I reach across the table and pick up the phone.

“So beat him to it.”

A lot of the time, love feels like it’s about figuring out what the other person wants and giving it over. Sometimes that’s impossible. But sometimes it’s pretty simple. Like right now. He doesn’t have the words to thank me, but when I hand him the phone, he holds on for a moment, lets me know I’ve gotten it right.

Right after he dials, I tell him I can go. Give him some privacy.

“No,” he says. “I want you here.” Then: “I need you here.”

So I stay, and watch him talk to his grandmother like it’s all going to be fine. Not going near goodbye, even though it’s probably the word most on his mind.

After he’s done, he puts the phone back on the table and says, “Wow, that was hard.”

I wish I were sitting next to him, not across from him. I press my knees against his knees.

“It’s alright,” he says. Then he picks up a slice of pizza and keeps eating.

I’m about to ask him what his grandmother said, but then the phone rings and it’s Steve, telling us about a party at Yonni Pfister’s house.

“We’re there,” Justin says. Then, after he hangs up, he tells me where we’re going.

Annapolis, I can’t help thinking. But we’re going nowhere near Annapolis.

Say any city enough times, it starts to sound like a made-up place.

Rebecca is at the party. She searches me out.

“I think our boyfriends are getting pretty baked,” she tells me.

“Lucky us,” I say.

She looks at me in surprise and laughs. “Did you really just say that? Good for you!”

Don’t tell Justin, I want to say. But I know she won’t. She might tell Ben, but he won’t tell Justin, either.

Am I the only one who actually likes Justin?

“What’s been going on?” Rebecca asks me.

“I’m just tired,” I say.

“Yeah, but tired of what?”

She’s genuinely interested. She genuinely cares. She is my friend.

I don’t tell her a thing.

I duck out of the party before it’s too late to call Kelsea’s house.

This time someone answers.

“Hello?” His voice is rough. Tired.

“Hi, is Kelsea there?” I ask. I just want to hear her voice. I just want to know she’s okay.

“Who is this?”

I try to think of a name that isn’t mine. “It’s Mia. I’m a friend of hers?”

“Well, Kelsea isn’t here right now. And she won’t be using her phone for a few days. If you leave a message there, though, I’m sure she’ll get back to you. Just give it some time.”

I risk it and ask, “Is she okay? I’m just a little…concerned.”

“She’s somewhere getting help,” he says. “It’s going to be okay.” He pauses; this is new ground for him. “I know it’ll mean a lot to hear from her friends. It’s good of you to call.”

He’s not going to tell me more, and that’s fine. This is enough to know.

“Thank you,” I say. I want to tell him he did the right thing. But I don’t want to make too much of an impression.

I’m already the friend who isn’t really there.

I’m home late. I have to walk Justin to his door because he’s so out of it. I wonder if his mom is awake.

“Thank you,” he says quietly. “My grandmother is an amazing lady, and you’re not too bad yourself.”

“Don’t give your mom a hard time,” I tell him.

He raises his fingers in a salute. “Yes, ma’am.” Then he leans over and kisses me good night. I’m surprised, and he can tell I’m surprised.

“Night, ma’am,” he says. Then he disappears inside.

I email A when I get back to my house.

A,

Sorry I couldn’t make it to Annapolis—there were some things I had to do.

Maybe tomorrow?

R

Chapter Twelve

It’s Sunday. Justin won’t be up for a while. We haven’t made plans. My parents won’t leave the house.

I’m free.

I tell my mom I have errands to run, then email A and ask if he wants to be one of my errands.

Yes, he writes back. A million times yes.

I am just going to do this, I tell myself as I make all the arrangements, as I come up with plans.

I am not going to think about it.

I am not going to think about what it means.

I am just going to do it, and be with A, and see what it means as it happens.

A’s told me he (she?) is a girl named Ashley today. I’ve gotten directions to her house. I know she’ll be waiting when I pull up.

I guess I’m picturing the girl A was when I first met her (him?). Pretty, but not overwhelmingly so. Someone I could be friends with. Someone I could be.

But holy shit, not this girl.

She comes out of the house and I’m like, What kind of music video am I living in? Because this girl is smoking hot. She looks like she should travel with backup singers. And photographers. And three stylists. And a small dog. And Jay-Z.

This is the kind of girl you never see in real life. You can almost pretend girls like this don’t really exist. They’re computer-generated by fashion magazines to make you feel lame.

Only this girl is real.

And I know I shouldn’t care—this isn’t a contest. But really? I already feel fat, and she isn’t even at the car yet.

The one thing she doesn’t have is a walk. A girl like this should have a walk. But I guess that’s A inside. Stomping when he should sashay.

When she gets in the car and I see her up close, I have to laugh. Even her skin is perfect. All I’m asking for is a simple fucking pimple.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say.

She makes putting a seat belt on look sexy. Jesus.

She sees me laughing and asks, “What?”

She doesn’t get it.

“What?” I repeat. Like A doesn’t realize how amazing she is today.

She holds up her hand, defending her reaction. “You have to understand—you’re the first person to ever know me in more than one body. I’m not used to this. I don’t know how you’re going to react.”

Okay. I may have forgotten that. But still.