“Josh said he saw you with that sketchy guy from across the hall last year. The dealer.”

“So?”

“So I’m worried about you, Caroline. First those pictures, and now you’re hanging out with him. … What’s going on with you?”

I’m speechless. I mean, literally, I can’t make words. There are so many, they jam up at the back of my tongue, and I don’t know which ones I’d say even if I could shake them loose.

The nerve of him. The nerve.

He hitches his arm up higher and takes a sip of his beer, as though we’re going to be here awhile, shooting the breeze. “We’re still friends,” he says. “We’ll always be friends, you know that. I just don’t want to see you getting hurt.”

That’s the thing that unlocks my throat. We’re still friends.

He betrayed me. He broke my life, then pretended I was the one who did it. He lied, because he’s a douchebag, and douchebags lie. And now he’s standing here, blocking my exit, telling me we’re still friends.

“You know what, Nate? Fuck you.”

I duck underneath his arm, half expecting him to hip-check me and pin me in place. Half certain that he really hates me enough, wants to hurt me enough, that he’d do that.

He doesn’t, though. I get past him, run down the hall to the bathroom, lock myself in a stall, and climb up on the lid of one of the toilets, feet on the seat so I can drop my head down between my knees.

I keep it there until I can breathe.

I keep it there until I figure out that the low humming sound I hear isn’t inside my head. It’s my phone. In my pocket.

When I pull it out, there’s a message from West. Are you ok?

I’m not okay. Not at all. But seeing West’s name on my phone—seeing that he’s asking, when he’s never texted me before except to type out one- or two-word replies to my home-safe messages—it helps.

I’m fine, I type.

Well, actually I type, im gun3. But somehow the miracle of autocorrect sorts it out.

Where are you?

Minnehan party.

I know. K sent me your pic. Where at M’han?

Bathroom.

There’s a pause. Then, K’s a fucking idiot.

I overreacted.

It’s ok. Everybody has an off night.

Why is it that when other people tell you things you already know, it’s soothing?

Why is it that when West tells me I’m okay, I believe him? Not that he can make me okay, but just to have that touchstone.

I want to tell him about Nate, but I want forget it happened even more.

Are you still at work?

No. Just got off. A pause. That sounded dirty.

I smile at the phone.

You should go back in there. K said you’re helping him pull chicks. Another pause. But they’re all dykes.

Homophobe!

Not me. Quinn will tell you—all those girls call themselves that.

They call themselves women, I type, but that’s not what I meant to say.

Womyn, I try a second time, but it autocorrects to Women.

I give it a third shot. W-o-m-y-n. Fucking autocrochet.

There’s a pause, and then West writes, Autocrochet? I’m dying.

I blink at the screen. Oh. Yeah, it seems I typed that. Glad I can amuse you.

I take a deep breath. It takes my fingers three tries to make the words Come dance?

A longer pause.

Need to sleep.

I’m sure it’s true. He only sleeps about four hours a night during the week. He told me he uses the weekends to catch up.

OK. Sleep tight.

Another pause, and I’m starting to think we’re done, that I should leave the bathroom, go home, and go to bed, when another bubble pops up. Caroline?

Yeah?

Tuesday is cookie day.

Tuesday, back at the bakery. I don’t want to wait that long to see him, but that’s the way it is. Right. See you then.

By the way.

Nothing for several seconds.

You look fucking hot.

No tooth gap in sight.

Those words—what they do to me. My heart is so light, I think it might be made of air. It might float up and escape through the gap between my front teeth.

I take a screenshot and put the phone away.

Still smiling, I climb down and wash my hands, listening to the thumping bass beat from down the hall. My toes move back and forth on the floor, one foot’s tiny acknowledgment of the rhythm.

My eyes are like that, too. Sparkling with their own tiny acknowledgment.

It’s the second time he’s told me that.

When I come out of the bathroom, Bridget is making her way toward me with Quinn.

Or, more specifically, Bridget is weaving down the hall, and Quinn is watching her like a hawk, moving in to steady her every time it looks like Bridget might hit the deck.

The sad thing is, Bridget only had two beers. She has no alcohol tolerance whatsoever.

“Caroline!” she shouts.

“Bridget!” I shout back.

“I saw Nate.”

“So did I.”

“And I kicked Krish in the nuts for taking your picture. I mean, not really, but metaphorically I did.”

“She chewed him out like you wouldn’t believe,” Quinn says.

“Did Nate make you cry?”

“No. I’m okay.”

“Do you want to go home? Or we could get you some more ice cream.”

I consider it. But I recognize the song that’s on, and I don’t want to go back to the room and hide. “No, I want to dance.”

“Really?” Bridget peers at me, blinking blearily.

“Kind of. I mean, mostly I want to kick Nate in the nuts. Or smash his perfect nose in.”

“Your boy already did that,” Bridget says. I widen my eyes at her in the universal signal for oh my God, shut up, you idiot. I am hoping against all hope that Quinn didn’t hear or won’t understand.

“Your boy?” Quinn asks.

She’s got one eyebrow up. That eyebrow knows everything.

“Bridget is a little drunk,” I say apologetically. “And we have this kind of running joke about West—”

“Which is … ?”

I try to think of a diplomatic way of putting it, but Bridget beats me to the punch with: “That she wants to climb into his pants.”

Yes. Those words actually come out of her mouth.

“I am going to kill you,” I whisper.

I can’t look at Quinn. I might possibly never look at Quinn again.

She clears her throat. Taps her foot.

God. I have no choice. I look.

She’s still got that eyebrow up. There is no tiring her eyebrow. It is an endurance athlete.

“Do you?”

I don’t know how to answer the question. I mean, yes. Yes, of course I want to climb into his pants.

And no. No, no, no, I don’t want her to know it, or for West to, or for anyone alive to, basically, up to and including Bridget.

I say something that comes out a lot like Hnnn?

She grins. “I’ll be sure to tell him that.”

“I will hurt you if you do.”

“Man, you are all over the threats. First that guy Nate—oh, shit, is he the one who published your naked pictures?”

She says it straight out, without any sense of shame or the least hint that it’s a thing we’re not supposed to talk about.

It shocks me so much, I just say, “Yeah.”

“No wonder you’re so full of rage. You know what you should do? You should play rugby. Are you fast?”

“Um, no?”

Bridget says, “She is so fast.”

Quinn is smiling. “You can tackle people to the ground. It’s awesome.”

“That sounds awesome.” Bridget again.

“We practice on Sundays at eleven. You want to come, too? We could use a new hooker.”