And when she did, everything was going to be okay. Because Stevie was turning around to come to me, because she would know that I was staying put. That was what you did, after all. If you got separated, you waited in place for the person you were separated from to come and find you, you didn’t go off chasing them. It was basic elementary-school logic.

I swallowed hard as I shifted my weight from foot to foot. I didn’t even want to move. I didn’t want to sit on one of the wooden benches along the back wall, next to a pay phone. I didn’t want to go anywhere that might prevent Stevie from finding me the second she got off the other train. Which was coming soon now. It had to be. Any minute. Any minute.

I forced myself to look out at the tracks, trying to stay in the moment, but everything that had just happened was pushing its way through in my thoughts. The fight we’d just had—the things she’d said to me—the things you said to her, the quiet, honest voice in my head piped up. We’d never had a fight like that, ever. But it wasn’t my fault that Stevie held on to things so tight that when she finally said how she felt, her face practically melted off. And I was just responding to her.…

It hit me a second later that I was doing just what she said I did, not taking responsibility. But whatever. We would sort it all out when she got off the train. As soon as she got here. Any minute now.

The B train pulled into the station on the downtown track and I scanned over all the passengers getting off, looking for any hint of Stevie and Brad. I could practically see her, stepping off the train onto the platform, throwing up her arms in comedic frustration, coming over to join me. Any second now.

But then the train doors closed and the train moved on—and she wasn’t there.

My heart thudded harder, and my it’s going to be okay mantra suddenly sounded to my own ears like a question. Because if she didn’t come—which of course she would—but if she didn’t—

I made myself keep breathing so I wouldn’t panic. Big breaths, from my diaphragm, the way Mr. Campbell had taught us. Pre-monologue, high-note breaths. And while I felt a little calmer, it didn’t change the fact that I was alone in New York—a place I was not supposed to be—which was not good.

Because that was Rule #7 of lying to your parents: Everything had to go exactly right.