She steps over the bleacher and plunks herself down, putting an arm around me. “Zoe, how did you not tell him? What’s going on with you two?”

I shake my head. “We shouldn’t be together. I’m no good for anyone.”

“Stop that,” she says, and her expression is stern. “You’re the best person I know! I just think . . .” Her brow furrows. “Zo, do you even love Hunter anymore?”

I wish she hadn’t asked. It’s been a question encroaching perilously into my field of vision, but one I have mostly succeeded in ignoring. But I can’t ignore it anymore. “He’s not a bad guy,” I say, searching for the rest of my response.

“No,” she says. “He’s not.”

I use a napkin to wipe my nose.

“It’s not a crime not to love him,” Cammie says gently. “But if you don’t . . .” She shrugs. “You don’t want to string him along, right?”

“Right.” It comes out a whisper.

“The timing isn’t so great,” she says. Her unhappiness is clear.

“I’m sorry if it messes up Homecoming.”

She squeezes me. “Zoe! I didn’t mean that. Don’t worry about that! I meant because of Jonah and everything you have going on at home.”

Her understanding is more than I deserve, and I lean in for a proper hug. Another wave of cheers goes up in the stands, everyone springing to their feet, but neither of us moves.

When I pull back, I say, “I want to go home. I should be with my parents.”

She nods. “Do you need help finding a ride?”

“It’s okay.” I pull out my phone and text my parents: I’m sorry — can you come get me? I’ve had enough, and I don’t have a ride. If you’re eating, I can wait.

My mom responds immediately that my dad is on his way. I get to my feet, glad for the rain, which disguises my tears and my spiked hot chocolate stain and blends it all into a single damp mess that represents me perfectly. I push through the noisy crowd, the air heavy with the smell of hot dogs and popcorn and rain, and then stand under the stadium lights in the parking lot, shivering. When my dad pulls up, I tumble into the warm car gratefully.

“There’s my princess,” he says, leaning over and giving me a hug.

Princess. I think of Sam with a pang.

My dad clucks because I’m shaking. “It’s wretched out, isn’t it?” he says, cranking the heat.

“Everything’s wretched,” I mutter, holding my hands over the heat vent.

He takes a breath to speak, and I cut in and say, “No pep talks. Please. I’m not in the mood for positivity.”

My dad laughs softly. “I was going to agree with you.”

I smile a little. Sometimes he surprises me.