“The most embarrassing part is that when we were arguing, I accidentally told Ryan I was falling in love with him,” I say.

As mortifying as that was in the moment, I discover the humiliation feels just as fresh recounting it the next day. Sara visibly cringes.

“Did he say it back?” she asks.

“Nope,” I reply. “If he had, maybe things would’ve gone pretty differently.”

“Do you really love him?” she asks.

I sigh. The question sounds deceptively simple—yes or no. But there are too many other emotions swirling through my head right now to make sense of the situation: sadness, anger, embarrassment, shame, regret.

“I guess I’m just confused,” I say, puzzling through the thoughts out loud. “I thought I loved him. But the way he’s acting? Going behind my back, taking that job, not listening to what I’m saying about it? That makes me question who he really is.”

The realization stings.

“I’m really sorry he let you down,” Sara says softly. “He should’ve believed you.”

“That’s what’s so weird about it, though! He was devastated over what Hallie went through. He believes all the other gymnasts who have come forward about Kaminsky—it’s not that he’s one of those men’s rights activists who’s all about guys being innocent until proven guilty. He’s always cared. Just not now.”

“Maybe because now, this issue is personal for him? It’s about his career, which means he’s not thinking as clearly as he should?” Sara guesses.

I groan at how infuriating the situation is and drizzle olive oil into a hot skillet. I gently place the scallops one by one, listening to the sizzle as they bathe in oil. Cooking scallops looks intimidating, but it really all comes down to precise timing and skill—just like gymnastics. Not that I ever really want to think about gymnastics ever again, especially not right now.

“And then, ugh, the next day, we had to fly back from Miami together,” I say. “Me, Ryan, and Hallie, all in one row.”

“That really blows.”

“Yeah, sitting between my secret ex and a kid who’s mourning the potential end of her athletic career for three hours was a real treat.”

“How’s Hallie doing?” Sara asks.

I shrug and flip the scallops. “Not great,” I say. “Her confidence is shot, she’s stressed beyond belief, she’s frantic that she’ll fail at Trials.”

“Yikes,” Sara says.

I finish the recipe, mixing bright yellow kernels of corn with the rich, slippery sauce, and plating it carefully all together so it looks like a real gourmet treat. I turn around and I’m just about to set Sara’s plate in front of her, when she makes a sour face.

“What?” I ask.

She bites her lip and slides her phone across the table toward me.