She shifted, and the sheets rustled. “I wasn’t really into him. I just thought I should have a boyfriend. And besides, I was really into girly things, and I thought lesbians were all tomboys who wore clunky shoes. That’s not me.”

“No, that’s definitely not you.”

“But maybe I’m queer.”

“Not a lesbian?”

“Can’t I just be me?” A pause. “Do you think you’re bisexual? You like guys. Don’t you?”

“Yeah, I like guys—some guys. I don’t know. There’s something different about Steph. I mean, I’ve never felt this way before.”

“How?”

“Like . . . when I’m with her, I’m all there. Every part of me.”

“That’s how I felt with Haley.”

I turned to face Tasha. I saw her profile in the near darkness, her eyes turned up to the ceiling. “Maybe she’ll come around,” I said.

Tasha sighed. “I’m tired of waiting. It’s been months.” She looked at me. “What are you going to do? I’m saying this to you as a friend, but you know this isn’t a good situation.”

A twisting inside me. I closed my eyes. “I know.”

Tasha reached for my hand and squeezed it.

“Be careful, you might be falling in love with me,” I whispered.

She choked on a laugh. “Shut up. Go to sleep.”

“Good night, Tash.”

“Good night.”

—

In the morning, before I drove Tasha to the Airporter, I took her into the studio to show her the painting. She looked at it, lips pursed. “This is what you’ve been doing when you’re not doing Steph?”

“Oh my God, don’t say that out loud!”

She grinned. “If I can’t speak the truth, what kind of friend would I be?”

“You’ve changed,” I said. “You never used to talk like this.”

“I’m free now,” she said. “I can say whatever I want.”

“So what do you think about this?” I gestured at the painting. “I don’t know what to do with it.”

She gave me a funny look. “Why don’t you ask your grandma?”

“Because—I don’t know. I don’t want to bother her.”

“Aria, your grandma’s a real artist, and you’re having an art problem. Why don’t you talk to her about it? If you were having—I don’t know—a writing problem, you’d ask your dad. Wouldn’t you?”

“I guess.”

“So talk to your grandma.”

“Okay. Fine. But what do you think?”

She scrutinized the painting again. “I think you’re figuring something out. And maybe it’s got nothing to do with this painting.”

I leaned against the worktable. “Do you think I’m a bad person?”