She asks me two different times if I’ll remember to go to the college prep seminar. I still think it’s going to be eight hours of people who like the sound of their voices talking into crappy microphones, but I tell her I will. She makes me pinky promise, a trick I started sophomore year to make sure Jenna was really, truly listening to me instead of concentrating on something else. I almost smile when she holds out her hand, and our fingers meet, but not quite.

“Take good notes,” Jenna says. “You can tell me all the best bits when I get back.”

I want to tell her the best bits will be the catered lunch and the closing statements, but I don’t.

Things still feel off the next day when Jenna leaves. Neither of us wants to relive the book festival scenario and drag up the argument from where it lies dormant in its unsealed coffin, so we don’t discuss it.

If the Williamses notice how quiet we are on the way to the airport the next morning, they don’t mention it. Maybe they think we’re exhausted from the California trip. Jenna didn’t tell them about the Endsley drama.

When I give her a hug, I loosen my arms to leave space for our good-byes and for the stray specks of unease and mild indignation that I can still feel floating below the surface of my skin.

“You owe me,” I say into her ear. “For Endsley, I mean. I want you to bring me a Highlander in a kilt to make up for it.”

She huffs but doesn’t break our hug. “It’s Ireland, you idiot, not Scotland.”

“I know, but it’s only a couple hours by ferry, right? Surely you could spare one day.”

Her grip on me tightens and I will my arms to move and follow suit, but they can’t quite make it. My joke about Scottish travel time is as close to forgiveness as I’ll get for the moment. It’s only been two days since I was supposed to have been in the same room as N. E. Endsley.

“Fine,” Jenna says, a smile tucked into the warm corners of her voice. “But if there are any magical standing stones that take me back in time, I’m not trying to come back.”

“Fine,” I agree. “Dibs on your library.”

“Fine.” She laughs. It’s her sparkling laugh, which she doesn’t use very often, with good reason. A man walking nearby almost stumbles over his suitcase when he hears it.

“Fine,” I say. “Now go before I gag from your stupid perfume.”

And just like that, Jenna is gone.

chapter three

I learn that books are liars when, less than a week after her departure, Jenna’s mother calls to tell me that Jenna is dead.

“Car accident,” she says. “The other driver sped through a red light.”