“Thanks for dinner,” she says, and then kisses him squarely on the lips. It’s not a real kiss, just a quick pressing of her lips to his, and it’s over in a second—but it hits me in the chest. Before I can help it, I make a strangled sound and then feel my face turn a brilliant shade of red, because I’m horrified I’ve made any sound at all.

She pulls back and then seems to remember I’m sitting between them.

“Oh, sorry, Collins.” She pulls her hair behind her shoulder so it’s out of my face. “Forgot you were there.” I turn to look at Andrew’s face, to see if he’s embarrassed or excited or sorry, but his expression is blank and unreadable. “All right,” she says, opening the door to the truck and hopping out. “I’ll see you kids later.” And then she slams the door shut and we’re alone.

He doesn’t start the truck right away, and we sit silently beside each other, listening to the radio, which has changed to some local commercial for a grocery store, some silly song about fruits and vegetables. I focus intently on the words of the song, trying not to think about what just happened. I don’t want to process my thoughts, don’t want to think about the sharp pain in my chest, the way my breath felt strangled when I saw their lips touch. I’ve seen Andrew kiss so many girls, in way more intimate ways—tongues and teeth and hands—so this innocent peck on the lips shouldn’t matter. It’s just—this is the first time I’ve seen Andrew kiss a girl since he kissed me.

He drums his fingers on the steering wheel and then he reaches out and turns the key. The truck rumbles to life.

“Okay, let’s get you home.”

So he’s not going to talk about it.

He looks behind him and backs the truck out of the driveway. I move into the passenger seat and buckle the seat belt—far enough away from him now so our arms are no longer touching.

“Why didn’t you tell me about that New Year’s party?” I ask suddenly, because I can’t stand the silence between us.

“I don’t need to tell you everything.” His tone is clipped, his posture straight and tense.

“Why are you mad?” I ask, because I can tell. He runs a hand through his hair, further proving my point.

“I’m not mad,” he says. “I just don’t get why you care. That I didn’t tell you.”