The radio plays some random pop song in the background and Oliver reaches over, shutting it off. The click of the dial seems to reverberate around the cab and I make a show of squinting out the front windshield, still in search of a parking spot.

I don’t like the way he’s looking at me. Oliver knows me too well and would rip off my arms and beat me with them if he found out I talked to Harlow about all this before him.

“I’m your best mate, Finnigan. Wouldn’t lie to me, would ya?”

I start to answer but he’s immediately distracted by a spot opening up just ahead of us. “Oh, hey... right there, right there.”

I pull into the spot, shutting off the engine with a heavy sigh. So I guess we’ll be going in.

I AM PRETTY sure I have never looked guiltier than I do in this moment. Ever. Like a criminal just casually strolling by the house he’s robbed.

As expected, Harlow gave me epic amounts of shit, and did what I’ve come to know as her thing: cracking jokes and using sarcasm to make light of the situation. But the look on her face when I explained why I couldn’t tell Ansel or Perry or even Oliver hit me like a punch to the chest.

I’d managed to put it out of my mind until later, with Oliver snoring down the hall and me still wide awake and staring up at the dark ceiling, thinking, Should I tell them? Was it wrong to keep my closest friends in the dark and open up so easily to Harlow? Up until that point, I hadn’t put much thought into Harlow and me. She’s been a lot of things—a wild story, a distraction, and eventually a friend—but now none of that seemed enough.

And fuck, I do not want to face her tonight. Because not only do I have no idea where we stand or how I feel or how we should even interact, but now she has this giant secret. One I couldn’t even tell my best friends.

I should have manned up and told Oliver.

I should never, ever have told busybody Harlow.

What if they can tell I’m keeping something from them?

What if she lets something slip?

Fuck.

Inside the restaurant it’s dark and loud, so loud in fact that I wonder if I could sneak away at some point, disappear without anyone noticing.

Despite the number of bodies and booths crowding the small space, it’s a good twenty degrees cooler inside than out. Which means it’s only then I realize I’m sweating, the frigid air prickling at the damp skin along my forehead and down the back of my neck. Jesus Christ, Finn. Get yourself together.