I peer into Bea’s bedroom and spy her pet hedgehog waddling around his elaborate screened-in living structure. A smile tugs at my mouth as he perks up and his little nose wiggles, sniffing the air. I’m an animal lover, and while I’ve never looked after a hedgehog, I’m not worried about being able to handle it.

KITKAT: No problem.

BEEBEE: Thank you so much!!

KITKAT: You’re welcome. Now STOP TEXTING & GET BANGING.

BEEBEE: FINE! IF I MUST!

I shove my phone into my back pocket and slump against the hallway, scrubbing my face. I’m jet-lagged, my system heavy with exhaustion yet humming with energy. I can’t stand when I’m tired yet hyped, but such is life. Just because my body’s wiped out doesn’t mean my brain gets the memo.

Moaning pathetically, I traipse through the living room, then flop onto the sofa just as my phone buzzes again. I reach inside my pocket and yank it out.

BEEBEE: Wait, just one more thing!

BEEBEE: In case you change your mind, a reminder that the Friendsgiving party I told you about is 4–8. There’ll be PUMPKIN PIE.

I roll my eyes as I swipe open the screen, then type my response. Yes, my weakness is pumpkin pie. But my hatred of Christopher, who will be there, is much stronger.

KITKAT: Not a chance in hell, BeeBee. But nice try.

—

Okay, so maybe my dependence on pumpkin pie is a smidge stronger than I care to admit.

Not so strong that I’ve decided to swing by the Friendsgiving party and chance seeing Christopher. Instead, there’s Nanette’s, a kick-ass bakery that I’m headed to, located a handful of blocks from the apartment. After some slight (read: thirty minutes of) social media scrolling, I discovered Nanette’s was having a flash sale this evening on pumpkin pies—buy one, get one half off.

I might have seven dollars and fifty-nine cents in my bank account, but I do have a credit card for extenuating circumstances that I’m prepared to use. Thankfully, I don’t have to—I found an envelope on the kitchen counter with my name on it in Mom’s loopy cursive and five twenty-dollar bills inside. Not even the prick to my pride, that my mother had both inferred and fussed over my rocky financial status, could stop me from snatching up two twenties and powering out the door.

Clearly, the universe intends for me to have some pumpkin pie after all.

Strolling down the sidewalk toward my destination, I bask in a bracing November wind that whisks dried autumn leaves along the concrete in tumbling, percussive swirls. My WALK IT OFF playlist blasts in my headphones and I feel a swell of happiness. Fresh air. Two whole pumpkin pies, all to myself. No Friendsgiving required. No having to face—

Slam.