Brynn shakes her head. “It’s okay,” she says, and it occurs to me that we’re about eight sentences into our conversation and half of them have been “I’m sorry” and “It’s okay.” What is it about apologies that make them fall out of our mouths like pennies in some situations and stick in our throats in others? There’s so much we don’t need to be sorry about—like crying in front of someone—that we apologize for automatically. Me saying I was sorry to Brynn just now was different—I feel bad for you—but still. And it’s clear that Brynn is not okay.

“Um,” I say. I’m still in balloon mode. “Uh . . .”

“Here.” Brynn holds out two twenty-dollar bills. “Can you get me the sidewalk baguette sandwich? And the blood orange lemonade and a Nutella twist? You can get anything you want, and keep the change. I’ll be okay by the time you get back.”

How does she manage to be totally pathetic and totally condescending at the same time? It’s like a superpower. I take the money, place the order, and wait around the counter until it comes up. By the time I’m back, Brynn has managed to pull herself together, more or less, though she still looks terrible. “Sorry about that,” she says again. “I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable.”

I nod once and wonder if she has any idea that I’d feel uncomfortable no matter what. That I haven’t felt comfortable around her since middle school, that, in fact, every moment in her presence in the last few months has been an excruciating exercise in discomfort.

“Though I guess maybe it’s been kind of uncomfortable lately anyway.” She smiles wryly. Okay, so she does have an idea.

My instinct is to deny that this is true, but I figure if Brynn can be honest, I can, too. “You could say that.” Then I add, “Is it about to get even more uncomfortable?”

“I just—” Brynn’s voice quivers again, and she squeaks, “I mean, I don’t understand. She won’t speak to me. She’s blocked me on everything,” before she loses it again. “Things were going so well. I thought she was happy. I thought we were in love with each other. I mean, I know I was in love with her—am in love with her.” She takes a crying break and I hand her a wad of tissues from the box at her side.

“She said you told her why I broke up with her in eighth grade. What I did.”

“She deserved to know,” I say.

“If it makes you feel any better, I hated myself for it,” says Brynn.

“I don’t know if it makes me feel better. Either way, you can’t change what you did.”