Yikes? If it hadn’t been weeks since we’d spoken, I would have closed my laptop and broken down the wall of my sister’s room like Marvel’s very own teen She-Hulk and put her in a choke hold. Why would she have texted Gideon pictures of me after my car accident? I looked… grotesque. I did not want anyone to see me like that, let alone my former high school crush. I feel like trust has been broken, and part of me wonders if she did it on purpose.

“Well, that was messed up of her,” I blurt.

“I’m glad she did,” Gideon says. “I’m glad I knew how serious the crash was.”

“The timing sucked, right? It would have been a great third-act twist for my college essay.”

“Nah. Your essay was perfect just the way it was. And I heard it got you an interview.”

“It did,” I reply, trying not to let on how anxious I am for the next step of my “get into college so your life won’t suck forever” journey. The interview with Harvard admissions is in two weeks, and anytime I think about it, it feels like my future has turned into one giant game of Jenga. One wrong move and it will fall to pieces.

We spend the next hour discussing a short story he’s been working on for a lit class. He reads it aloud to me, and I can tell his confidence is as high as it was back at Winchester, but his writing abilities now warrant it. I try not to give too much weight to the fact that the story is about a guy who’s torn between two very different women. I don’t think that means it has anything to do with me and Neda. After all, the girls aren’t sisters, and anyway, it’s not autobiographical.

The dilemma, I realize, is not that I can’t be with both of them. The dilemma is that I don’t know which option invites less pain and more pleasure. Do I choose the girl I love more, despite the fact that she loves me less? Or do I choose the girl who loves me more, despite the fact that I love her less? Which decision would make me the bigger fool?

Gideon looks up and waits for my response. I make him sweat it out for a few seconds. For once, he’s the one in the hot seat and I’m the one who can either dole out effusive praise or brutal criticism. But I also know him well enough to understand that he didn’t read me this story looking for notes or suggestions. He shared it looking for validation.

“So… don’t leave me in suspense,” he says.

“I thought it was beautiful and, like, creepy at the same time. Definitely shades of Nabokov, but also your own thing.”

“Would you say you sympathized with him?”