“I did! But he was all I fucked up and It’s bad and They’ll never see me the same way.” Kayla’s laugh is a cruel bark. “It was a whiny rich boy sob fest, but I had no idea it was all because of a widdle bad gwade!”

“What the hell do you know?” Brecken asks.

Kayla’s eyes narrow until I think of the blade on the knife she stole. “I know that your biggest problem is that you’ll have to find a different way to get even richer than you already are. Hardly the stuff of Lifetime movies.”

“It’s that simple, right?” Brecken asks, face contorted in a snarl. “Never mind that my parents are both doctors. My uncles, too. And my grandfathers and their brothers before that.”

“So?” Kayla asks.

“So, it’s expected,” Harper says softly, her eyes never leaving Brecken. “His family has certain expectations.”

“Expectations?” Brecken’s laugh is anything but funny. “Mandate from on high is probably closer to the truth. I will be the first son in five generations to not be a doctor. Five! And it’s not because I have some alternate grand life plan. It’s because I can’t hack it.”

Quiet descends. I think of my father holding me on his shoulders at the lake. I was seven—and listing out all the jobs I knew, and Dad was assuring me I’d be great at them all. My parents have only ever had one refrain when it came to the future: be happy—that’s the real measure of success.

“I’m sorry,” I say, for lack of anything better.

“Is there anything you want to do?” Harper asks. “If you could be anything at all—”

“I’d be a damn doctor!” Brecken says. He lets out a shaky breath and closes his eyes for one second. And another. When he opens them, his voice is softer. “Look, I don’t know anything else. I grew up trying on my dad’s white coats. Half of my childhood pictures show me playing with old stethoscopes or otoscopes. My uncle called me Little MD for years, and it’s killing me that I’ll be letting all of them down.”

“Can’t you just join a study group?” I ask.

“Or work harder?” Josh mutters softly. It doesn’t feel like he means it to be helpful.

“I’ve tried everything. Study groups. Tutors. Meetings with the professor. I studied four hours a night for two weeks for my final, and I still only pulled a C minus.”

“But C minus is technically passing, right?” I ask.

“Passing isn’t enough,” he says. “My adviser strongly recommended that I consider a different major program.”

“So?” I shrug. “Screw him.”