The thing is, I love her, too. But I love her as a friend.

It seems impossible that love cost me what I had come to treasure most.

“You’re quiet,” Cammie says in the car on the way to Erin’s. She has been yammering on about the play, and I have had little to contribute, which must seem strange. “Are the realities of adulthood weighing you down?” she jokes.

I come far enough out of my stupor to laugh. “Yes,” I say. “Eighteen is so much harder than seventeen was.”

Little does she know it’s the truth.

In my mind’s eye, Sam’s message glows still. Can we get past what happened? Is it naive and foolish to hope that someday we might laugh at this? Even if we never laugh about it, I need to believe we will find our way to the other side. There are too many things ahead that I don’t want to face without her.

When Cammie and I arrive at Erin’s, I’m surprised to find her parents and her twin brothers home, watching a movie in the living room. There is enough popcorn on the floor to fill a silo, although Jackson, their aging Lab, is surreptitiously lapping it up at a fair rate of speed.

“Happy birthday, Zoe!” Erin’s mom calls from the sofa. Her leg is propped up and bandaged from recent ACL surgery. With her fair skin and blue eyes, her resemblance to Erin is unmistakable.

“Thank you,” I say, but already the dog is jumping on me. “Hey, boy,” I say softly, squatting down and letting him lick my face. He probably only likes me because I unfailingly sneak him scraps of food every time I’m over, but I’ll take it. He rolls over for me, and I stroke his belly until Erin tugs me by the coat collar.

I needn’t have wondered how Erin planned to get all the Jell-O shots past her parents: when we’re settled in the finished attic, she rolls a giant cooler out of a low closet in the slanted wall and lifts the lid.

“You sure your parents won’t come up?” I say, worried as always about getting in trouble.

Erin counts off on her fingers: “My mom won’t because she’s still recovering from the knee surgery. My dad won’t because he literally never does. He says setting foot in this room will instantly suck the testosterone out of his body.”

I can see why. The renovated attic, or the “lady cave” as her dad grossly calls it, is done up in an exaggerated French country style with floral wallpaper and plush furniture and pink throw pillows and little antique finishes. It’s . . . girly.

“My brothers won’t,” Erin continues, counting off on a third finger, “because I told them the attic is full of spiders.” She does her cheesy grin where every tooth shows.