“You might want to work on those skills before you start your job,” Jillian warns her, voice filled with teasing warmth. “I don’t think that’s how customers generally prefer to get free refills.”

My phone beeps, and I tear myself from my notebook to look at the screen.

Spoke to Keisha last night. Says she spoke to you about coming to visit.

It’s the first text I’ve received from Jasmine since she replied with a heart emoji to the goodbye text I sent her from the airport in Norfolk. It’s still visible in the chain. I could scroll up and see pages and pages of proof that we were more than we feel like now.

But I don’t.

My entire body goes cold at the sight of her name, at the taunting red heart. What the fuck was that song last night? I’m the one with a boyfriend. I’ve clearly moved on. Why the hell does she need to sing to me in front of an entire room of my friends—my friends, no matter what sort of bond is happening between her and Shannon—that it was only a stupid summer game? I know. I have a boyfriend.

And neither she nor my boyfriend ever needs to know how I felt hearing that song, or how I felt watching her onstage, or how I ran out to call Keisha because I wanted to hear from someone who once upon a time thought we looked like two people who liked each other. I fucking went down on Chase last night. I’m doing everything right. I’m doing all the things I’m supposed to be doing.

So why do I want to stand here and cry into glass bottles of flavored syrup?

Yep, I reply, blinking back the tears pinpricking my eyelids. She said you mentioned it too. Great minds, I guess.

Not a minute later, the reply comes. Yeah, well, we’ll let you know when we figure out a date.

That’s what Jasmine just had to text me about the day after that performance? She wanted to let me know I wouldn’t be part of this planning conversation? God, I don’t even know why I’m surprised by her bullshit anymore. If she wanted to talk, she could’ve come down here; she knows exactly where I am at 10:00 a.m. on a Saturday morning. Everyone does. And if she didn’t wanna talk, well, I guess this is how she lets me know it.

Thanks, I guess, I think.

Thx is what I actually type.