“OK . . .” I didn’t see where he was going with this.

“When you and Hannah and Izzy fell out, everyone noticed because everyone knew you were best friends. And you’re not popular or anything.”

“Aw, shucks, thanks.” I scowled at him.

“Who is Amanda Roberts friends with?” he asked.

“Eh, Christina Kelly and Rani Sullivan?”

“Right. And Chloe Foster?”

“Daniel Campbell. Although I think they’re definitely boning.”

“No, he’s gay.”

“What?! More gays? The top secret gay conversion plot is really working.”

“Who are my friends, Saoirse?” he said, and he didn’t sound maudlin, more like he was simply curious what I’d say.

I shrugged. “I dunno. Everyone?”

“Right, sure, but who would I go to if I had a problem?”

I couldn’t think of anyone. Oliver hung around with everyone; he never had one group of people or one best friend that I could tell.

“Exactly,” he said to my silence. “And now we’re all going on our separate ways and there isn’t anyone I can say I’ll stay in touch with.”

“No one will really stay friends. We’ll all have forgotten each other by Halloween.”

“Maybe that’s true,” he said, although it didn’t seem to make him feel any better.

I wasn’t used to this Oliver.

“Will you have another party before we all leave?” I asked.

“I don’t think so.” He rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck. “I think I’m tired of pretending. I don’t enjoy these parties. I always end up in here, and no one ever wonders where I am.”

I could tell he was done talking about it now. I sat beside him and I didn’t talk either. I reached my hand a few inches to the left and touched his hand. Our fingers interlaced. I sipped on my vodka and we didn’t talk until I reached the bottom of my glass.

I held our intertwined hands up in front of our faces.

“I’m still gay, though,” I said. “We’re not getting back together.”

“That’s good,” he replied thoughtfully. “You were cute when we were eleven, but I do not fancy you now.”

“Sure you do. I’m very fanciable. I wouldn’t blame you or anything.”

“Ugh, no. You’re like riddled with crabs and you’re way too butch for me.”

“Dude, I don’t think you know what butch means. Check out the hair. I’m a tomboy femme. I did a quiz.”

“Did the quiz makers see those boots?”

“No.”

“I demand a recount.”

My phone rang in my pocket, but I didn’t recognize the number on the screen.

“If this is another person asking me if I’ve been in an accident that wasn’t my fault I’m going off the grid,” I grumbled but answered anyway.

“Saoirse Clarke?”

“Yes?”