“I met someone.” He sighs, like a hulking weight has been lifted. “His name is Rashid. He works in the library at school and he makes me so happy. Just talking to him about stupid stuff like our allergies flaring up and our favorite TV shows and weird things our moms say . . .” The words roll right out of him and he claps his broad hand over his smiling lips as he takes a step back. “I haven’t even asked him out yet. Isn’t that shit wild?”

“But you . . .” I force myself to recalibrate, blinking over and over again, because I will not cry. I refuse to cry. Definitely not for this piece of shit. “Good for you, Lucas.”

Realization settles on his face. “You’re not upset, are you?”

I stand and wave a hand in his general direction. Breathe in. Breathe out. “Um, no. I’m fine. Completely fine. So fine.”

“So fine?” He dodges my path to the door. “We said this was just physical, Waylon. From the very beginning. And you just told me to my face we weren’t exclusive. Just now.”

“I. Am. Fine,” I say through gritted teeth as I shove him out of my way.

He loses his footing and stumbles backward into a pile of empty boxes. “We can talk about this,” he tells me.

I stomp out of the stockroom and pray to God he’s watching me on the security monitor, because if the best thing he’s ever had in his life is about to walk right out the door, I hope he’s there to see me go.

Anger rolls through me in fresh waves until I slam my car door shut behind me. Then, and only then, is it safe. The tears come in a quick surge, and once they start, they don’t stop. Sobs rack my whole body as I pull out of the parking lot and leave Lucas right where I found him, in a grimy gas station on the outskirts of town.

Four

At home, I don’t even knock on Clem’s door. “Clem?” I ask, fully prepared to free-fall onto her bed, so she can tell me all the ways Lucas is an asshole and how I deserve better and blah-blah-blah feel-good bullshit.

But her room is empty. The clock on her nightstand reads 12:48 a.m. She should’ve been home by now. Ugh. I don’t have enough emotional energy to process this breakup—is this even a breakup?—and worry about Clementine’s well-being.

I plop down on her bed and fidget with her laptop, looking for the perfect song to properly wallow in this very particular sorrow. I settle on Lizzo’s “Truth Hurts,” and I swear to God I’m about to push her laptop to the side when an email alert from the University of Georgia pops up in the corner of her screen.

Subject Line: Re: First Year Bulldog Camp Dorm Request