“Hey!” Annie widens her eyes. “That’s not what I meant. You know that’s not what I meant.”

I nod.

“Every day with you is a party,” she says, smiling. “You, yourself, are a walking party.”

“Keep complimenting me,” I mutter.

Annie shakes her head. “Hey. How about this? Let’s plan a movie night, just you and me, okay? Like the old days. We’ll eat pizza and you can tell me how terrible my favorite movies are and it’ll be so fun.”

I didn’t even realize movie nights had turned into the old days. I thought they were still our current days. But I guess that’s what happens when people move on and you’re stuck in time. Every day, things slip away and become part of the past without you even knowing it.

But there’s not really any point to saying any of this . . . I mean, what do I want Annie to do? Quit her dream job, start living with her uncle again, and not marry the love of her life? Go back to being lonely because I’m unhappy? None of that would be possible anyway, since she’s going to have a baby with Drew soon. Her life is hurtling forward, whether I like it or not.

“Yeah, okay. That sounds great,” I say.

“Anyway, I don’t want you to spend a ton of time planning a ridiculous party when you’re already doing so much for me, and I know you have your own stuff going on. How’s your dad? How’s Milo? Are things going okay?”

I hold back a wince and wave her off. I know she means well, but the last thing I want to do is let one of our rare evenings together devolve into a Here’s What’s Wrong with Chloe’s Life session.

“It’s fine. It’s all fine. But I don’t want to talk about that right now . . . tell me how Drew Jr. is doing.” I reach forward and place a hand on her completely flat belly.

Annie hesitates, then smiles. “As if we would ever name our baby that,” she says, but then she starts talking about baby names and registries and the merits of different cribs and even though none of this means anything to me, I’m glad she’s telling me. It almost helps me forget that apparently I’m just part of her past now.

Chapter Seventeen

“I don’t understand how I got sick,” I say, blowing my nose for the fortieth time in the last hour.

“Probably because you never sleep, don’t take care of yourself, and have worn your body down into a desiccated husk?” Milo says with an innocent shrug.

“Watch out.” I wave my used tissue in his direction. “I’ll infect you.”

A woman walking past us in the cookie aisle holds her box of Nilla wafers closer to her chest.

“I’m not really spreading disease,” I call after her. “This is my brother and he’s being an asshole.”