There’s some masochistic part of me that wants to message him, but instead I go to his profile, scrolling down a bit to get to the pictures of us. Some with the boys, some just the two of us, one of just me. I really hope that Josh can forgive me after all of this is said and done. He is my best friend—or the closest thing I have to one, at least—and I don’t want to lose that relationship. Maybe this is all my fault; I was the one who instigated this entire situation, who made a move as we watched a movie one night. The Conjuring, of all choices.

“Do you ever think that you’re being needlessly cruel?” Wyatt asks.

“Hmmm?” I don’t look at Wyatt; I just keep staring at the screen.

“You’re doing all of this, dragging me along with you, just to prove … what exactly?”

“That I’ve moved on.”

“From what?”

I open my mouth, but I don’t have an answer. “From … from us.”

“But you said there was no ‘us’ between you two.”

“I know that. I just have to get him to understand it too.”

“But he loves you. Don’t you think you could’ve loved him back?”

“No. Besides, we’re in high school. It’d never last. It’d be dumb to think that.”

“You don’t have to be so cynical.”

“I’m not cynical, I’m realistic. If you never have any expectations, you’ll never be disappointed.” I have my parents to thank for that lesson.

“That seems like a miserable way to live,” Wyatt says.

“Yeah, well, nothing I can do about it.” I put my phone back in my pocket, facing toward the window so Wyatt knows this conversation is over.

If I wanted to unpack all that, I would’ve stayed in therapy.

*  *  *

Because of Wyatt’s guitar, we have to check something of his, and he refuses for it to not be beside him at every step of this flight, so he checks his suitcase, leaving him with the guitar and a backpack.

“What if they break it? I’ve had this guitar for eight years.”

“It would’ve been fine,” I say, setting my bag down for a moment. “You’ve got your ticket, right?”

Wyatt pulls out his phone and double-checks before nodding.

“Good, I’ll see you on the other side, then.” I pick up my bag and start walking toward PreCheck, but then a hand wraps around my wrist, yanking me back.

“Where are you going?” Wyatt asks.

“What?”

“TSA is that way.” He points with his free hand. This early in the morning, there’s only one line open, and it’s stretched far past those retractable railing things.

“Yeah, well, I’ve got Global Entry, so I’m not standing in that.”

“Then let me do PreCheck with you.”