Jayla is just sorting out my desk, and Nikki and I have been spending an inordinate amount of time cleaning my case and polishing my cello, when it happens.

“Keep or toss?” Jayla asks, her voice hesitant.

I stare at the Batman mask in her hand. They’re both looking at me, waiting for me to answer, but I don’t know what to say. I should say toss, right? The scar on the side of my wrist should be a permanent enough reminder of our doomed relationship . . . but it doesn’t feel like it is.

“Keep,” I finally say.

Jayla nods, setting it on my desk, and I go back to wiping down my cello and waiting for her to find the next emotional land mine. I know it’s waiting over there amid the piles of clutter and empty glasses.

I can tell the moment she does. She freezes and holds up the wrinkled envelope, the word Peak scrawled on the front. I try not to react.

Grayson gave it to me the other day when she was in town. We met for coffee, and she convinced me to go to a CoDA—Co-Dependents Anonymous—meeting with her. She said she was too nervous to go alone, which, ironic, but I think she mainly just wanted to get me there. There were other teens there too, which was kind of surprising. It was interesting enough, and I saw a lot of me and Ridley in the stuff people were saying. I might keep going, I don’t know.

Grayson gave me that envelope right before she left. There wasn’t a letter in it, just a flash drive. Apparently, Ridley’s therapists thought it would be a good move for him to delete all the videos he took of me playing cello off his phone. I don’t know how I feel about that, and I really wonder how he felt about it. At any rate, Grayson told me he did remove them but couldn’t bear to delete them. Instead he downloaded them all onto a flash drive and asked her to give it to me.

It’s been sitting untouched on my desk ever since. Until now.

“Keep?” I say. I’m not sure.

“Is this from him? I can take it home and hide it, if you want it gone but not gone gone,” Jayla says.

“It’s videos he took of me playing. I have no idea what to do with them.”

“Can I see one?” Nikki asks, helping me get my cello back into its case and setting it in the corner. It’s rare that Nikki and Jayla get to hear me play. I always practice alone—well, before Ridley came along, anyway—and their soccer stuff often conflicts with my concerts and recitals.

“Knock yourself out. I play like shit in half of them anyway.”

“Doubtful,” Jayla says, firing up my laptop.