“Stop technicaliting.” Levi’s eyes sparkle and he throws an arm around my shoulders in mock apology, and it feels like the opposite of stasis. Like we are actually moving along, and he might actually kiss me. Like all the hours I’ve spent counseling him about other girls, or all the times he said things like Man, Chloe, you are such a good friend, never happened.

And then, as I turn to Levi, wondering if my lips are chapped or if my breath is tangy or if he’ll make that move I’ve long fantasized about and pull me toward him—I’m suddenly blinded, and my eyes burn with a searing pain.

“Score!” Simon yells. He’s landed the ball in the cup right in front of me and doused my entire face in beer. I’m sure the mascara I lovingly applied earlier is quickly laying tracks on my cheeks.

“Score: also both a verb and a noun,” Levi says before gallantly jogging away to find me a paper towel.

—

What I’m thinking about while I sit with my parents across from Dr. Wilson in our living room the next morning is not college.

I am thinking about the fact that I did not score.

There was no kiss.

I left the party at 11:45, and as we said goodbye, Levi drew me into one of his usual friendly bear hugs, and I wondered if my hair stank of beer. That was it. We’re still friends. Flirtier friends who banter, maybe. But still just friends.

Or, to turn it into a verb: We friend hard.

I consider pouring myself a cup of coffee from the elegant tray set out on the table but then wonder if that might make me throw up. If I vomit on the expensive college counselor, my parents will never forgive me. Just this morning, my mom told me we are “so lucky that Dr. Wilson is willing to meet with us.” But a few days ago, I overheard her telling Carrie to arrange his first-class flights from New York and two nights at the Four Seasons Beverly Hills and to issue him his check in advance, so I’m pretty sure his coming has nothing to do with luck.

He hasn’t asked me a single question, so I’ve been able to marinate in my hangover, which is a new unfamiliar, unpleasant feeling—a stew of nausea and regret. The good news is I don’t need to be in top form. We’re already fifteen minutes into this meeting and I’ve only said seven words—It’s nice to meet you, Dr. Wilson—none of which is true.