She moves in closer, and my heart threatens to escape my chest with how fast it’s pounding. And not with the good kind of anticipation you should feel before a kiss. This is full of dread. “Bree, don’t,” I finally choke out.

She pulls back, looking shocked. Then, there’s the hurt look I was dreading. She doesn’t say anything and drops her hand.

“I’m sorry.”

She just stares at me, and I’m afraid she might cry. Which Bree does not do. “I . . .”

“It’s not you. It’s not.”

Now, she looks pissed, which, honestly, is a little easier to deal with. “Don’t give me that bullshit.”

“It’s not, Bree. We’re friends. Best friends.”

“Oh yay. What every girl wants with the guy she—”

“Don’t.” I shake my head and hold up a hand, hoping to stop her. Because I knew this was coming. I knew she was starting to see me that way, and I can never reciprocate what she feels. Not only because she’s my friend, but . . .

I shake it off because . . . No, I’m not going there. I don’t allow myself to go there.

“Don’t?” Yeah, she’s back to looking hurt.

Goddammit, why do I even exist? I should be in love with her. In the perfect world, I would be in love with her. Bree is beautiful—beyond beautiful. Every guy in our class salivates for her, but she wants no part of the preppy douchebags at our school.

No. She wants her moody, broken best friend.

I look away from her, that suffocating feeling coming back in full force. “Don’t say what you were about to say.” I lock eyes with her again. “I’m not worth it, Bree.”

“You’re . . .” She folds her arms. The hoodie she’s wearing is too big for her because it’s mine. “Don’t give me that self-deprecating bullshit. You’re amazing, Rhett. I mean . . . you’re so kind. You volunteer at shelters on the weekend, and you paint murals for free to make the world more beautiful. You’re . . .”

I stand up, trying to pull air into my lungs. “Stop. Don’t make me into some sort of saint. I’m fucked up, and you know it.”

She stands too. “No more than the rest of us.”

“You think two fucked-up people make a whole? They can’t. They just break each other more. I’ve seen it firsthand.”

Her eyes darken, and she’s pissed. And hurt. I hurt my best friend. “So, because I’m a former foster kid, you can’t love me back?”

Goddammit. “Don’t say you love me.”

“But I do.” Her eyes are shining with tears, and I want to die.

I hold onto her small shoulders with a loose grip. “I love you too, Bree . . . Just . . .”