re looking at. It’s easy to tell the exact moment Irene sees whatever the bad thing is, because her jaw locks and her mouth sets into a thin, firm line.

She looks up at me for a quick, searing second. Then she clears her throat.

“Practice is over,” she says in a shaky voice. “Everyone go home.”

She turns on her heel and walks off with her head held high.

---

I chase her down in the parking lot. She’s completely alone, without even Honey-Belle to fuss over her. I catch up to her as she’s slamming her duffel bag into her car.

“Irene! Wait!”

She turns to me with those dark, expressive eyes. My heart drops when I see they’re full of tears.

“What, Scottie?” Her nose is dripping, but she doesn’t bother wiping it away.

“What did she show you?” I ask in a small voice.

She stares at me as if deciding whether I’m even worth talking to. “A picture of you kissing Tally.”

I go completely numb. Charlotte must have snuck up on us in the loft while I was trying to take care of Tally. What did she do, follow us up the stairs? Army crawl her way toward us in the dark? The thought makes me sick.

“Irene, it’s not what it looks like. She was wasted and I was trying to help—”

“Why were you there in the first place?”

My mouth snaps shut. “Because … Because I…”

“I don’t have time for this,” Irene says, moving to get into her car.

“No—wait—please,” I say, grabbing her arm. “I was falling for you and it scared the hell out of me. My feelings for Tally weren’t going away and I—I thought if I got some closure—” I shake my head. “I went to see her and she invited me to Prescott’s party. Things got out of hand. She got drunk and was totally miserable and—and I let her kiss me. But then I stopped it. I took her home just to make sure she was safe. I haven’t seen her since.”

Irene slumps against her car. “I can’t be part of your mess, Scottie.”

“No, but that’s the thing,” I say frantically. I don’t want her to walk away from me. “I’m trying to figure out the mess! I’m trying to fix everything so I can be with you!”

She stares hard at me. “But you couldn’t tell me that? You couldn’t be honest about how wrapped up you were in your stupid, toxic pining and bullshit?”

“Don’t talk to me like that,” I say, my defenses rising. “Don’t act like you’re so much better at breakups when your ex is still pulling shit like she did just now—”

“I don’t go looking for her to do that,” Irene says sharply. “At least I’ve tried to cut her out of my life—”

“You didn’t cut her out, she cut you out. But sure, good for you for keeping your dignity instead of backsliding. That doesn’t mean you can stand there acting all high and mighty as if you’ve never done anything wrong in your life. You—towed—my fucking—car”—my voice is shaking now, and tears are falling from my eyes—“because you used to be just like Charlotte, picking on people simply because you could. That doesn’t make you better than me. That doesn’t even make you better than her—”

“Shut up!” Irene yells, slamming her door and barreling past me. “Shut up right now. You have no idea what you’re talking about!”

She paces manically on the sidewalk, her eyes wild, her whole body shaking. I have never, ever seen her like this.

And then she bends over and vomits into the grass.

“What the—?” I say, stunned.

Irene draws a slow breath, hands on her knees. She’s silent for a moment, and I don’t know what to do. “Did—” She swallows hard. “Did you know Prescott used to drive the same car as you?”

I blink. “What?”

She collapses onto the curb, wrapping her arms around her calves. “His parents took his Audi away after the drunk driving incident, so the ‘spare’ car he used when Charlotte first started dating him was a rental car. A green Jetta. When she invited him to that party last year, I lost my mind about it. I called a towing company and read them his license plate.” She looks up at me, her eyes shiny. “But it wasn’t his license plate. It was yours.”

I can only stand there, buffeted by this reveal.

“I’ve been where you are, Scottie. That kind of crazy, flesh-eating pain that consumes every part of you. I understand wanting to get back at them. Wanting their attention, even if it’s in a negative way. But the shitty thing is, that never helps you feel better. It just lands you in a worse situation, like towing the car of a perfectly nice girl who had nothing to do with the pain you’re in.”

The world goes quiet. I try to feel my body. My stomach is like ice.

“This entire thing was a mistake,” Irene says, standing up. She leans against her car again, tears streaming down her face. A detached part of my brain says Go to her, but I’m frozen where I stand.

“Let’s consider our arrangement finished,” Irene says hollowly. “I’ll return the money if you want it. You’ll just have to give me some time to get a job.”

A shard goes through the center of my body. That’s not what I want, but I still can’t bring myself to speak.

Irene opens her car door and settles into the driver’s side. “You might wanna back up. I don’t want to hit you with my car.”

She pulls the door shut with a dull thud. The engine starts, the brake lights flash red, her car starts to move. I back up, numb from head to toe, and watch her drive away.

---

“Is everything okay?” Mom asks when I trail listlessly through the front door a full hour later. I meant to come straight home but ended up sobbing in my car until I felt light-headed. I’m grateful to have both my parents here, since Mom is working remotely today and Dad only worked a half day at the clinic. I know it’s time to tell them everything, and I just want to get it over with.

I swallow. It takes everything in me not to start crying again. “I messed up.”

Mom and Dad swoop over to me. Daphne looks up from the couch, wide-eyed. “What’s wrong?” Dad asks. “Are you hurt? Are you safe?”

“I’m fine,” I say tonelessly. “But I’ve been lying about something.”

My parents trade looks. “Okay,” Mom says in her steady, soothing voice. “Let’s sit down and talk about it.”

Mom and Dad settle themselves on the couch together, a united front, and wait expectantly. I curl up on the couch across from them. Daphne places BooBoo in my lap, but before she can sit down next to me, Mom and Dad ask her to leave. She gives me a bewildered look and trudges upstairs to her room.

Once her door snaps closed, Mom and Dad focus all their attention on me. And before I lose my nerve, I start talking.

I tell them everything. The anguish I felt after Tally transferred. The attention I got when I carpooled with Irene. The plan I concocted to “date” her and the summer job savings I used to pay her deductible. The ruse I dangled over Tally’s head. The deep confusion about my new feelings for Irene, and the feelings I still have for Tally, and whether I deserve to be loved by either one of them. And just when I’ve almost covered everything, Thora gets home from the lunch shift, takes one look at us in the family room, and asks, “Who died?”

Mom takes a deep breath. We all know she and Thora don’t keep things from each other, especially not where Daphne and me are concerned. It’s a remnant from the time when it was just the two of them. I already know Mom will tell Thora about me even if I don’t tell her myself.

“Come sit,” Mom says, her voice carefully controlled. She turns and bellows upstairs for Daphne, who opens her door immediately.

My cheeks go hot. Telling Thora is one thing, but telling Daphne?

“Mom,” I say meaningfully.

“We don’t have secrets in this family,” Mom says. “When one of us hurts, we all hurt.”

I swallow and avoid my sisters’ eyes as they settle in the family room with us. There’s a protracted silence, but no one steps in to fill it. The focus is entirely on me. There’s no way out of this.

I take a deep breath and tell the story all over again, finishing with the New Year’s Eve party and the picture Charlotte showed Irene today.

When I’m finally finished, there’s a ringing silence. Thora’s jaw is tight. Daphne looks crestfallen. Mom breathes carefully through her nose while Dad rubs his mouth mechanically.

“That’s pretty fucked, Scottie,” Thora says finally.

“Thora,” Mom reprimands.

“Thanks for those wise and compassionate words,” I say thickly. I round on my mom. “Do you see why I didn’t want to tell her? She’s judgmental about everything.”

“I’m being judgmental because this is not the Scottie I know,” Thora snaps.

“Yeah, well, the Scottie you know was heartbroken and hurting, but you didn’t want to hear about that. You only wanted to point out how shitty Tally was.”

“Because she was shitty.”

“From your perspective, maybe she was. But can you please consider that maybe I saw things worth loving in her? That before she broke my heart, she built me up into the best version of myself?”

“I don’t get it,” Daphne cuts in. Her voice is soft and quiet. “I’ve always thought you were amazing. Why did you need Tally to show you that?”

That’s when I start sobbing again.

Mom and Dad meet me on my couch. Dad lets me cry into his shoulder while Mom strokes my arm. My sisters fold themselves onto the floor below us and wait. It’s a piercing, intimate moment: the five of us packed together in a three-foot radius, the Christmas tree lit up in the background, Pickles pawing curiously at my socks.

By the time I stop sobbing, I’m sweating through my practice sweatshirt. Mom brushes the hair out of my eyes. Daphne squeezes my foot.

“It’s heartbreaking for us to hear you say these things,” Mom says. “Not just because we’re disappointed, but because of the deeper issues going on here. When did you stop feeling worthy, Scottie?”

I sniff and turn away from her. “I didn’t realize I had.” Thora gets up and brings me a tissue box, and I take one without meeting her eyes. “Tally left and it was like this giant hole opened up.”

“In your heart?” Daphne asks.

I run my fingers up and down my sternum. “Everywhere.”

Dad rubs his mouth again. “I think you lost yourself in Tally a bit.”

“I didn’t mean to,” I say, still trying to get my breathing under control. “I loved her so much. I thought she was perfect. When I started seeing things I wasn’t so sure about, I thought the problem was me and my way of looking at things. It felt like I couldn’t tell the ceiling from the floor.”

“You have good intuition, honey. You’re allowed to trust it,” Mom says. “And you are very, very worthy. You’re worthy of love you feel good about. Not just from a girl, but from yourself.”

“Mom’s right,” Dad says. “And we can tell you that all day long, but the belief has to come from you.”

“But how do I do that?”

They’re quiet, thinking.

“Mom,” Thora says suddenly, “remember when you took up gardening?”

Mom smiles knowingly. She nods like she’s giving Thora permission.

“I don’t remember the divorce,” Thora says. “I was only, like, three. But I do remember that Mom was always outside, planting in the dirt, and she always had the best smile on her face afterward.” She grins at our mom. “Remember what you’d tell me?”

“Yes. You’d ask why I liked gardening so much, and I’d tell you that I was spending time with myself because I love myself.”

“That always stuck with me. And when Buck came around, you still gardened just as much.”

“It lit her up from the inside out,” Dad says. He smiles at Mom the way he always does: like she makes the sun come out. “That’s what love is, Scottie. It’s letting someone be themselves.”

I swallow down more tears. “I don’t think Tally and I did that for each other.”

“No.”

“But I was so in love with her. I always had butterflies when she was around. I still kind of do.”

“Are the butterflies entirely gentle?” Mom asks. “Or do some of them hurt?”

I bite my lip. My family nods knowingly.

“In my experience,” Dad says, “butterflies aren’t always the best compass.”

“So you didn’t have butterflies when you started dating Mom?”

Mom raises her eyebrows in a way that means Be careful what you say here, buddy. Dad merely kisses her hand.

“I thought there was no way in hell I’d end up with your mom,” he says. “We weren’t each other’s types. She was ten years younger than me, much better-looking, and she loved to put me in my place.”

“And I had a five-year-old,” Mom says. “And your dad didn’t want kids.”

“I thought I didn’t. But let me tell you, something with your mother and me just worked. The more I saw her, the more time we spent together, she came to feel like home. Being with her was like a warm, cozy buzz.” He pauses, and his eyes twinkle satisfactorily. “Not so much butterflies as bumblebees.”

Daphne giggles. “Good one, Dad.”

“And wouldn’t you know, the more time I spent with Thora, the more I enjoyed being a dad. She was the cutest, spunkiest little kid I’d ever seen, even when she pushed our buttons.”

Thora smirks, her chin in her hand.

“So before I knew it, we had not just one precious little girl, but three of them! And here they are, growing up too fast, learning how their hearts work.”

Mom smooths my hair back from my forehead. I melt into her shoulder, sniffling and wiping my eyes.

“I really like Irene,” I admit. “But I think I just ruined everything. There’s no way she’ll even look at me again.”

Mom smiles wryly. “Don’t count yourself out, sweetheart. Let the wounds breathe for a bit and see what happens.”

“I’m tired of wounds. I still feel sad about Tally even with all the work I’ve done to get over her. I feel like I gave her a piece of me I’m never going to get back.”

“My sweet girls, let me tell you something,” Mom says, looking around to each of us. “You will move through life and fall in love with many different people, and at some point, you will get your heart broken. It’s unavoidable. The key is to not be afraid of the breaking. People break our hearts, but they create more room in them first, and that room makes it possible for us to become more ourselves.”

“I don’t think I’ve become more myself,” I whisper.

“You can’t always see the process when it’s happening,” Dad says. “But a year from now, you’ll see how the pieces lined up. Give yourself time to heal, Scottie. Give yourself a break.”

I nod, wiping my eyes. BooBoo jumps into my lap and purrs against my stomach.

“All right,” Mom says. “That’s enough heavy stuff for today. Time to let things breathe.”

“Yeah, time to leave this bullshit behind,” Daphne says unexpectedly.

“Daphne—” Mom starts, but when she sees the rest of us cracking up, she buries her face in her hands and laughs.

---

I wake up exhausted the next morning. It feels like all the heavy emotions I’ve been carrying these last few months have finally knocked me down and told me to stay there. I feel some relief after talking with my family yesterday, but I also know I have a long healing path in front of me. Because that’s the truth I have to face: It’s time to meet my grief head-on and allow it to move through me.

There’s a gentle knock on my bedroom door. Three people poke their heads in: Thora, Daphne, and, to my surprise, Danielle. They hover in the doorway, eyebrows raised like they’re not sure what kind of state they’ll find me in. When I pat my bed, smiles break out on their faces. My sisters snuggle up on either side of me while Danielle sits cross-legged at my feet, balancing a mug of coffee in her hands. Daphne hands me a coffee of my own in her favorite mug, the vintage Peter Rabbit one we’ve had since we were little.

“When did you get here?” I ask Danielle.

She wrinkles her nose. “Half an hour ago. Thora texted me. I showed Daph how to make coffee.”

I smile my gratitude at Thora. It’s easier to meet her eyes today.

“How’s the coffee?” Daphne asks me. “Did we add enough cream?”

I lean into her. She smells like her floral shampoo, the one I only use when I run out of my own. “It’s perfect, Daph. You’re perfect.”

Thora nudges me until I look at her again. “I woke up feeling like a bad sister,” she says quietly. “It hit me what you said about how I never fully listened to your pain. I’m sorry, Scots. I shouldn’t have been so quick to shit on Tally without understanding how you felt first.”

I nod. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not, but I’m glad we can always call each other on this stuff.”

“I love our band of sisters,” Danielle says, and we all laugh. “So … I heard about the New Year’s Eve party. And the picture of you and Tally kissing.”

“We filled her in,” Daphne explains.

I risk a look at Danielle, afraid of what she’ll think of me, but she merely looks concerned. “Are you okay, Scottie? Is Irene okay?”

I take a sip of coffee, considering the question. “Can I ask you guys something? What do you think of that scene in Say Anything … where he holds the boom box outside her window?”

“It’s so romantic.” Daphne sighs.

“Iconic,” Thora says.

“He’s a try-hard,” Danielle says.

I point at Danielle. “That’s what Irene thinks. She hates that part because she thinks it’s a cop-out. That John Cusack, like, indulged in this cheesy gesture because he wanted to wallow in his feels. She says he should have made an effort to talk things out with Ione Skye instead.”

Thora and Daphne frown, pondering this perspective.

“She’s right,” Danielle says simply.

“I don’t want those hard conversations,” I admit. “I’d rather stand outside her bedroom window and blast a love song.”

“That definitely sounds more romantic,” Daphne says, tapping her fingers against her chin, “but which one would mean more to Irene?”

I know the answer in my bones. “Ugh. The tough conversation.”

“You’ve had hard conversations before,” Danielle says. “You and Irene are always straight with each other. I mean, in a gay way.”

Thora snorts and kicks her foot against Danielle’s hip.

“You talk to her like you never talked to Tally,” Danielle continues. “You’re … you know … you.”

I nod. “Yeah. And I wasn’t me when I was with Tally.”

“Right. Look, remember when people started turning out for our games and I freaked out and you said I couldn’t have it both ways? Either I stopped caring that we weren’t getting attention, or I learned how to play with attention on me? You were right, so now I’m gonna return the favor. This isn’t you. The fake dating scheme, the messing with Tally’s head, the sneaking around Candlehawk? Not even close to the real Scottie. The real you is authentic and genuine and grounded. She cares about people. Not the idea of them, but the people themselves.”

We fall silent until Daphne turns to me. “No offense, but your best friend is smarter than you.”

“Not offended.” I smile and reach for my phone. “Hey, did Charlotte show anybody else the picture?”

“No,” Danielle answers. “I mean, everyone put the pieces together that you were out with Tally and did something to upset Irene, so…”

“Yeah. Definitely sounds bad.” I cringe. “Does the whole school hate me?”

Danielle shrugs. “They might?” She stares pointedly at me. “But I don’t think you should worry about that right now.”

I sigh. “Right. Authenticity. I’m just not sure I like the authentic me right now. She’s a damn mess.”

Thora sighs and slings an arm around my shoulders. “Look, Scots,” she says gently, “if you’re going to heal, you have to stop avoiding the hard shit. Trust that you can handle the bad parts of yourself. Trust that Irene can, too.”

I bite my lip. “But what if she doesn’t want to?”

“She’ll want to,” Danielle says. “If you trust me on anything, trust me on that.”

---

When I call Irene the next day, I’m not sure she’ll answer.

She does.

And when I ask if we can talk, she says yes. I grab my keys and hustle out the door.

When I pull into her driveway, she’s in the garage, shivering in a maroon hoodie with the collar cut loose, her glasses on, her hair in a messy topknot. My heart pounds beneath my denim jacket.

I take off my shoes when we enter the house. Mary the dog pads over and nuzzles into my thigh. A boy with Irene’s eyes, maybe eleven or twelve years old, looks over from the wraparound couch.

“This is my brother,” Irene says, gesturing toward him. “Mathew, we’re going upstairs. Don’t bother us.”

Mathew scrunches his nose. “Are you two banging?”

Irene ignores him and hurries up the stairs. I follow her, trying to decode her body language. She doesn’t seem angry, but it’s like she’s put up a wall between us. She’s back to being untouchable.

Her room is just as I’d imagine it to be: clean, organized, effortlessly cool. The dark wallpaper suits her. The framed photographs are surprisingly old. I pick up a gold 4 x 6 frame showing young Irene with an older Indian couple.

“Are these your grandparents? Is this Kerala?”

“Good memory,” she says flatly. She clambers onto the bed, stretches one leg out in front of her.

I hover uncertainly. “Can I—?”

She gestures wordlessly.

I seat myself across from her and stare into those dark, expressive eyes. My heart is in my throat. I want so badly to get this right.

“I could say sorry again, but I don’t think that’s what you want to hear,” I begin. “I could make some sweeping declaration of love, but you deserve more than a boom box outside your window. Because you’re right: that would serve me, not you.”

She watches me intently. “So what do I deserve?”

“A million things.” I look into her eyes, trying to show my sincerity. “But from me, you deserve honesty. I haven’t wanted to be real with you about how messy and broken and confused I feel. I tried to keep you away by telling myself you were the popular girl who didn’t care about me. But you do care about me. You care about a lot of things. You have a big heart and you’re funny and headstrong. You’re one of the most amazing people I’ve ever met.”

I swallow and fidget with my jacket cuffs. “You’ve been authentic since the moment our cars hit. I’d like to be authentic with you, too.” I clear my throat, and now I have to look away. “I’m not in a great headspace. I haven’t been for months. Breaking up with Tally sliced me open in a way that embarrasses me, because I feel like I should be over her by now. I don’t know how much of it’s my fault. Like it’s my fault for not seeing the red flags. It’s still my fault for believing she has a good heart deep down. I know she’s toxic. I really do. But I miss her in this way that physically hurts. It’s like my brain gets it but my heart is lagging behind. I’m grieving even if I don’t want to be.”

I recap everything that happened over the last week: my conversation with Danielle about needing closure, my decision to seek out Tally at the Candlehawk game, my experience at Prescott’s party. I even tell her about my conversation with my family the other day.

When I finish, there’s silence. I notice my chest rising and falling, my breath moving in and out. Mathew is blasting the television downstairs.

“Do you still miss her?” Irene asks.

I take my time answering. “I miss who she used to be, but that person is gone. Maybe she never truly existed in the first place. You’ve been telling me all along that trying to get back at her wouldn’t make me happy, and you were right. I’ve been competing with her but I’ve only been hurting myself. And I ended up hurting you, too. I never should have dragged you into this mess. That’s the part that really kills me. I’m so sorry, Irene.”

The shadow of a smirk crosses her face. “You didn’t drag me into anything. I made the decision myself.”

“Still. I should have been more self-aware. I should have stopped myself from developing feelings.”

She shakes her head. “You can’t control your feelings. If my big gay journey has taught me anything, it’s that.”

I give her a small smile. “True.”

“I knew you were grieving. I knew you were in a bad place. I guess I just hoped that things had changed by now.” She looks at me. “I’m sorry if I rushed you or pressured you.”

“You didn’t.” I tentatively reach my fingers toward hers. She lets me take them. “I want to date you. Really want to date you. But I’m not ready for that yet, and I don’t want to give you anything less than my best self.”

She nods. “I understand.”

I meet her eyes. “Irene?” My voice has the slightest quake in it. “Why did you never tell me the truth about the tow truck?”

Her stare is piercing. “Because I was too proud to admit I’d made a mistake. I didn’t know you and I didn’t know how to explain myself to you, so I let you deal with the fallout instead of taking it on myself. I was a coward.” She squeezes my fingers. “I’m so sorry, Scottie. For what happened to your car, but also for how it made you feel about yourself. Your family is right: You’re amazing. You’re more than enough. I hate that I made you question that.”

I set my hand on her knee. “I’m sorry you were in so much pain.”

“I’m sorry you still are.”

“Will it really go away? Eventually?”

“Yes.” She smiles sadly. “Look, I’ll prove it to you.” She reaches for her phone and scrolls until she finds a photo. “I know it’s probably weird to show you this, but I stared at this picture every day for about six months after Charlotte started dating Prescott.”

She hands it to me. It’s a selfie of the two of them, Irene and Charlotte, kissing with their heads on the same pillow, their hair messy and intertwined. Irene is smiling the way she only smiles during cheer routines: like she’s found the thing she was meant for.

“Oh.” I feel a twinge of jealousy, but I remind myself this isn’t about me; it’s about Irene and her pain. “Does she know you have this picture?”

“No. We were drunk. I didn’t find it until the next day.”

“You look so happy,” I whisper.

“I was.” She scoots closer, lays her arm along my thigh. “I loved Charlotte with everything I had. I know she loved me, too. When I look at this picture, I can still see the best parts of her. I can remember exactly how it felt to love her.”

I look up at her. “So how did you finally move on?”

“Time. Space. Acceptance.” She searches my eyes. “And knowing that I deserved better.”

I smile. We lean our foreheads together, breathing.

“I want to get to a place where I’m ready for you,” I whisper.

“Just get to a place where you know how wonderful you are,” she whispers back. “They’re one and the same.”

She gets up off the bed and pulls me to my feet. Before I can figure out how to say goodbye—for now—she grabs something off her dresser and presses it into my hand.

My basketball button.

I try to say something, but the words stick in my throat. We stand there for a moment, breathing, giving this decision the space it deserves. Then I nod and walk away.

I don’t cry when I get home. Instead, I pick up my basketball and run layups for an hour. I don’t think about anything other than my own heart and the healing it needs to do.

Because before you can worry about who’s in your passenger seat, you have to learn to drive yourself.