So I do. Or, you know, the important stuff—the breakup with Drew, realizing I have feelings for Devin. I don’t bother getting into the details of the Diary. I love him and all, but I’d rather keep that part separate. Actually, maybe it’s because I love him that I want to keep that part separate. Maybe I’m finally realizing how important it is for me to have a life outside of the Diary. After all, Brian and I finally have our groove back, and he’s one of the only people I can be just offline-Noah with. I don’t really want to lose that.

By the time I finish, we’re pulling up into the mall parking lot, and Brian’s shaking his head. “I never realized you’d be such a player.”

I roll my eyes. “I just want to get em a nice gift,” I say. “You know, especially because I may never see em again after this.”

“You’re not gonna ask em out?” Brian asks.

I shrug. “Why would I?”

“Because you’re into em?”

“Doesn’t mean e’s into me,” I say.

“Okay, maybe not, but you’ll never know if you never try. If you ask me, I think the Christmas party would be a great opportunity. You know, you’ll already be giving em a gift, and e’ll be in this happy holiday mood.”

I groan. “Shut up, okay? I just want to get through this summer.”

“Okay,” he says, “but I’m pretty sure you’re gonna hate yourself when you move to California without ever asking em how e feels.”

And I hate that Brian knows me so well and that he’s almost always right.

We walk around the mall for a few hours, but I can’t find anything that feels right. I mean, I want to surprise Devin with something that’ll really knock eir socks off, but God, it’s only as I stumble out of a comic book store that I realize I know nothing about em. Does e like anime? Stuffed animals? Memes? I literally don’t know.

All I know is that e plays the uke and has a beautiful singing voice and looks amazing with eyeliner on. And e’s good at drawing. Maybe I should get em a sketchbook or something.

But that’s super not personal.

Brian smirks as he says, “You could always get em a bouquet of roses and read out a poem—”

I smack his arm about as hard as I can, and he actually winces as he rubs the sore area. Nailed it.

“Okay, fine,” he says. “What about something related to the camp?”

“The camp?” I say.

“Yeah, a kayak sculpture or something. You know, something e’ll look at for years to come and not be able to forget you.”