My mind is full of so many ricocheting thoughts that I can’t follow a single one to completion — unformed questions that start with how, or why, or when. I am almost numb with shock. I am vaguely aware of the sound of her car starting outside, the grinding of the transmission as she steps on the gas before the gear has even engaged, the squeal of tires. And even though I’m stuck on what just happened, a part of me wants to run after her and comfort her and make sure she’s okay, make sure we’re okay. She raced out so fast — but not so fast that I didn’t see her expression, the impact of my response.

She’s not okay. Obviously.

I have no idea what I’m supposed to do.

Suddenly my mother is in front of me.

“What happened to Sam?” she asks, her face creased with concern.

I realize how tense I am, my arms pressed tight to my body. I try to relax.

“Zoe?” She sits down next to me. “Is everything okay?”

I nod.

“She looked upset. Did something happen between you?”

I can’t find words. I don’t even quite understand what just happened. Except I do. It’s starting to seem obvious.

I don’t know what to say to my mom. I know I need time to think, but I don’t have it. So I go with the only way out I can find: I lie. “She got a message from her mom. Her . . . her aunt was in an accident.” I regret the lie already, but I see no way around it.

Her brows draw together. “Oh, no!”

My mom’s concern makes me wish I’d gone with something less extreme, but the thing is, I don’t know what happened downstairs. Was Sam crying when she ran out? Did she say anything to them?

“Was it bad?” she asks.

“I’m not sure.”

“Well, tell Sam we’re here if she needs anything.” She moves my hair over my shoulder and I stiffen a little, recalling Sam’s hands in my hair.

Did I do something to give Sam the impression I liked her that way? My mind reels, untethered, looking for something solid and unmoving to hold on to.

“We really like Sam,” my mom says. “I’m glad you became friends.”

I nod mutely.

“What’s this?” she says, noticing the vanity set. “Oh, it’s beautiful.”

“Gift from Sam,” I mumble.

“Wow.” She picks up the pieces to examine them. “This set is really old — I’d say turn of the century, if not older.” She glances at me. “This is really special, Zoe.” She stands up. “You ready for more gifts? Jonah’s not going to wait long for cake.”