“No, I mean, it used to be a nursery.”

“What’s the difference?”

“A plant nursery,” I say. “Lindenbergers’ Nursery. My mom brokered the deal when the Lindenbergers bought the land.”

He scratches the back of his head and looks around. “Someone else must’ve bought it since then.”

“What happened to all the greenhouses?”

He shrugs. “Bulldozed them, probably.”

“Since yesterday?”

“I don’t know, Natalie.”

“You are seeing this, though, aren’t you? I’m not imagining it.”

He laughs and crosses his arms. “No, it’s there. What’s your point?”

“Nothing,” I lie. “Sorry, it’s just weird. My mom is friends with Rhonda Lindenberger. I feel bad that they went out of business.”

Beau looks almost suspicious, but he doesn’t ask any questions, and we get back in his pickup. Five minutes later we pull up to my house, and everything looks how it should, but I’m eager to talk to Alice again. It’s the last day of June, and time is speeding past.

“Thanks for the ride.”

“Anytime,” Beau says.

“So I guess you’ll just find me next time I need you?” I say.

“Or you could call me.”

I take out my phone and hand it to him. I’m going to have to get a new one, but at least I’ll have Beau’s number. He saves it in my phone then passes it back to me.

“When should I call?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” he says. “Whenever you want me to come pick you up next. So maybe in, like, five minutes.”

I laugh, and he rests his forehead against mine, his hand on the back of my neck. “Okay, five minutes.” Our mouths are almost touching when I hear the porch door open, and I scoot backward abruptly.

“Nat?” Dad calls from the doorway. “Where’s your car?”

“Thanks again for the ride,” I tell Beau, climbing out of the truck.

“Five minutes,” he mouths through the glass, holding up as many fingers, and I nod.

My parents get the Jeep towed to the house on Thursday afternoon, but they make no motion to take it into a shop until Saturday morning, after Dad’s spent a few hours tinkering and swearing at it. When he’s convinced no one’s gonna be able to fix the piece of sh-junk, he skips right over the possibility of taking it to an actual mechanic and starts talking about all his friends and colleagues who might be able to cut us a deal on a new car.

Mom stands in the kitchen, one hand on her hip, making this face of patient disapproval that is the closest she ever gets to glowering. When Dad’s done rifling through the pantry for the healthy potato chips he hates but Mom insists on buying, she says calmly, “I want to have it looked at first.”

Before I even know what I’m doing, I say, “I have a friend.”

Dad’s stony frustration cracks into a smile. “Well, that’s great, sugar. Always knew you had it in you.”

“A friend who does car things,” I amend.

“Car things?” Dad repeats skeptically.

“Yeah, you know, drag racing and assembling historically accurate plastic models.” Mom misses the joke and starts to gently explain that those things don’t qualify a person to work on her teenage daughter’s potential death trap. “I’m kidding, Mom. My friend Beau—the one who picked me up when I broke down—he does tires and brakes and that sort of thing mostly, but he offered to look at the Jeep.”

Dad shrugs, as if to say if I can’t fix it, no one can! Mom sets a hand on his shoulder and says, “Sure. Call your friend,” then smiles as if to say and I will also call a mechanic regardless of whether your friend appears to fix the problem.

That night, during the early Sunday morning hours, I’ve finally gathered the courage to call Beau and ask him if he’s still willing to help with the car. But while I’m staring at his pre-entered name, my phone starts buzzing in my hand, and Matt’s name appears onscreen. Immediately, there’s a pressure on my chest like a teenage elephant is sitting on me as I stare and blink and stare some more at my phone, making the snap decision to answer on the final ring.

“Hello?” I feel like I’m swirling around in a toilet, preparing to go down the drain.

“Natalie,” Matt says.

“What do you want?”

There’s a long pause before he says, “I just missed you.”

“Leave me alone.”

“Please let me say something.” I don’t answer. “Natalie?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry and I’m embarrassed and I hate myself.”

“Yeah.” I swallow the knot of emotion in my throat. “That’s pretty much how I feel too.”

“Nat,” he says gently. I can tell he’s been crying, and I don’t care. “Nat, please. I’ll do anything.”

“What do you want from me, Matt?”

He sighs. “I don’t know. I just want to make it right. Tell me how to make it right.”

“I don’t think you can. I don’t think we can. Matt . . . we’re broken.” I hang up, and despite all the promises we’ve both made, I think it’s finally true.

When an hour has passed, I’m still staring at the ceiling, eyes burning and chest heavy. By now I’m thoroughly self-conscious again but I steel myself and call Beau anyway, holding my breath and hoping that the call will go through. It seems to be working, but with every ring, my heart sinks further. I just want to hear his voice right now. The line clicks, and noise fills my ear, music and shouting. “Hello?” I half-whisper, not wanting to wake Coco in the next room over.

The music fades into the background until it’s all but gone. “Hi,” Beau says, his voice even slower than usual.

“You’re busy,” I say.

“No,” he says.

“No?”

“I’m just out with my brother. It’s fine. I’m glad you called.”

“I’m glad my call went through.”

“Hey, you wanna come over?”

“Tonight?”

“Right now.”

“I’m already in bed,” I tell him.