But I don’t want to be just like Cecilia, just like so many other girls who fell for him the same way and were tossed aside. I don’t want to just be the girl he made out with in a bathtub at a party after too many margaritas, the girl who fell for his stupid lines even though she knew better. Because I’m not in love with Party Andrew. I’m just in love with Andrew. My best friend.

But that doesn’t make it any easier.

He must realize I’m having trouble moving, because he walks toward me, closing the distance between us.

“Hey.”

“Hi,” I say, suddenly shy.

“You look . . .” he says, but then doesn’t finish the sentence. I want him to say that I’m beautiful, but I know if he does it’ll just be another line.

“Thanks,” I say instead, like he already has.

“We need a picture of you two for the fridge!” My mom waves her camera. “Get together.” Our parents surge forward and push us into each other, smoothing down the waves in my hair, picking imaginary lint off his suit jacket so that we look perfect.

“Drew, put your arm around her,” my dad says. “What are you scared of?”

“Look how grown up you both are,” Andrew’s mom says, her voice going misty.

“You’re both so beautiful,” my mom says.

It’s weird to me how our parents have no idea what’s going on between us. Once, they knew everything about our lives, and now there’s so much right under the surface they’ll never understand. My dad is so clueless he can casually tell Andrew to put his arm around me, not realizing Andrew’s arm around me is both the best and the worst thing in the entire world.

Andrew looks at me and then back at our parents and then dutifully obeys, placing his arm gently around my waist, his hand just barely resting against the fabric on my hip. I think of how many times he’s slung his arm over my shoulder in the past, leaning on me at parties, pulling me tightly against him like it’s no big deal. I think of the hammock in his backyard, all the times we lay there together, letting gravity pull us practically on top of each other. Touching him now shouldn’t matter, shouldn’t be a problem, but his hand on my hip is hot and heavy and it’s all I can think about.

Our parents take about a million photos, and then we pull away as fast as possible so we’re not touching. I wonder for a heartbreaking moment if we’ll ever touch again. I can’t be around him, not if it’s going to feel like this.