I click back to the picture of Jenna and stare at it until my hair dries, tracing every pore and detail of her that I can.

I want to see her. I want to tell her about Orman, about Nolan and Wally and Val’s. I want to make her laugh with stories about Mr. Larson’s coffee and to share her tears over Avery and Emily.

But Jenna’s not here.

The wind blows through the crack in my window. It’s not a clever wind, just a Texas breeze. But it makes me think of wind chimes and cemeteries, and suddenly I know where I need to go.

A memory: Jenna and me in the back of her parents’ car. Her dad is driving with one hand on the steering wheel, the other interlaced with Mrs. Williams’s on the middle console. Jenna is ignoring them completely, but my eyes keep wandering to the way their hands fit together so neatly.

“How much longer?” Jenna’s eyes are glued to the internet browser on her phone screen and her thumb is hovering over the Refresh icon.

I jerk my eyes to my phone, open to the clock app that shows the time down to the second.

“Two minutes. Will you chill out? It’s not going to sell out that fast.”

Jenna doesn’t glare at me, but she would if she wasn’t afraid to look away from her phone.

“I’m not taking chances,” she says.

“I’m Not Taking Chances: A Memoir by Jenna Williams,” I say in my best droll voice.

“Amelia, it’s not funny. This is my lucky lipstick we’re talking about.”

“What is it you’re worried about, Jenna love?” Mrs. Williams asks from the front seat.

Jenna sighs. “ColorCentral is known for selling out of lipstick. It’s a miracle they’re restocking a color to begin with, and it’s the only berry colored matte I’ve found that doesn’t make me look like I’m wearing clown makeup.”

“And it’s apparently lucky,” I add. “One minute, Jenna.”

“What makes it lucky?” her dad asks.

A pause.

“I was wearing it when I first properly met Amelia,” Jenna says matter-of-factly. “I saw her in the window because I was looking at my reflection to check my new lipstick.”

I have never heard this story.

“Amelia, time.”

“Jenna?”

She narrows her eyes but doesn’t look up. “Time, Amelia. I need the time.”

“Jenna.”

She looks up. “What?”

“You’re ridiculous,” I say. And because I suddenly feel the need to tell her, I add, “I love you, but you’re ridiculous.”

“I’m not ridiculous,” she says, looking back down at her phone. “It was the first time I had worn it and, A, I looked fabulous and, B, it made us friends. So excuse me for trying to do everything in my power to ensure our friendship lasts forever.”

“Four seconds,” I say.