She pressed a light switch on Carter’s wall, illuminating us since the sun had fully set while we played. “I’m leaving now. Don’t make Olivia freak out while I’m gone.” Her gaze shifted from him to me. “You staying over?”

“Thought you’d never ask, babe,” I said. “Where are you taking me?”

She tapped her silver flats on the hardwood floor and shifted her weight from one leg to the other.

“Eliza has a date,” Carter said.

“Who’s the lucky guy?” I crossed my fingers that she wouldn’t say the name of a certain, rotten douchebag with a slimy—

“Josh Daley.” Damn. She did anyway. “We’re hitting up a parrrr-tay.”

Somewhat in shock, I uttered the two saddest words in the English language: “What party?”

“Juniors only,” she replied.

Were we seriously not going to crash this?

Carter shook his head. “It’s at Sarah Rosen’s house.”

Ah. Sarah Rosen. The one girl Carter had “been intimate” with, without calling her his girlfriend.

Sarah Rosen, one of the most straight-as-an-arrow girls at our school, was a sore subject. Carter had hooked up with her at a party two years ago, and things were different for him after that.

Which meant, on principle, that he’d never enter her house without an invitation. I was totally free to attend, except that the Bro Code clearly states to never leave a bro behind. Goddamn Bro Co—I caught myself. Close one. I’d almost blasphemed bro-kind.

“I’m kind of nervous, though,” said Eliza.

“I cannot be here for this, not again.” The beanbag chair swished in protest as Carter jumped up, escaping to the bathroom. He slammed the door behind him.

“Let me guess,” I said, “You guys’ve already had the pre-date boy talk?” (But for real, who wanted to sit around and talk about freaking Josh Daley?)

Eliza slid into Carter’s seat, playing with the ends of her shirt.

“What if he thinks I’m boring?”

Not possible. “In those pants it won’t matter,” I said instead, though that probably wasn’t better.

“Ha.”

“Here, I’ll help you.” I stood up.

“Um . . .”

I took her long hands and she rose to meet me. “What’re you doing, Nick?”

“If you’re ever in a jam,” I said, “tell this joke: what’s the difference between a pregnant woman and a lightbulb?”

Eliza gave a little shake of her head.

“You can unscrew a—” I stopped. There was no way I’d make that kind of fool of myself in front of her . . . for the time being.

“Never mind.”

Eliza blinked back at me. “Wow. I can’t believe you tried to tell me that.”

“Same.” Unable to stop myself, I reached for her wrist and gave her a quick twirl.

“Oh my gosh,” her voice cracked as she caught her balance, her hands on my shoulders. Just four inches away from me.

“Not bad,” I whispered.

“Likewise.”

We stayed like that for what felt like minutes but was probably a few seconds. Long enough for me to wonder what it would feel like to stand even closer. Stop, Nick. Cool it.