She refocused her eyes on the double exit doors in front of her, pretending to have not noticed Adam’s mother. It was easier than suffering through her fake smiles and ministrations. When they were younger, and obviously just friends, Mrs. Collins had been more welcoming to Clare, more genuinely interested in her stubbed toes and need for snacks. She would bring Clare and Adam cups filled with ice and homemade lemonade as they raced down the lawn and threw themselves down the bright yellow Slip ’N Slide.

Homemade lemonade had stopped sometime during the summer after ninth grade—soon after Mrs. Collins ascended the ladder to Adam and Kaylee’s tree house and found Clare and her son shirtless, limbs tangled, and lying on an old sleeping bag. She still smiled at Clare, outwardly welcomed her into their home, but her facade of social graces was a poor cover for a protective wariness—as if Clare had grown from the girl next door into a dangerous predator stalking their home. Mrs. Collins smiled at Clare, but her eyes gave away her true feelings.

My son is too good for you.

Outside, Clare found Adam’s beater blue pickup in the lot and waited for him outside the passenger door. It was the first Friday in May and warmer than it should have been. The air on her skin barely registered a temperature, like a tepid bath. She didn’t bother putting on the sweater she held in her hands. Across the street, just above the squat two-story Motel 6, the half-moon inched into the cloudless, star-filled night. Normally, she loved nights like this—a calm, warm night, the air heavy with the scent of growth and fresh-cut grass. Tonight, it only made her more uneasy, visceral reminders of the change that was coming, unstoppable, unending.

Groups of people, twos, threes, families of five, trickled from the double doors and into the parking lot. Heather and Winnie, now with four of their other friends, strolled past Adam’s truck in their pack. They knew Clare was there, waiting for Adam to come out and open the doors, but all six girls, especially Heather, were very careful to not turn their heads and notice her. Their silence, carefully structured smiles, and unblinking straight-ahead focus communicated their intentions perfectly. Clare was an unimportant, and temporary, obstacle unworthy of acknowledgment, an unfit contender for the attentions of Adam Collins. Clare imagined that Heather, with the help of her gaggle of gal pals, would figure out a solution to this pesky problem. Even if it meant having to wait until she and Adam had thirteen hundred miles of help.

“Fuck you,” Clare whispered into the night and turned her back on them.

She heard a rhythmic slap of leather-soled shoes, a slow jog, on the pavement behind her.