“You didn’t.” My cheeks are hot. I wish I could reach out and take my stupid bra—pink, with patterns of daisies on it, like a twelve-year-old’s bra—and shove it under the sofa, but that would be even more conspicuous. So instead we both pretend we don’t notice.
“Okay.” Parker draws out the word, superlong, as if he knows I’m lying. For a second he says nothing. Then, slowly, he comes down the stairs, edging closer, as if I’m an animal who might be rabid. “Are you all right? You seem . . .”
“I seem what?” I look up at him then, experiencing a hot flash of anger.
“Nothing.” He stops again, a good ten feet away from me. “I don’t know. Upset. Angry or something.” His next words he pronounces very carefully, as if each one is glass that might shatter in his mouth. “Is everything okay with Aaron?”
I feel stupid sitting on the couch when he’s standing, like I’m at a disadvantage somehow, so I stand up, too, crossing my arms. “We’re fine,” I say. “I’m fine.” I’d been planning on telling Parker about the breakup—the second I saw his stupid Surf Siders on the stairs, I knew I would tell him, and maybe even tell him why, cry and confess that there’s something wrong with me and I don’t know how to be happy and I’m an idiot, such an idiot.
But now I can’t tell him. I won’t. Then I say, “Dara’s not home.” Parker flinches and turns away, a muscle working in his jaw. Even midwinter, he has the kind of skin that always looks tan. I wish he looked worse. I wish he looked as bad as I feel. “Well, you’re here for her, aren’t you?”
“Jesus, Nick.” He turns back to me then. “We need to . . . I don’t know . . . fix this. Fix us.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” I say, squeezing my ribs, hard. I feel like if I don’t, I might just come apart.
“You do know what I mean,” he says. “You are—were—my best friend.” With one hand, he gestures to the space between us, the long stretch of basement, where for years we built pillow forts and competed to see who could withstand tickle wars the longest. “What happened?”
“What happened is you started dating my sister,” I say. The words come out louder than I intended.
Parker takes a step toward me. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he says, his voice quiet, and for a second I want to close the distance between us and bury myself in the soft place between his arm and shoulder blade, and tell him how dumb I’ve been, and let him cheer me up with bad renditions of Cyndi Lauper songs and weird trivia about the world’s largest hamburgers or freestanding structures built entirely from toothpicks. “I didn’t mean to hurt either of you. It just . . . happened.” He’s practically whispering now. “I’m trying to stop it.”
I take a step backward. “You’re not trying very hard,” I say. I know I’m being a bitch, but I don’t care. He’s the one who ruined everything. He’s the one who kissed Dara, who keeps kissing her, who keeps telling her yes, no matter how many times they break up. “I’ll let Dara know you came by.”
Parker’s face changes. And in that moment I know I’ve hurt him, maybe just as much as he’s hurt me. I get a sick rush of triumph that feels almost like nausea, like catching an insect between folds of paper towel and squeezing. Then he just looks angry—hard, almost, like his skin has suddenly tightened into stone.
“Yeah, all right.” He takes two steps backward before turning around. “Tell her I’m looking for her. Tell her I’m worried about her.”
“Sure.” My voice sounds unfamiliar, as if it’s being piped in from somewhere a thousand miles away. I broke up with Aaron. And for what? Parker and I aren’t even friends anymore. I’ve screwed up everything. Suddenly I think I might be sick.
“Oh, and Nick?” Parker pauses at the foot of the stairs. His expression is impossible to read—for a second, I think he might try and apologize again. “Your shirt’s on inside out.”
Then he’s gone, sprinting up the stairs, leaving me alone.