The diner is empty except for another group of Prescott students huddled together in a corner booth. It’s not uncommon for kids to smoke weed before school and come to Jan’s for their early-morning munchies. I’ve never been an early riser and have always marveled that anyone could love smoking enough to set their alarm for it. These guys are a group of sophomores whose names I don’t know, and they’re sitting silently, shoveling pancakes into their mouths with glassy eyes.

I steer Andrew toward the booth in the opposite corner, wanting to sit as far away as possible, for privacy. It’s unlikely they’d be able to listen to our conversation at all in their state, but I’m feeling paranoid and jumpy.

The waitress comes over to take our order: two small stacks of pancakes with strawberries, two coffees, and two sides of bacon. When she walks away, things fall quiet and I remember why we’re here.

“So I’m guessing you have something embarrassing to ask me,” he says, “because you sent me that cryptic text and now you’re acting like a weirdo.” He takes a sip of his water. “Thank God we’re already friends, because I probably would have dropped you by now if I didn’t know you so well. You’ve been a complete disaster all morning.” He smiles to show me he isn’t serious.

“I told you to forget that text.”

The waitress comes back with our coffees and sets them down on the table in front of us. Andrew pulls his coffee toward him and grabs three packets of sugar, tearing them open and pouring them in one by one.

I wrinkle my nose at him, taking a sip of my own coffee. “I didn’t mean to send it.”

He frowns. “You can trust me, Collins. Remember what you told me before? You’re here for my weird shit? Well, I’m here for your weird shit too. You’re my little weirdo.”

“I know.” I pick up one of the empty sugar packets in front of him and begin tearing the paper into little pieces—something to keep me distracted.

“We all need someone to talk to about embarrassing things.” He takes the sugar packet out of my hands and pushes the little pile of paper away from me. “Remember that time you slept over in first grade and when we woke up in the morning, you had wet the bed?” He grins.

“That was you,” I say, laughing despite myself. “You were the one who wet the bed.”

“But we can’t prove that, can we?” He raises his eyebrows. “Anyway, this can’t be worse than that.”

“It’s worse,” I say glumly.