“It’s supposed to be oil,” I say. “You’re supposed to anoint my head with oil.”

I can feel the honey dripping down my forehead toward the bridge of my nose, and then it hangs like snot from the tip of my nose. I lick it off.

“Your mother just pulled into the driveway,” he says. “Go hide in the pantry and scare her.” I hear her tires on the gravel and stand up.

Two days later, I leave my parents’ house, confident as fuck. I even have a little bounce in my step that’s normally not there because of my really bad posture. My mother was hesitant at first, but after an afternoon of sulking and moodily sipping Zinfandel, she decided that the men in Florida weren’t suited for my reserved and articulate personality. The men in Florida. That’s why I was given her blessing to leave. Family is a wonderful thing, mostly when they’re not projecting their shit on you. She called a friend, who called a friend, who had a job secured for me in less than five hours.

“Tell me,” I heard her say over the phone. “Are there handsome, single men working there?”

I had a date with Dean lined up for a week after my move. “Dean,” my mother said, clapping. “A handsome name for a handsome man.”

My dad shook his head behind her shoulder, his eyes large.

Before I left, my dad and I poured her bottle of Zin down the drain and refilled the bottle with a hot sauce concoction we’d been working on all day.

“Don’t forget to video her reaction,” I whispered in my dad’s ear when I kissed him goodbye. “She’s going to divorce both of us if we don’t stop.”

My dad guffaws. “She’d have to learn to pump her own gas,” he calls out.

“Never gonna happen!” I wave goodbye.

Two down—the most important two. Now I just had to tell Della and June. Thank God. I give eight weeks’ notice to my job. I haven’t been there long enough for anyone to really care that I’m leaving. They throw a party for me anyway, and spell my name wrong on the cake. I wait to tell Della last.

“What the hell do you mean you’re moving to Washington?” she says. “How could you just make a decision like this and never talk to me about it?” I sit there for a while, thinking about how to answer her, running the tip of my finger over the grooves that mark the edge of the table. We are at that age that balances between independence and conferring with your friends about every miniscule decision you make. I’ve never liked that part of adolescence, but tried my hardest to play along. Should I get bangs, Della? Do I want a silver car or a gold car? The dark wash jeans, or the light?

“Well, because I’m a grownup, and I don’t need to confer with my friends about my decisions.”

We are sitting at a sidewalk cafe in downtown Ft. Lauderdale. The waiter drops off our sangria, and, sensing the tension, disappears almost immediately. She pulls out her phone to text Kit—fast thumbs, a childlike pout.

“Hey,” I say, touching her hand. “We can visit each other. Think of how fun that will be.”

There are tears in her eyes when she sets her phone down on the table. “I don’t want to be here without you.” A second later I see a text from Kit pop up. “What?!”

“Nah, you’ll be okay, Dells. You have Kit, and your new house. You guys want to get married…” My voice trails off on the last one. I take a sip of sangria. The glass is sweating.

Della sniffs. “Kit’s on his way,” she says.

“Oh, no. Dells, why? This was supposed to be just girls!”

I get panicky. Take more sips. Signal the waiter for another.

“Well, everything changed when you announced you were moving away.”

We mostly small talk. I make fun of myself because it always makes her smile. But, today Della is focused, and nothing can distract her.

“Who will save me from my family?” she asks. “Who will show up to make me snacks?”

“Kit,” I say. “That’s his job now.”

Kit arrives, and the mood of our lunch changes. He doesn’t feed into Della’s depression; instead, he lights up the whole restaurant with his wit, and his suspenders, which he’s wearing because he has to go straight to work after this. We are signing receipts, and closing our wallets when he turns to me.

“Why?”

“Not you too; just leave me alone about it,” I say. Della sniffles and leaves to go to the bathroom to cry.

“Why?” he asks again when she’s gone.

I look at him long and hard. He doesn’t look away.

“Why not? I’m young, I’m boring, I’m hurt. Seems right.”

“You’re running,” he says.

I wonder why he’s looking at me so intently, and why he’s clenching his fists, and why he looks so great in suspenders.

“You should know,” I shoot back.

His mouth tightens, but I’ve got him there.

“Where are you going?”

This is the hard part. I haven’t told anyone but my parents where I’m going. I want it to stay that way until I move.

I shake my head.

“You’re going to Washington,” he says.

My mouth twitches. Bad, bad poker face. How the hell does he know that?

“No.”

“Yes, yes you are,” he hisses.

I look over his shoulder to check for Della. She’s still drying her tears.

“No, I’m moving to Dallas.”