“Yeah, well, now I really mean it.” She lifted her head just enough to glance at me, then flopped back onto her back with a dramatic sigh, staring up at the ceiling like it owed her an apology. “You know what the worst part is?”

I already knew there were at least five ‘worst parts’ coming, but I humored her. “What?”

“He quoted Seinfeld while doing it.”

My jaw nearly hit the floor. “You’re kidding.”

“I wish I was. He actually said, ‘It’s not you, it’s me.’”

I stared at her, incredulous. “He actually said that?”

“Bev, I swear on my future therapy bills. Oh, and—and it gets worse. He had the audacity to say, ‘I hope we can still be friends.’ Friends, Bev. Like I didn’t just spend six months pretending his stupid basketball team was interesting. Like I didn’t laugh at his dumb jokes and tolerate his obsession with Red Hot Chili Peppers.”

“Wow. You really did like him...”

She shifted onto her side, watching me with tired eyes. “I’m… I’m so embarrassed, Beverly.”

I winced. Tiffany joked a lot, exaggerated for effect, but I could hear the real hurt in her voice. She wasn’t the type to let anyone see her vulnerable, and I knew she was trying to hold it together for the sake of pride. Watching her go through this sucked.

She didn’t deserve it.

“Hey,” I said gently, inching closer until I could touch her arm. “You don’t have anything to be embarrassed about. He’s the one who should be embarrassed. For being stupid enough to lose you. For not knowing what he had when it was standing right in front of him. You deserve someone better.”

She nodded, then sat up, reaching for her bag.

She pulled out a bag filled with…brownie mix?

I frowned. “Tiff, if you think brownies are going to fix your heartbreak⁠—”

“Not just any brownies.” She wiggled her eyebrows and pulled out a second, much smaller bag like it was a trophy.

I stared at her. Then at the bag. “Tiff. Is that⁠—”

“Weed.”

My eyes widened. “I’m sorry—what?”

“My sister gave me some,” she said proudly. “She owed me for covering for her last weekend, and I figured, what better way to deal with heartbreak than getting a little high?”

I blinked. “I can think of, like, five better ways.”

“Oh, please. It’s weed, not heroin. And we don’t have to smoke it, so it doesn’t even count as being delinquent.”

“Tiffany. We don’t know how to make weed brownies.”

“How hard can it be?” she scoffed, waving me off.

“You have literally never baked anything in your life.”

“I made cookies once.”

“You burned cookies once,” I corrected dryly.

“Same thing,” she muttered, unfazed. “Besides, I’m pretty sure this is foolproof. We just follow the directions on the box and throw it in. Easy.”