Having my own adorable kissy picture has always been a sort of stupid dream of mine. When Bran and I started dating I thought: I’m finally going to get the picture! I’ve imagined it as a sort of rite of passage for a new couple—the kissing post! But we never took one. I was always too self-conscious to ask. Now here they are on Instagram, doing my picture without me.

Dawn comes up over my shoulder to see what I’m staring at. “Wow, could his nose be any more basic? I mean come on, Ken and Henry Cavill wore it best, find your own look.”

A laugh blows out of me. Dawn sits next to me on the edge of the bed.

“Am I right in assuming one of those humans is an ex?”

I hand her back the phone. “How’d you know?”

She grins. “You had resting ex-stalking face.”

I shake my head, smiling. “That’s not a thing.”

“It totally is, I know it well.” She taps out of Instagram. “Um, before we go any further with our improv express prep, I think you have to call Jamie and tell her about her dad and the gig.” Dawn presses her lips together. “It’s the right thing to do. She has to know. And if he said anything else about her comedy stuff, and how he got the gig for her, she needs to know that too.”

I frown down at her rainbow bedspread. My hand has started nervously marking out a ballet combo over the comforter. “Yeah, okay … heads-up, I might start crying again.”

I look back up and Dawn smiles at me. “That’s fine, you’re a gorgeous crier.”

I scoff at that, but my heart eats it up.

Dawn’s changed into a fantastic Creamsicle orange outfit that Jamie would probably love since she’s obsessed with orange. And Creamsicles.

“I don’t know how Jamie cries,” Dawn continues, “but I’m going to assume she doesn’t look cute because she refuses to ever do it.”

51. A Girl Is Taking All the Calls

JAMIE

September 4, Friday Night

New Jersey

I’m lying on the floor near Siri’s window, becoming one with the dead shoes as Zarar gives me a play-by-play of the 11 p.m. improv show over the phone.

I pull the thing away from my ear as call waiting beeps in. “Siri’s calling me.”

“You should pick it up.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Okay, good luck.”

I swipe up on Siri’s call. “Pail,” I greet.

“Hi.”

“What’s up, Angst Lord? You sound distraught.” I climb back up to her bed and flop onto my stomach.

“I have to tell you something.”

“What have you ruined now?” I ask cheerfully. Guttural breathing comes over the line.

“Crap, are you crying?” I groan.

“I don’t like you being mad at me.”