By the time the message ends, silent tears are rolling trails of heat down my cheeks. I roughly wipe them away, angling my face toward the ground to avoid the stares of people walking past me on the sidewalk.
When Dee gets home, I’m a shell of her best friend, my face a tear-stained mess. My body feels utterly empty because I’ve cried every last shred of my energy out. Macy left the room to give me some privacy, and for the last half hour, I’ve just been sitting on Dee’s bed staring at my phone. She immediately sits down in front of me, her knees practically on top of mine. She wraps her arms around me. “What’d he say?”
I give her the gist of the message, because I just can’t bear to play it again. She sighs, and her eyes search mine. “You’re not thinking of calling him, are you?”
I chew on the inside of my lip. Because I am thinking of calling him. I want to talk to him so badly. Each time I hear his voice, he puts another chink in the wall I’ve put up between us, and I can feel my anger fading.
“Oh, babe.” Dee frowns. “Do you honestly think he’d never do it again?”
“I don’t know, Dee.” A sob escapes my throat, and I bury my face in my hands. She rubs my back.
“You know I’ll stand by you no matter what you do, but . . . you know what I always say.”
“Once a cheater, always a cheater.”
She kisses the top of my head and then sits with me in silence until I gather the strength to show my face. “Sorry about bailing on the party.” I haven’t decided if I’m going to call Brady back or not, but I’m tired of talking about it. This is something I’ll have to work out on my own.
“Don’t be. I’m excited to meet this super-gay friend of yours!”
I love how easily she can make me laugh. “I don’t think he’s super-gay. I think he’s just regular-gay.”
“Well, he’s gay, and you like him, so he must be super . . .” She stares at me expectantly.
“Super gay?”
“Super gay!” She stands up, yanking me off the bed. Her slender fingers straighten my too-depressed-to-be-bothered-with hair. “What do you wanna do for food today?”
Dee blasts girl-power music in the car all the way to the closest fast-food joint, and we pig out in the car, laughing and screaming karaoke—because what we do really can’t be called singing. She serenades me with her soft drink microphone, and I play drums on her dashboard with my fries. By the time the song ends, I’m playing with only one fry because I ate the other halfway through my solo. I toss the last one into the air and catch it in my mouth, taking a bow when Dee busts up laughing.
“There she is!” she says with a contagious smile. “I missed you!”
“Sorry I’ve been so blah . . . I promise I’ll lighten up and have fun this weekend.”
“You’re not going to have a choice!”
I text Leti later to ask if he can hang with us in Dee’s dorm room on Saturday, and he texts me back a cheesy picture of him making a goofy-excited face and giving the camera a thumbs-up. I chuckle and show the picture to Dee as we drive home, and she laughs too.
On Saturday, he shows up wearing long khaki shorts, a tattered purple tank top, and rainbow flip-flops. His sunglasses hang from his V-necked tank as he spins around in Macy’s office chair watching Dee and I paint our toenails.
“Leti,” Dee complains as she paints her piggy nail glittery pink, “you really need to let us paint your toenails! You too, Mace!”
Leti and Macy share a look. She’s sitting on her bed, curled up in the corner with a book.
“I’m a dude,” Leti says.
I snicker as Dee pouts. “Yeah,” she says, “But you’re . . .”
The corner of his mouth quirks up. “I’m what?”
“You’re . . . gay.” She says the word quietly, like it’s a secret, and I’m having serious trouble not cracking up.
“Really?” Leti asks. “That’s news to me.”
Uh, what?! I accidentally paint a streak of purple across the tip of my toe as my eyes dart up to his. “You’re not?”
“I’d say I’m bi.”
“You like girls too?”
“Well . . . just one . . . in fourth grade . . . but she was a total knockout!”
Dee laughs. “You’re totally gay.”
“Whatever,” Leti says, spinning around again. “I’m still not letting you paint my toenails.”
“Then at least let me paint your fingernails!” she says.
“Oh!” His spinning suddenly jerks to a stop. “You can paint three on each hand! Black, like Adam’s!”
“Adam who?” Dee asks, and my throat instantly constricts, threatening to suffocate me—which would probably be for the best. How did I not see this coming?! Of course Leti would mention Adam! I still haven’t told Dee about our make-out session or that he’s in my class. Oh, God. Oh, no. No, no, no
“Adam Everest!” Leti says. “The lead singer of The Last Ones to Know!”