“I used to date this guy who…” she begins before cutting herself off. She shakes her head. “You know what? No. He’s not even worth the breath it would take to explain it.”

“Fair enough,” I say.

I’m starting to like Sara.

I reach for the scissors on the nightstand to cut open my last box of things. We’re both quiet for a minute.

“Actually, I like this new guy,” I blurt, surprising myself, even.

“Yeah? Who?” she asks.

I run the odds in my head that Sara would have ever crossed paths with Ryan. Greenwood has just thirty thousand people, but he didn’t grow up here, and they seem to run in different social circles. I don’t think they know each other. I grab my mug of tea and sink down across from Sara on the bed.

“His name is Ryan. We work together.”

“Ooh… another coach?”

“Yeah. I actually sort of knew of him when we were younger, and I always thought he was cute. We work pretty closely together now—it’s just the two of us training this one incredible gymnast. We think she could have a pretty decent shot at making the next Olympics.”

“So has anything happened between you two?” Sara asks.

Right—she is not here to listen to my thoughts on Hallie’s athletic career. The question was about Ryan.

“We were work friends up until New Year’s Eve, when he invited me out to his friend’s party,” I say. “We kissed at midnight. And then… I don’t know, things sort of changed between us? I realized how much I liked being around him. It freaked me out. I don’t know.”

This is the first time I’ve ever told this story out loud, the first time I’ve had a person to tell it to. The events of that night have been playing on a jumbled loop in my brain ever since I left the party in Somerville, but that doesn’t make explaining what happened with Ryan any easier.

“Not a good kisser?” she asks, wrinkling her nose.

“No, not that. Not at all,” I rush to say.

God, how many times since New Year’s Eve have I imagined the electricity of our kiss? Sometimes, I catch myself daydreaming about it at Summit when I know I shouldn’t.

“You should go for him,” Sara says clearly.

“What?”

“You like him. So tell him that. Go out with him. Do something.”

I feel hot, like I’m under a spotlight.

“I can’t do that,” I protest.

“You can sit here in your discomfort, or you can step outside your comfort zone and try something new,” she continues, slipping into what I assume must be a platitude from her yoga classes.

“We work together. It’s complicated,” I explain. “I told him we probably shouldn’t do anything like that again.”

“Life is short,” she says.