I concentrate on folding the tissue paper, tying it off, and fluffing it up. Then I smell something. Something burning.

“Oh no!” I yelp, standing up and crushing one of the poms with my left foot. I run toward the oven and open the door, then wave away the smoke that billows out. This whiskey apple pie is definitely not going to work for the wedding, unless Annie wants to go with the charred look.

I pull the pie out of the oven as the smoke alarm goes off. I grab a chair and reach up to the ceiling, slamming the button with my open palm until it stops chirping. It finally quiets, but I lose my balance, and after a wobble I fall off the chair, right onto the pile of poms.

This should be funny. In other circumstances, it would be. Here I am, lying on top of the destroyed poms that took me hours to make, after injuring myself by falling off a chair, and my apartment smells like burnt piecrust. It’s a laugh riot.

Except that it’s not, because I’m tired and frustrated and hungry and thinking about Nick Velez and the way he’s barely even looked at me in the last week.

I sit up, look around, and wonder, for a moment, if I can scrape the burnt part off the pie (no, because the entire thing is a burnt part). I wonder if the poms are salvageable (the majority of them, yes). And then I wonder if I could actually ask someone for help.

I know Nick is mad at me, but I also know that if I show up in a crisis, he’ll help me. He’ll have to, because that’s the kind of person he is. He’s Nick Velez.

So I pack up the rest of my tissue paper and head on over.

* * *

Again, I didn’t call or text—I didn’t want to give Nick the opportunity to pre-reject me, and I figure he’ll let me in if he sees me out here on the street in the dark.

I ring the doorbell and nothing happens. I wait a few moments, then ring it again. And again.

Finally, I hear the soft creak of bare feet padding on old wooden stairs, and then Nick’s legs come into view. Nick’s bare legs, because he’s wearing boxers and a T-shirt.

He has good calves, but I’ll keep that thought to myself.

He swings open the door and squints at me. “Chloe?”

“Were you asleep?” I ask, incredulous.

He rubs his eyes. “Yes.”

“But it’s so early! It’s not even ten P.M.!”

Nick gives me a look. “You know what time I wake up. What’s wrong?”

“What?” The harshness of his voice almost makes me step back.

“I mean.” He gestures outside, toward the dark sky and the sidewalk and me. “Something must be wrong if you woke me up, right? Is your dad okay?”

I swallow. “Yeah. I mean, he’s fine. It’s . . . I . . .”