But driving all the way here to drop off something Sydney might or might not need? That’s something middle school Holden would have done. The boy who was rough around the edges but fiercely loyal.

That’s part of what hurt the most when our friendship abruptly ended. I didn’t choose to change things. He did. And then once he had, he backtracked so quickly it was like we were always distant acquaintances. Like he’d never shoved other kids on the playground for making fun of my braids phase that lasted through most of elementary school.

“I guess he’s going to Grace’s and won’t be back until late.”

“Oh,” I repeat. Once again, nothing else comes to mind. But this time, I’m preoccupied by the sharp prick of jealousy.

I hate him.

The vitriol behind the thought surprises me. It’s also a welcome relief from the uncertainty that’s plagued me all day. From the small sprig of hope, when he didn’t act like it never happened. When he acted like it might have mattered to him.

I figured he spent every Friday night with a girl in his lap. Part of me was relying on him viewing it as a nonevent, I think. I know better than to expect Holden to wake up and think we’re meant to be.

I’ve been burned before.

“I’m going to go help Eileen with the worming. Then we can head out?”

“Sounds good,” Sydney answers, already refocused on the filing.

I turn and head down the hallway.

Not only have I been burned before, I know that only fools play with fire. It has nothing but the potential to burn.

To eviscerate.

To devastate.

And Holden has already done enough damage to my heart.

CHAPTER EIGHT

HOLDEN

A country song croons on the radio. I don’t really even like country music, but it beats sitting in silence. And I’m not really listening to what’s playing, anyhow. I’m stuck in my own head, thinking about how I’m enduring this to spend time with a girl I’m certain doesn’t want to spend time with me.

Cassia has continued to make a point of ignoring me ever since I pulled her out into the courtyard last week to force a conversation.

It’s a clear signal—but it’s also one I want to ignore. I’m not sure when this switch flipped. When it became such a challenge to continue pretending she doesn’t exist.

Maybe it was the first time I came home on a Friday night and found her in my kitchen wearing pajamas that revealed a lot more than they covered.

Maybe it was when I saw a familiar flash in her eyes when she told me she wouldn’t lie for me.

Maybe it was when I saw the way Harrison Baker was looking at her.