I press my lips together defiantly. If I can’t talk to Marina, I’m certainly not talking to them. They pipe in with advice anyway, barely taking turns with shit like “Stop being afraid of love,” and “You shouldn’t be alone forever.” I hardly listen. Platitudes won’t help me scale the walls I’ve worked so hard to build or wrestle my shame over screwing this up.

But the simple truth might.

“If you like her, you should tell her,” Marigold says, her mouth full of cake. “Marnie’s upset. You should make her feel better. It’s like her games. She wants someone to play with, and she wants it to be you. So, why not play? Don’t you want to make her happy?”

“Yes, Marigold. Of course, I do,” I sputter.

“Then, take her some cake,” Marigold advises. “It’s very good.”

“Fine.”

Mom prepares a cake slice to-go while Elena initiates a long list of pointers for winning Marina back—not that I listen. I grab my keys and the airtight container and ignore their little pep talks as I race to the door.

It’s dark when I pull beside her truck in the driveway. Warm glows emanate from her windows, and her shadow moves across the living room. I grab my apology cake and approach the door. She swings it open before I knock.

She looks surprised, pained, and unsure all at once. Her hair is piled atop her head in a messy bun. Her shoes are off, but she still wears the pink blouse and jean skirt. She twiddles with her necklace.

“Marina, I’m a fucking numpty.”

Laughs bubble through her distress like sunshine through a cloud. “You are a numpty.”

I shrug lightly. “I wanted it to be the two of us, but overthinking got the better of me. I thought I might be doing you a favor, easing you back into dating with someone I know is a good guy.”

She leans against the doorjamb, arms folded across her pink blouse, and blows a lock of hair out of her eyes. “You’re a good guy.”

“I didn’t think you’d want me. Or, at least, didn’t think you should.”

“Damn it, Grady. You don’t get to decide that. I don’t want another Tripp or anyone else. I want you. Just tell me—what is it about me? Am I too young? Too broken? Too much of a bad reminder? Truth. What’s holding you back?”