“At this club I used to go to all the time with…before. She was there, on a date.”

“How was it?”

“Her date? It went well, I hope.” I just loved it when I got Dr. Foster to look as though she wanted to throw something at me.

“I’m glad,” she said, unamused. “Let’s talk about this boy for a minute.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re willing to talk about Summer if it means changing the subject, which makes me think the real person we should be discussing is precisely the one you want to avoid talking about.”

“There’s nothing to discuss. He’s just some guy I apparently used to know.”

“Used to?”

“He’s a swimmer. He told me we competed once, a couple of years ago,” I said, earning a single eyebrow raise from Dr. Foster. “I can’t remember it though.”

She cleared her throat before speaking. “That makes sense; two years ago, you were—”

“—knee deep in a severe episode? Yeah, I remember.”

“Did you tell him that?”

“It’s not the kind of thing one breezes through during a conversation, is it?”

“Well, no—”

“Besides, it doesn’t matter.”

“Did you win or lose?”

“Won,” I said, nodding. “According to him.”

“You got all that while he was lending you his jacket?”

“Uh, no. I ran into him at The Den. He kinda…walked me home last night?”

Even I knew it wasn’t looking great. And she just remained silent, watching me with an incredibly smug look on her face.

I knew what she wanted, of course. I called it The Stare. She wanted me to fold. She thought if she waited long enough, I’d get nervous and end up talking just so we could move on from the subject, which would give her the upper hand and let her shift the conversation in whatever direction she wanted, even if it meant remaining in or coming back to a topic I was clearly uncomfortable with.

“It wasn’t like that,” I finally told her.

Yeah, I fucking fell for it, and yes, I fucking hated myself for it.

“It wasn’t?” she asked, trying not to smile.

“After I saw Summer, I kinda hit the bar and forgot my phone.”

“O-kay,” she said slowly.

“He’d just been stood up by this girl, and we started talking and, uh, he thought I was too drunk to go home alone.”

“That was nice of him.”

“Yeah, nice.”

She raised her brow. “It wasn’t?”

“No, it was,” I said. “He’s nice.”

“Is nice bad?”

“No, nice is just— Look, I said it didn’t matter.”

“So you did. Before you tell me why it doesn’t matter, can I ask one question?”

I sighed. “Fine.”

“You said you felt weird around him.”

“Yeah, I did.”

“Can you tell me how, exactly?”