“Hey!” Elliot protests, laughing.

Returning his attention to me, Des adds, “Actually, he’s really quite good.”

“No way,” I say, biting back a grin as I look up at Elliot in all his bookish glory. “This guy? Rugby?”

“Come on,” Elliot says, giving me a playfully wounded look.

“I just remember watching you learn to skate,” I say.

Desmond’s eyes narrow. “Ice skate?”

A loud cackle bursts from me, and Elliot pulls me into a gentle headlock, growling, “Skateboard, you menace,” into my hair.

We wrestle for a second and then stop in unison, looking up at the sound of still silence. Rachel is standing just inside the door from the kitchen, holding an open bottle of wine. Des’s eyes flicker between her and Elliot.

“Does anyone want some wine?” she asks. “Or . . . just me?”

Des lets out a delighted laugh at this, thinking she’s being funny, but Rachel remains unsmiling, tilting the bottle to her lips and taking a few deep swallows. She pulls the bottle up, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

Elliot slowly releases me from the headlock, straightening his shirt while I smooth down my hair. I feel like we’ve just been busted for some mildly criminal behavior. Here we are, standing in his spartan living room with this stark truth laid out before us: We’ve never dealt with fallout before. The messiest parts of our lives have always been compartmentalized to the school week, or kept private for a decade. I have no idea how he’ll react.

“Rach,” he says quietly. “Come on.”

It’s a gentle chastisement I can’t imagine him ever delivering to me, but still, there’s a seduction there, a reassurance that feels a little slippery, too intimate.

“Come on what?” she says.

“I thought you wanted to do this,” he says.

“Turns out, it’s not as easy as I expected.”

Why on earth would she think this would be easy?

“I don’t need to stay,” I start to say, but both Des and Elliot quickly jump in.

“No, no, no,” Elliot says, turning to me.

“Don’t be silly,” Des says. “It’s fine.”

I look at Rachel, who is looking at me with such a flat fury, I know exactly what she’s thinking: I’m not fine at all.

“You did such a number on him,” she says quietly.

“Rachel,” Elliot says, voice low in warning, “don’t.”

“Don’t what?” Her eyes turn to his face. “Have you guys talked yet? Does she have any idea?”

Des seems to find a reason he needs to jog to the bathroom at this precise moment, and I’m immediately jealous that he can just split and I have to stand here while the awkward shrapnel rains down on us.

But at the same time, I want to know what she thinks I need to hear.

“Any idea about what?” I ask him.

Elliot shakes his head. “We aren’t doing this now.”

She answers, leaning against the doorway to the kitchen: “How much you fucked him up. How no one—”