The silence goes on. Her face, looking back at me, inscrutable, eyes a fraction wider than normal, taking me in. It’s Bree, so she’ll give me nothing, I know this, but it doesn’t stop me from babbling, cramming the silence full of words to the point where I’m begging to be put out of my misery: “I’m sorry, I never thought he would, but he says he does and—” A small, weak laugh escapes me, and I wish I could stomp it. “Is it okay?”

She stands in her spot as if rooted. I rush on, hating how I sound, like one of Those Girls, a whole different species from me, ones who would choose boys over their friends. But that’s what I’m doing, isn’t it? I could’ve broken it off with him after that first time in the woods, stopped things before we went too far, put Bree first. But I wanted Kincaid. Even now, trapped in this torturous moment, I still do. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t want to hurt you. I’d never do that. You know that, right?” You’re my friend—maybe my best—I’m pretty sure you’re my very best— “It just kind of happened, and I know that sounds like the biggest cliché ever, but it’s true.” I could slump to the ground right now, sink into the mud, be buried forever without complaint. “I’m just really sorry.”

I look back at her, wincing, bracing for an explosion, for her fist crashing into my face. I can almost see her internal adjustments, a pattern of slight movement from her throat, to her jaw, then her eyes, some fast blinks before her gaze settles on distant trees. Maybe the direction Kincaid went off in. “Why? I wouldn’t be.” Rough sound in her throat, signaling her sharp turn away from me. “He’s hot, so. Enjoy.”

She walks off, fast, and I follow because I don’t know what else to do. No chance that I’ve been forgiven, but I don’t want to make things worse by leaving. Ditching my partner.

We’re the only ones not calling Ivy’s name. Nothing here but the sound of our feet splashing through the shallows, and the heavy beat of the egret’s wings as he takes off in search of calmer waters.

She’s ditching me. Or trying.

I almost fall twice, following her up an embankment so steep that falling would mean rolling all the way back down to the flats in a battered heap. We clutch roots and clumps of bushes with our hands, reaching the top of the slope with our knees soaked through, our palms raw.

Bree pushes straight into the woods, letting branches snap back, one whipping my cheek so sharply that I stop, check for blood. “Will you slow down?”