I try to imagine Gia in my shoes, fooling around with a girl under blankets on the couch or under the cover of starlight, and I can’t. It had felt then like it could happen to anyone, like female friends who were comfortable with each other could fall onto each other’s mouths and it was all cool. But would that have happened if it’d been Gia on the beach—Gia, who was obsessed with Tommy’s masculine forearms and deep voice and the earthy smell of his cologne? Shannon, maybe, if she thought it somehow made her worldly. Shannon would probably shout about it from the rooftops.

And suddenly, it hits me. I’m here drowning in self-reflection while Shannon and Jasmine get closer. Shannon may be flirting with Lucas, but they aren’t a Thing, not yet. And Shannon’s been known to surprise with her dating choices, especially if she thinks landing them is a fun challenge. Is that what’s going on here? Is Jasmine dressed up because Shannon’s picking her up? Is Shannon picking her up like people pick up people they’re dating?

The wave of pain that hits is fast and furious, and I don’t even realize it’s coming until I’ve already moaned out loud, forcing Shannon to stop short. “Jesus, Lara. Are you OK?”

I don’t know, I want to say. Tell me you’re not hooking up with Jasmine and maybe I will be.

I don’t know why that’s the thought that comes to my head. I don’t know why this hurts. I don’t know what I feel like I’m losing because I don’t know what I’m losing. All I know is the thought of them together—like, really together—feels like a stab wound to the chest.

“Fine, sorry,” I croak, and Shannon makes a teasing comment about me being a drama queen. Which … is maybe exactly what I am being. And anyway, I have Chase. I am dating Chase fucking Harding. I don’t know how serious we are or will be but I do know what he listens to in the car and what lines make him laugh at movies and what his mouth tastes like, and that is plenty. So, what am I getting hung up about?

There’s the lightest squeeze on my shoulder, so gentle I’d think I was imagining it if it weren’t for the searing warmth coming through my baggy shirt. And like that, my question is answered: the knowing when I need a touch, when I need to be remembered, when I need affection. That quiet, intuitive kindness. That’s what I’m getting hung up about.

I lift my hand to squeeze hers back, but it’s already gone.

Chapter Twelve