I tell him about how I’m going to Los Angeles next year to study film. “I love Hitchcock,” I say, brightening. “My best friend and I, we’ve seen them all. We can quote every line from Vertigo start to finish.”

“The girl staring at us from inside that car out there?” He nods toward the window. Hannah’s Jeep is still parked where we left it, and I can just make out the outline of her hair.

“No. Well, Hannah’s my best friend, but she’s not who I . . .” I trail off, not wanting to tell him about Andrew in case he gets the wrong idea, like everyone else. “It doesn’t matter.” I begin fiddling with the end of my braid. “I don’t know why she didn’t just stay here.”

“Because this is a job interview,” he says. “Which you’re acing, by the way. Have you ever worked anywhere before? I guess I should ask that.”

“At Green Mountain Grocery, the past two summers. It was horrible.”

“Great! I’ll have to run you by Mr. Roth. He’s the owner. But you should be golden.”

“Don’t you . . . I mean, I don’t want to hurt my chances or anything, but don’t you need my résumé or, like, references or something?” I take another hesitant sip of my whiskey.

“Nah, I can already tell you’re perfect.”

I swallow and the whiskey spreads like fire through my chest.

SEVEN

FRIDAY NIGHT AND we’re sprawled out on the couch in Andrew’s basement watching Saving Private Ryan. I’ve told him about the video store and the job, but not about Dean, because it’s way too embarrassing.

We have bags of McDonald’s takeout dumped on the coffee table in front of us (a secret from the vegans) and I’m trying to focus my energy on the delicious fat clogging my arteries instead of on the color of Dean’s eyes, but it’s harder than it should be. I’ve never felt this way about any of the guys at school. Maybe it’s just because Dean is new and different and interesting, and I didn’t watch him pick his nose in kindergarten.

Andrew reaches over and steals a fry out of the bag in my lap.

“I don’t know how you can eat at a time like this,” I say, handing him the bag. I haven’t touched the fries since the invasion of Normandy, and now they’re cold and soggy. It’s late now—maybe past midnight—and the darkness of the basement is making the movie even more intense.

Andrew’s phone beeps and he jumps, picking it up to read the text.

“Anyone interesting?” I ask, and he shrugs.

“Cecilia.”

“Still Cecilia? It’s been like a whole week.”