“I’m going alone.” She takes a sip of the wine. “But I could be persuaded to change my mind.” Leaning toward him, she lowers her voice. “Aren’t you going with Abby Feliciano? That’s what everyone’s been saying.”

“Not yet,” he answers. “Haven’t asked anyone.”

“Is that so?” She breaks into a smile.

“You want to come with me?” he asks, leaning in to mimic her movements. I feel an unexpected lump in my throat, like I swallowed something too soon.

“C’mon, Reed. You have to try harder than that. You think I’d go with just anyone?”

He reaches over and takes her hand in both of his, cupping it between them. Then he brings it up to his mouth and places a gentle kiss on her wrist. Andrew has always been good at this. It’s making me a little sick.

“Come with me,” he says, his voice low and husky. “Danielle Oliver. I want you to come to the prom with me.”

They stare at each other for a few seconds, and I have to look away, focus my gaze back on Dean, who’s leaning back into the booth watching them with a lazy smile on his face.

“Well, all right,” Danielle says, the corner of her mouth lifting up into a grin. “If you insist, Reed. No need to beg.”

“Cool,” he says, smiling wide.

“Cool,” she says back, her smile matching his.

Just then, the waitress comes over with our food, placing one large mushroom and pepperoni pizza down in front of me and Dean, a Caesar salad in front of Danielle, and a plate of spaghetti in front of Andrew. I look at the spaghetti longingly, at the steaming pile of sauce and the piece of garlic bread wedged onto the side of the plate, the smell of it heavenly.

When Andrew sees our pizza, his eyebrows raise.

“You got mushrooms?” He reaches over me to grab the shaker of Parmesan cheese, and I hand him a few packets of red pepper automatically. “You hate mushrooms.”

“I don’t hate mushrooms,” I say.

“You totally hate mushrooms,” Danielle says. “I’ve eaten lunch with you like five hundred times.” She leans toward Dean, bringing a hand up to her mouth as if to share a secret, though her voice is still loud and sloppy. “Collins eats like she’s five years old.”

“Hate is a strong word,” I say, pulling a slice of pizza off the tray, wincing as the hot cheese burns my fingers. “Mushrooms aren’t my favorite. But I’m not five years old.”

Dean grabs a slice and folds it in half, dipping it into some barbecue sauce and biting into it like a sandwich.

I’m sorry I didn’t ask your opinion, I want him to say. I’m sorry I didn’t ask what you wanted.

“You can pick the mushrooms off,” he says after swallowing. “It’s no big deal.”