I decide to tell him everything. He patiently listens as I read the email Gideon sent to Parisa and then the texts we sent to each other. I wait for him to tell me that she’s being ridiculous and harsh and that I am completely in the right. After all, that’s the benefit of having a boyfriend like Wes. He has the emotional intelligence to know that I need him to make me feel better.

“Do you really want to know what I think?” Wes asks. “Or do you want me to say what I think you want to hear?”

“That depends. What do you think I want to hear?”

He clears his throat again. “I think you want me to tell you that Parisa’s being unreasonable and that she’s going down a bad path with this guy and that you were right to call her out on it.”

“Obviously. There’s no other answer.”

I think about making up an excuse to end the call. One of the worst things about quarantine is that I can feel myself being more irritable and sensitive than normal. My tolerance for other people’s opinions was low before—now it’s nonexistent.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Wes says, “but I could see how it would be hard to be your best friend. Look, Parisa’s cute and she’s sweet and she’s annoyingly smart, but she knows that when the two of you walk into a room together… everyone is looking at you.”

“But that’s not my fault!”

“I didn’t say it was your fault, Gabriela. It’s just the reality of how Parisa feels when she’s next to you. And I don’t really blame her.”

I would never in a million years admit it to Wes or to Parisa, but there was something Parisa accused me of that wasn’t entirely inaccurate. I’m not one of those people who doesn’t know that they’re pretty. Honestly, I’m not sure those people even exist. When I look in the mirror, I do like what I see. I like my button nose and my freckles and the full lips that I was born with and didn’t have to pay for. I like that my dark skin tone makes me look like I always have a tan and that it’s an enduring part of my Mexican roots. I like my long, wavy, Alanis Morissette hair—which is how Julia and Elena have always described it. I’m tall but not too tall. I have an ass, and I’m not flat chested. I’m skinny and curvy at the same time. I’m lucky. I was born and raised with so little. It seems only fair that I should have one advantage in life.

“I think Parisa is beautiful, in her own way.” I regret my response as soon as I give it.