The rest of the week blows by as I try to balance the Diary, Becca—who’s stopped answering again—and Drew, who’s reached the point of calling me the second I get off work and wanting to stay on the phone most of the afternoon. My only real downtime is the moment after the kids leave and I spend my time cleaning with Devin, who’s made bringing me lunch a regular thing on top of bringing me coffee like e’s got some horrible fear I’m going to starve to death before the summer ends. I remind myself that there’s nothing inherently nonplatonic about em bringing me lunch every day—even if e takes to baking cookies with cute little frosting designs on them—which means I’m not being disloyal to Drew, who, really, hasn’t given me enough alone time to even think about being disloyal.

Friday morning I oversleep, and after a car-ride lecture from Brian, I finally get to bounce out and head to the rehearsal hall. Devin’s already in there, and there’re a few long tables lined up around the room with little chairs in front of them. Devin lays out sheets of paper, glitter, scissors, and paintbrushes.

I freeze as I step into the room, a soft melody washing over me that I first mistake for some weird a cappella Shawn Mendes recording. Then I realize it’s Devin, singing softly as e lays shit on the table like some Disney princess.

I laugh, and e jolts, dropping the armful of art supplies as the little glitter bottles roll across the table.

“I didn’t know you could actually sing,” I say, remembering how terrible e was back at the campfire. I guess e just thought the bad notes were a great addition to the cheesy lyrics.

Devin looks at me, face flushed, and says, “I—I didn’t realize you were here. I don’t usually sing for an audience.”

“I was just running a little late.”

I help em pick up the dropped supplies before filling in the empty spaces along the table. “Are you good at everything?” I say.

Devin blinks and says, “I mean, I’m not particularly good at much—”

I roll my eyes. “Seriously? You sing, you play the uke, you draw—”

Devin’s blush deepens, and e says, “I’m sure you’re good at lots of things.” E’s pretty actively avoiding my eyes now, like e thinks staring at the ground will somehow make me disappear.

“Not really. I mean, I write on occasion, but it’s pretty mediocre.”

“Oh? What kind of writing?”

If e was anyone else, I’d think e was mocking me, but e just looks back at me curiously.

I shrug. “I just make up little stories sometimes. Nothing serious.”