“And,” Joy begins, holding on to the word, “you’re warning me about this because?”

“No, not warning. Just . . . saying. I know you don’t like dating and—”

“I don’t?”

Summer hesitates, unsure. “You do?”

Joy’s temper flares hot and fast, scorching through everything else she’d been trying and failing to deal with. She’s had enough of people thinking they know everything about her, drawing conclusions from assumptions they made on their own.

“Did Malcolm tell you that? Or are you guessing based on—what, exactly? We talked about this. You don’t know me, Summer. Stop acting like you do because you have direct access to a source of secondhand information about me. And you know what else? I know Malcolm. I know exactly how hurt and vulnerable Caroline left him. I know exactly how rich he is. And now suddenly he’s inviting some stranger he met two months ago into our bubble. That’s pretty damn fast too, don’t you think? What did you do? Maybe you’re the one who’s pretending.”

Summer begins blinking rapidly like she doesn’t understand—or maybe that she does. She starts crying before she even makes it out of the door.

Joy falls back on the bed in defeat. “Fuck.”

They’re gone,” Fox says.

“Great.”

Joy sighs, retreating further into her quilt. She’s added two blankets to her cocoon, hoping to create the same sensation as a weighted blanket, but no dice. Overwhelmed, and full of regret and fury, she resisted calling Grace, who would make her feel better but also yell at her for not listening.

Fox lingers in the doorway.

“Are you here to start shit with me too?” Her mood hasn’t recovered, stuck somewhere between dejected Sour Patch Kid and snapping turtle. She didn’t mean what she said to Summer but that doesn’t change the fact that she lost her temper again and said it anyway. The words rolled out of her like a bomb being dropped from a plane—no way to abort or stop it.

He blinks, suddenly very fascinated with the floor.

“Oh my god, you are,” she says, temper burning again. “What the fuck—is it Make Joy Feel Like Shit Day or something?”

“Definitely not here to do that.” His morning vocal fry still hasn’t warmed up to his usual rumble just yet. He looks squinty and tired, like if the room gets too quiet, he’ll fall asleep standing up. “What did you say to Summer?”

She looks him dead in the eyes. “The same thing she said to me.”

“But she’s the one who’s crying.”

“I’m crying on the inside,” she deadpans. “You don’t know me.”

“You’re right. I don’t.” He rubs his hands down his face. “Can I come in?”

“I don’t want to talk about Summer.”

“Okay.”

“Or Malcolm.”

“Okay.”