Meanwhile, Jasmine was on the Wheaties box. She was on the cover of not only Sports Illustrated, but People, Seventeen, and Essence, too. She was invited to New York Fashion Week and the Grammys. She won Dancing with the Stars and seemed to be Ellen DeGeneres’s new best friend. Little girls across the country did cartwheels in leotards she designed. We had been best friends, training side by side for six years. At first, she called often, asking sincere questions about my knee surgery and saying she wished I could be there with her. She even sent me a care package of souvenirs from London—British chocolate bars and a commemorative mug stamped with Prince William and Kate Middleton’s wedding portrait, taken the year before. I could barely stand to reply, and I let our friendship wither to monthly texts. I saw her in person just once after the Olympics; it was her twentieth birthday dinner, and I couldn’t come up with a plausible excuse to turn down the invitation. It felt like all the comfort had been sucked out of the air between us. She didn’t bother texting at all after that.

Lucas makes a show of sliding his phone into his pocket. I don’t know what the protocol is for ending a bad date early, but I sense with absolute clarity that I should leave. I saw a woman on TV once slap money on the bar and saunter away, which looked supremely classy, but I’m not carrying any cash. I don’t want to leave Lucas—as awful as he is—with the bill, just on the matter of principle. Instead, before I lose my nerve, I clear my throat and tell Lucas I’m leaving.

“I’m going to head out, but have a good night,” I say.

I signal the bartender. As I wait for her to come my way, I stare straight ahead, not brave enough to even glance at Lucas.

He sputters, “You’re leaving? Now?”

I hand my credit card to the bartender. “Just for the one drink, please,” I tell her. Then I turn to my date. “I’m sorry, yes, I’m leaving. It’s been a long night.”

I grab my purse and jacket and stride through Jade Castle to get to the parking lot. I’ve only had a few sips of beer; I should be fine to drive home. Before I back the car out of the spot, my fingers find the preset for the angriest indie rock channel on the radio. The presets haven’t changed since I was in high school. I take the familiar turns through the town center, replaying Lucas’s moronically cruel behavior on a loop in my head. If I had to venture a guess, this is not how Tyler felt after his first night out with Brianna.