“It’s so I don’t have to spend all day feeling upset about the terrible things in life. My dad being sick, Milo being selfish, Mikey Danger falling asleep before we can even make out, wars, climate change, people starving in other countries, people starving in our country, gun violence. So I, you know. Confine it all to occasional, five-minute bursts of emotion and get it out of my system.” I shrug.

Nick looks at me and runs his tongue over his lower lip. It is sexier than any lip-based gesture has a right to be. “Mikey Danger fell asleep before you made out?”

My shoulders slump. “That’s what you got out of that?”

“I don’t know if your method sounds healthy.”

“Excuse me. The Five-Minute Cry, trademark pending, has been tested and approved.”

“By a therapist?”

“By me.”

“Alternatively, you could ask someone to help you. I mean, you talk to Annie, right?”

I feel a pang of guilt as I think about the text she sent that I never responded to. “She has her own problems. She doesn’t need to be burdened with mine.”

“Nothing you say is ever a burden, Chloe,” Nick says, and his eyes hold mine with such a powerful force that I feel like someone in an old movie who gets beamed up by a UFO. Like I’m standing there in the light, unable to move, knowing that whatever comes next is gonna be bad.

“I don’t know how you’re doin’ on the inside, honey,” I say in a Southern accent. “But your hair’s holdin’ up beautifully.”

The intenseness in Nick’s eyes is replaced with confusion. “Was that a bad Dolly Parton impression?”

“Um, it was a great Dolly Parton impression, thank you very much,” I say. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to abscond to the powder room to get ready for bed.”

“And was that supposed to be a British accent?” Nick asks.

There is no way to explain to Nick that I’m nervous and I guess when I’m nervous I start deploying terrible accents to distract from my feelings. “Lovely artwork,” I say, gesturing to a bland picture of a flower as I scoot off the bed and take my bags into the bathroom.

I do a few deep-breathing exercises in an attempt to convince myself to be more normal. “Chill out,” I whisper to my reflection. I consider leaving my makeup on, but wouldn’t going to bed with my makeup intact be an admission that I care about how Nick thinks I look, when I very much do not want to? And anyway, my eyeliner is gonna stain the pillowcase. So I take off my makeup and change into my full-coverage pajamas—thick sweatpants and my Pizza Slut T-shirt, the one that matches Annie’s because we used to order pizza back when we actually had girls’ nights.

I frown at myself in the mirror as I brush my teeth, thinking about how much I miss Annie and the way we used to see each other before she got a real job and a fiancé and a pregnancy. I make a mental note to plan an actual girls’ night with Annie soon, one where our biggest concern is which movie we want to fall asleep in front of.