She brought a four-pack of Bartles & Jaymes, and he fronted like everything was fine. He told her about the job he’d taken at his uncle’s auto-parts shop, saving up for the police academy. He mentioned a girl who sat ahead of him in church. Maybe there even was one. Someone sat in front of him. It might be a girl.

The truth was, he’d hurled himself into a hum of busy misery to wait Betsy out. He was clocking overtime at the shop, weight training, running, anything to keep his heart from breaking while he waited for Betsy to come back to him.

If Bree reported he was wallowing and pining, she might not. No one comes back to sad-sack, lovelorn goons. So he made jokes and talked about how awesome post-high-school life was, until Bree put a hand on his arm and stared him down, serious.

“Marshall. I’m your friend,” she said. No pity in her eyes. Only kindness.

He felt misery break out all over him like a sweat, visible and obvious. “Please don’t tell Betsy, okay? Tell her I’m great. Tell her I have a date next week. I can’t stand it if she’s feeling sorry for me.”

“Okay,” she said. He glared, skeptical, but she raised three solemn former–Girl Scout fingers. “I promise.”

After that they sat on the floor and watched MTV, drinking the sticky-sweet coolers. She quietly let him be unhappy, but not alone. It was the nicest gift he’d ever gotten. Better, in the moment, than the ten-year-old Chrysler LeBaron his dad had dropped off before skipping his high-school graduation.

Neither of them was a big drinker, so by the time all four bottles were empty, they were leaning on each other’s shoulder watching Celebrity Deathmatch. She giggled until she snorted and then grinned at him, embarrassed.

He remembered then how pretty she was. He’d forgotten, cloaked as she’d been in Betsy’s best-friendship. Her grin faded, and she bit her lip. They both were buzzed, and she smelled of roses. He leaned in a little. He could have kissed her. There was permission in the way she tilted up her face.

Instead he got up, then reached down to pull her to her feet, too. “You better eat something before you drive. Come on. I’ll make you a Steak-umm sandwich.”

She seemed as relieved as he was that the last inch had not closed between them.

Back then he’d thought of Betsy as a girl in an adjoining hotel room. She’d closed her door, but he didn’t think she’d bolted it. His was wide open, waiting for her. Kissing Bree would nail both doors shut and drape them with bombs and poison frogs and fire. Betsy would forgive him any girl who happened in this gap, except for her best friend.