“We didn’t ‘break up.’ You can’t break up if you’re not dating.” I realize I might be saying too much in front of Fowler, but he doesn’t even turn around.

“Well, the posts Josh is making on Insta and Snapchat sure make it look like a breakup.”

I pause.

“What?”

“Go check his stories—it’s kind of sad. I feel bad for the guy.”

“It wasn’t a breakup; you shouldn’t feel sorry for him!”

“Whatever. Just come down.”

“I’m good.”

Before Samuel can say anything else, I end the call, and a moment later I get a text from him.

SAMUEL:

I ignore him and wonder if I should start packing now or if I can wait until tonight. I can’t imagine what the wedding will be like without Josh there; then again, I really won’t have to, because he’ll still be there, sitting across from me.

I wonder how mad Michael would be if I backed out of being a groomsman. It’s not like we even talk that much. He doesn’t text, doesn’t call. He likes my Instagram posts every now and then and we see each other at holidays.

You’d probably never guess we’re brothers.

He looks so much like Dad.

And I … well, pre-testosterone, I looked a lot like Mom. But then my shoulders got broader, my jaw filled out, and I started growing facial hair, no matter how sparse it looks. So now I don’t look like her either.

If only 23andMe had some kind of service to wipe the rest of her DNA out of my gene pool.

I can’t go to this wedding alone. I can’t spend a week in Beverly Hills with Mom and Michael and them bickering with each other, and suits and family meals and parties, and Nana and Grandpa, who will most definitely ask me if I’ve “switched back to being a girl” or “gotten the down-there surgery.”

I’d rather pull out each of my teeth individually. I won’t be able to put up with Mother reminding me every chance she gets that I ruined everything, or the comments that my family will make about me behind my back.

I let out another groan before standing up and grabbing my suitcase out of my closet. Pants, shirts, underwear, socks, shoes—they all get stuffed inside, so stuffed I can’t actually close the damn thing.

I pull the zipper, but it doesn’t budge, because of course it doesn’t.

“You’ve packed it too tight,” Wyatt observes.

I step into his line of sight and pull the zipper again, and again, and again. It moves half an inch at a time, before it gets impossibly snagged.

“You’re going to tear the zipper,” he says. “If you packed neater, you wouldn’t have this problem.”