A horn honked below in the driveway and we all sat up to see a rusty Pontiac come to a crunching stop on the gravel.

“Oh,” Elliot said, glancing at me and then jumping up. “Shit. Shit.” He spun in a half circle, fisting the front of his hair and looking like he was panicking, then climbed into the window to the family room. A minute later he appeared in the front yard. A girl climbed out of the car and handed Elliot a stack of papers.

She was medium height, with thick dark hair in a cute bob and an average, pretty face. Vaguely familiar. Sporty but not thick. With boobs.

I growled internally.

She said something to Elliot and he nodded and then looked up at where Andreas and I sat watching them.

“Who is that?” I asked Andreas.

“Some chick named Emma from his school.”

“Emma? Prom Emma?” My insides froze. “Does he like her?”

Andreas looked at my face and laughed. “Oh, this is so good.”

“No, Andreas, don’t—” I hissed, frantic.

“Elliot,” he called out, ignoring me. “Bring your girlfriend up here to meet your other girlfriend!”

I closed my eyes and groaned.

When I looked back down at the ground, Emma was looking up at me, inspecting, eyes narrowed. Elliot was watching me, too, with a wide, terrified expression, and then looked at her.

I waved. I wasn’t going to play the petty game.

She waved back, calling out, “I’m Emma.”

“Hi, I’m Macy.”

“Did you just move here?”

“No,” I called down, “we live next door on the weekends and some vacations.”

“Elliot’s never mentioned you.”

Elliot looked at her in shock, and from the expression on his face I would have guessed he mentioned me plenty. Well. Apparently Emma was going to play the petty game.

“She’s my best friend, remember?” I heard Elliot say stiffly. “She goes to Berkeley High.”

Emma nodded and then looked back at him, putting her hand on his arm and laughing at something she whispered to him. He smiled, but it was his tight courteous expression.

I lay back down on my blanket, ignoring the nausea rising in my stomach. His words from only a week before—when he’d been on the brink of sleep on the roof and admitted quietly that he was more himself with me than anyone else—cycled through my mind.

I’d told him I felt that way, too. During the school year, my weekdays were a blur, hours smoothed together in a mess of homework and swim and crawling into bed hoping whatever I’d packed into my brain that day didn’t seep out onto my pillow at night. In a sense, my time away from him felt like going to work, and the weekends and summer were coming home—unwinding, being with Elliot and Dad, being myself. But then things like this happened—and I was reminded that most of Elliot’s world existed without me.

Several minutes passed before I heard the car start and drive away. Moments later, Elliot was climbing through the window back onto the roof. I quickly pushed my nose into my book.