But that was a silly fantasy, and I recognized it as such. And while it’s statistically unlikely that I’m the only girl at West Hills High who sometimes thinks about kissing girls, it is far more unlikely that a human of any gender would like me back, if they noticed me at all. But Zoe makes me want to revisit my no-dating policy, which is strong evidence that it might be best if I never speak to her again. Because she’s not a fantasy — she’s a person. She has a boyfriend and a life and problems of her own. I can’t ever be anything more than the weirdo hanging around the fringes of her world.

So instead of writing back, I jam earbuds into my ears and open my AP Calculus textbook. I study until the world fades away, the dregs of my mocha grow cold, and I’m pages beyond the stupid drawings I did during class in the afternoon. I pause only to answer yet another text from my mom, asking for confirmation that I’m still at Coffeehole.

When I finally look up again, the whole place has cleared out. It’s just me and Fauxhawk, whose tattooed biceps bulge as she wipes the counters with a stained rag and hums along to some indie band on the speakers that sounds like a bunch of melancholy goats bleating into a mandolin. It’s almost nine p.m. Almost closing time. I pack up my stuff and slink out the door.

I’m barely two blocks from Coffeehole when Mom texts again.

Do you need a ride? she asks.

No, I’m already walking. I’m not sure I’m ready to face her yet. Even though I’m not mad anymore, I’m also not especially contrite, and I can’t figure out if I should be. There are still a lot of thoughts in my head to untangle.

My sweatshirt still isn’t completely dry, so the damp night air makes me shiver. Even through the rain, a hint of wood smoke hangs in the air, which makes me think of Dad again: of campfires and fishing trips and staring up into the impossible explosion of summer stars. He loved the outdoors in the Willamette Valley, saying that all the rain reminded him of England — his home.