“I saw your lights on,” he says. “I was just driving around being derpy alone. I couldn’t go see Wes. That’s not true. I know I can. But he’s so happy all the time. And, like, I’m happy for him. But I can feel the true love wafting off him like a noxious gas. It’s too much.”

I laugh at the visual of my brother walking around like a twitterpated Pig-Pen. “So you decided to join me over here on the Dark Side. I’m honored.”

He pushes my shoulder. A gentle reprimand for the negative self-talk. “You’re not as Dark Side as you like to think you are.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Jeremy reaches out, playing gently with the delicate leaf of the fern hanging beside my bed. He says to it, “Actually, I came because I might need...” He takes a deep breath. “I need a favor. A job, specifically.”

“A job? At the restaurant?” My first instinct is to say yes. Jeremy is like a brother to me. Some days I even prefer him to Wes; he doesn’t get as emo about the Sox losing. “But what about law school?” I ask. “Can you juggle law school and a part-time job?”

He picks at the label on his bottle. “I would need full-time.”

“You’re going to work full-time and finish your second year of law school?”

He continues to look anywhere but at me. “In this scenario, I wouldn’t finish law school.”

I take his hand in mine, squeezing tight. “Jeremy. What’s happening?” I wince. “Are you...flunking out?”

He shrugs. “Not exactly. I’m doing fine, I guess. I just...” My friend’s brown eyes are glassy when he looks up at me. “I hate it, Amy. I knew it would be competitive but everyone is so...well, they’re assholes, honestly. The research is fun and the work is whatever. But I feel like I don’t belong there and maybe I should just try something else until I figure my shit out.”

Jeremy has always been the kind of smart that’s a little terrifying, so it’s not a surprise that he finds legal research “fun” and the heavy workload of a second-year law program “whatever.” It goes beyond memorizing facts and formulas. He’s the human personification of galaxy brain. But success and excellence have never been a priority for him. He’s compassionate, kind—overly so in my opinion, he lets people walk all over him, though he’s never asked—so it’s no wonder he’s not exactly flourishing in the hyper-competitive environment.

I look around at all my plants, some of the leaves curled in, but flourishing, thriving nonetheless. Because of the environment they’ve grown into.

“My restaurant is failing,” I say. I don’t really talk about this at all, unless it’s with Sophie. Wes knows things aren’t going great, but not the specifics. Dad knows nothing at all; we haven’t spoken since Sophie kicked him out. But saying it out loud now doesn’t feel as terrible as I thought it would. “My dream is dying.”