Brougham made me see the best version of myself, the kinder, wiser, more empathetic version I’d always wanted to be. And that was a hell of a lot to gain, which made it a hell of a lot to lose. And I almost had.

I was so scared to lose him again.

But that felt too intense to share. So, instead, I said, “And now everyone hates me.”

“They’ll forgive you eventually. Don’t worry too much.”

“Maybe. I’m not sure.”

“Well, if they don’t, I know a great school in Australia you can start fresh at.”

“Oh, true! And I know that working-class song now. I’ll fit right in.”

“Yep. Just make sure you call it exactly that, word for word, so they know you’re authentic.”

We giggled together, which triggered another round of unproductive retching for Brougham so intense he got tears of effort on the sleeves of Sparkly Sweater.

Well, on the bright side … at least I could be certain Winona wouldn’t be too threatened if she found out how I’d spent the morning with her boyfriend.

NINETEEN

School was fucking terrible.

Brooke still wouldn’t speak to me. Every time I saw her, she caught my eye, then looked quickly away and found something, anything else to do.

And the other students whispered. No one outwardly said anything to me, but their eyes tracked me like magnets, and I heard my name weaving in and out of the crowds as I walked through the halls, as I waited for class, as I dug through my locker.

And locker eighty-nine still stood slightly ajar, its frame bent and shelves empty.

By far the very worst was lunchtime. Walking into the cafeteria alone, and scanning the filling tables as I walked past, and knowing there was nowhere for me to go.

Brooke was sitting with Jaz and her friends. I’d sent both Ray and Jaz apology messages over the weekend. Ray had responded by blocking me, and Jaz had left me on “read”—not that I blamed either of them. Brooke pretended she didn’t see me, but her face was cold. I couldn’t sit with people I vaguely knew, because they might be mad at me. Maybe their notes were in the locker. Or maybe they just felt uncomfortable. Maybe they thought I’d paired them with a letter they’d written the locker at some point. Maybe in some cases they’d be right.

I wanted to turn around and sprint back out, and honestly, I was only seconds from doing just that. Better than sitting alone and trying as hard as I could not to cry when too many eyes were on me for my humiliated tears to go unnoticed.