“Why? We’re supposed to be looking.” The remoteness of her tone lands the punch that I was waiting for, forcing the air from me.

I watch her go, plowing a one-woman path through the undergrowth, then start after her again. Not sure where to draw the line—how many ravines should I fall down to pay penance? But if Bree fell, got lost, I’d never forgive myself. It’d be my fault, no matter how hard I’d tried to call her back.

We’re in unfamiliar woods, no sign of a trail, no sign of anything but the usual maze, and I wish I could call Kincaid. I could describe a tree, and he’d give me directions home. Bree’s breathing hard, I can hear it, and it’s not until we hit the next gully that she snags her shoulder on one of those jagged pitch-pine branches, catching her fleece on it and swearing, giving her no choice but to stop.

“Let’s turn around,” I say, breathless, supporting myself against a trunk behind her. “Come on. We don’t know where we’re going.”

She hesitates, looking ahead, shoulders moving as she breathes. “How long have you guys been hooking up?”

I don’t like that she called it that—“hooking up”—even though everybody does; Kincaid just said it last night. But it’s like saying that he and I aren’t real, like what we’ve done in private is some cheap, disposable thing. “Only a couple days.”

“Have you had sex with him yet?”

Another internal objection, this one stronger. My voice sharpens. “No. I just said, it’s only been a couple days.”

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to offend.”

I press my lips together, trying to absorb it, the snark, remembering that I’ve got a lot to make up for. You can’t say, Oh, hey, by the way, I stole your dream date, and then get pissed when the person acts upset about it. “We should find the trail. I’m sure everybody’s back at the park by now.”

“Go, if you want.” She’s starting down the bank, sliding on mud and dead leaves, grabbing anything for a handhold, still showing me only her back.

I breathe out through my nose, going as far as the edge to watch her descend to another muddy cove, my sense of responsibility dulled by exhaustion. I could go back alone. Secure my spot in the Worst Friend Hall of Fame now and quit screwing around.

Instead, I follow. I’m not letting myself walk out on this. I’m part of the way down, eyes on where I’m stepping, when I hear her call my name. Just “Clara,” no “belle.” I’d think she was punishing me, but her tone is all wrong. Faint, disbelieving.