He’d been to the Princeton campus a few times, tagging along with Hunter and his father at an alumni barbecue and a basketball game, and once for the ribbon-cutting ceremony when the Finch Architecture Collection opened at the library. Will loved everything about it: the old buildings and the neat expanses of lawn, the carefully constructed feeling of something between a country club and a library. He watched as Dominic Finch greeted old buddies, introduced Hunter to their sons and daughters, and sang silly fight songs at the basketball game. Mr. Finch treated Will almost as a son on these trips, buying him and Hunter matching sweatshirts, resting a hand on each boy’s shoulder. But of course Will wasn’t his son, and Will was always keenly aware of this. He was smart enough to know that there was a world of difference between being invited to the barbecue and having your family name on the building.

It was impossible to know if he would have dreamed of going somewhere like Princeton if he’d never known Hunter. But once he had the idea, he couldn’t let it go. He’d never been jealous of Hunter, not in any way that really mattered. Sure, sometimes it was tough to watch girls fall all over themselves in front of Hunter, or to hear about his travel plans when Will had to spend the summers working at the orchard. Hunter could blow off exams, or let his grades slide for a semester, and never sweat it. There was no question of where he would go to school, or who would pay for it. But Hunter had never held it over him. He was always generous, inviting Will when he could, everything paid for without question. He never made Will feel like he didn’t belong in that world, or even that there was anything better or different about his life.

But even so, Will would have preferred to be able to pay his own way. And Princeton was his ticket. He would never say this to Hunter, but when his acceptance letter arrived, he had felt, for the first time, that he had something that Hunter didn’t. Not the acceptance letter itself—there was no doubt that an identical one was waiting in Hunter’s mailbox—but the sense of having earned it. He enjoyed the feeling for a moment, and then set it aside. He was going to college with his best friend, and that was what they clinked beers to that night, drinking in the woods between their houses.

That was a month ago, and it had felt like a sure thing. Now, well, he couldn’t even think about it.