My brow arches. “Wait, word? But it’s finals week, he can’t just . . . he doesn’t even know Q.”

“No,” Whit says. “But he knows you.”

It’s easy to picture Angeles running to his old sedan, driving down whatever road it was that took him from Chicago to Ohio.

“I mean, I get it. And it’s, like, really cool of him, but also not something he should do.”

“Oh, you’re worried about someone missing school, huh?”

And I try not to laugh, but Whit’s got that look on her face, like Mom when she called us out.

And we both laugh.

“Don’t think because I’m laughing, we’re done with all that. We’re meeting with your counselor tomorrow.”

“Damn, tomorrow? Can’t it wait until next week?”

But Whit shoots me a different look, this one entirely her own, and I let it go.

“So, Angeles is gonna pull in our driveway any minute now?”

“Nope, I made him turn around. He was upset, but he knows I’m right.”

“Good,” I say. “I mean, I love the guy, but him skipping his finals after everything you two have sacrificed so he could finish school, like, nah.”

Whit nods. “I told him, ‘Angeles, I love you and I appreciate how supportive you are of me and Jamal, but I need you to keep your narrow behind at Northwestern for one more week and then you can come make my brother laugh and smother me, okay?’”

That word smother teleporting me to the beach. Autumn’s voice a razor. The pain in Q’s face at once vivid and fleeting—like the pinch from a needle.

“He’s a good dude.”

“He is. He’s the best. And he probably could’ve gotten his absence excused, and maybe I should’ve let him come, but . . . he already does a lot, you know?”

“I’ve hated all your boyfriends except for him. Like, seriously, he’s so cool I have to stop myself from asking him what he sees in you.” I laugh.

Whit punches my arm. “Oh, trust me, I’ve actually asked Autumn the same thing.”

Hearing Autumn’s name, it’s like another blow, except this one I feel inside. I nearly lost her on that beach.

“Whatever,” I say. I sit straight up, smooth the front of my shirt, pose like I’m in the middle of a cover shoot. “I think it’s pretty clear what she sees in me.”

“An abnormally large head? A penchant for jacking up punch lines? A person who refuses to use plates but goes through seventy-four glasses every day?”

“Okay, okay, I get it.” I shrug. “I guess we’re both hella lucky,” I say.

“And also, hella not,” Whit adds.

And no truer words.

“I swear the way this kid kicks, they’ll be a star on the pitch.”

“God, I hope so. I need someone to explain soccer to me.”