I look at the pieces in my hand, then sigh and dust them off as I make my way to the couch. I flop down and pull the throw blanket off the back, cuddling up with me, myself and I.

It starts to rain outside and I wonder if I should make tea. I’m not sure if it would help. I’m not really cold, not really sad. There’s just a kind of a dull, vague pain throughout my body.

It’s different this time, to see the sky open up over California. It’s not a one day of gloom in an always-sunny place, but needed replenishment in a time of drought. Funny how easily your perspective can change like that.

I am deep in my melodramatic thoughts about metaphors and karma and am seriously considering turning on some Adele or Lorde when someone knocks aggressively on the door.

“Hello!” Yaz says as soon as I open it. She looks almost manic with her soaking wet hair, makeup smeared down her face and giant smile. She shoves the large cardboard box in her arms toward me and pushes past me into the room.

“What are you doing here? It’s pouring rain.”

“Are you kidding? One of my girlfriends is going through a breakup. My bat signal went off.” She slides off her raincoat and folds it over the back of a chair. “Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night could keep me away. I’m like a Marine.”

I laugh. “I’m pretty sure that’s the Post Office, not the Marine Corps.”

She wrinkles her nose, which is slightly pink from the cold. “God, that seems a bit over-the-top for people delivering letters.”

I shrug as I shut the front door. “You gotta think about a time before Snapchat or texting.”

She considers this, bobbing her head back and forth as she leans down to peel off her clunky Hunter boots. They make a loud squeaky sound every time she moves. It’s so funny how people here pull all sorts of rain clothes out of nowhere as soon as a cloud appears.

It rains in Minnesota, and people just wear whatever they were gonna wear that day. But in California, rain is An Occasion.

“Okay!” She runs her hands through her dripping hair and exhales. “Where was I?” She takes the box back from me. “Right, so we have wine, chocolate, ice cream, Chinese menus—because ordering it to my room and then getting it soaked as I walked across campus seemed stupid. Figure out what you want, and I’ll cue up a rom-com for while we wait, or maybe something less romantic and more girl power? How about Chicago, or do you think it’s too murder-y?”

She blinks at me, waiting for a response, but I just smile, thinking that maybe some of the grandest, most romantic gestures don’t come from boys after all.

Part Four