“You made it pretty easy to assume!” I think of all the times he’s told me about his hookups, how I never once asked for clarification on what the term meant; how convenient that must have been for him. Hooking up can mean so many different things: making out on a dance floor, a hand job at the movie theater, going almost all the way in someone’s bed but changing your mind.

“There are expectations when you’re a guy,” Andrew says. “There’s pressure. Guys talk shit. And you’ve always had these ideas about me—Party Andrew. Everybody has these ideas about me now, and I can’t just . . . I’m all fucking talk, okay? Is that what you want to hear? If people want to believe I’m some big player, I’m not going to correct anybody. You can’t just admit to other dudes that it hasn’t happened yet. That you want sex to be special. Nobody buys that.”

“But I’m not just anybody,” I say. “I’m somebody. I’m your most important somebody.”

I’m not though; I realize as soon as I say it. “So you haven’t slept with Danielle.” It’s a statement, not a question. He doesn’t answer, and I let the word hanging between us unsaid come to the surface: “Yet.”

He rubs the back of his neck and doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t need to.

“Why?” I ask.

“What?”

“You’ve had plenty of opportunities. Why did you let Chase get there first?”

He takes a long time to answer, like even now the words are hard for him to admit. “It’s not a race, Collins.”

“Are you sure?” Because that’s how it’s felt so far—like high school is one big competition and I’m the one losing.

Just then, I feel a heavy arm on my shoulder, the familiar smell of aftershave and tobacco that once made me so giddy, and I know that it’s Dean. Andrew’s expression hardens and he stands up a little bit straighter, and I bristle, because there it is in action: there’s the overprotective brother.

“What are you two fighting about now?” Dean asks, and the question makes me sad. Andrew and I have disintegrated so much—our friendship is so strained—that Dean assumes we’re probably fighting about something. And even though Dean is the reason for it, it’s my fault really. I was the one who couldn’t be honest with myself, who couldn’t be honest with Dean. I was the one who decided to risk my friendship with Andrew instead of telling Dean the truth. I’m the one who messed everything up.

“We’re not fighting,” Andrew says. Even though he’s admitted his secret to me, I can tell he still doesn’t want anyone to know.