“One more spin,” I say. The sight of Delia in her perfect outfit nearly brings me to tears—whether it’s because she looks so grown-up or because this means shopping is finally almost over is anybody’s guess.

Delia and Fitz high-five each other and Delia forces me to pose for her Snapchat story before she changes back into her clothes. They chat about all things If the Shoe Fitz as we make our way to the register, Fitz giving Delia a behind-the-scenes look at the lineup of curated posts for the next two weeks. I pay for the jumpsuit, and even at the sale price I’ll still need to pick up extra shifts at Chao Down next week. But Delia is actually smiling so it’s worth it.

We conclude the afternoon at the food court. As much as I complain about shopping, it’s the most fun I’ve had in weeks and a break from Melted I didn’t even know I needed. We order chocolate milkshakes and fries from McDonald’s and make our way toward the seating area in search of an empty—and clean—table.

We’re about to sit down when Delia stops and turns her head. “Is that Reid?”

Sure enough, Reid is sitting at a food court table with his own chocolate milkshake, reading Read Between the Lies, a popular YA novel, completely absorbed.

Why is Reid hanging out, alone, at the mall?

We follow Delia, who is walking over to Reid to say hi.

“Hey!” Delia says.

Reid looks up from his book. “Delia? Hey! Quick recovery.”

Delia frowns. “What?”

“They’re either at Francesca’s or Forever 21,” Reid says, oblivious to Delia’s confusion. It isn’t until she scrunches her nose, her I’m trying not to cry move, that it clicks with Reid what is happening. His eyes widen. “Oh. You were never sick?”

“I guess Hannah doesn’t have so much homework,” I say, my hand on my hip.

Delia saw this coming. I hate that she was right.

“It’s Hannah’s loss, Dee,” Fitz says, squeezing her shoulder.

“Can we just go home? I… can’t run into them,” Delia says, wiping a tear before beelining for the parking lot. Fitz follows behind Delia and I should too. Leave Reid with his book without another word.

But something keeps my feet in their place.

“I hate The Monicas,” Reid says.

Of all the things Reid could say, I’m relieved it’s this. “Right!”

“In the car, Monica D. kept asking me how much money I got for my bar mitzvah.”

“Oh my God.”

“I mean, I guess I hate their parents. They’re kids. This shit comes from somewhere.”

“Yeah.” I take a sip of my milkshake. “So what are we going to do?”

The question slips out, unintentional.

Reid taps his fingers on the table in two counts, staccato. “We?”