Cloudy

“You’ve got to come out here.”

I look up from the kitchen table—and the long list of “Things to See” Jade’s parents left for us: Hollywood, Beverly Hills, the Griffith Observatory, the Getty. It’s almost like they don’t want us alone in their house all day.

Even though I’ve known the Deckers since I was ten, they wanted to talk to Kyle and me before we settled in last night. But “want” may be the wrong word. I don’t think they desired our company at eleven thirty p.m. so much as needed to be sure I’m not suddenly a cultist on the run—or that when Kyle mentioned bringing in Arm, he wasn’t talking about, you know, an arm. Afterward, I took the guest room, claiming I didn’t want to disrupt Jade’s regular school-night routine by bunking with her. Mr. and Mrs. Decker ate that up.

Not Jade, though.

From the moment she zeroed in on me at AMPLYFi, she was . . . studying me. It was in the way her eyes scrunched up at the corners whenever she looked my way. And if anyone could spot a difference in me, it would be Jade. I suspect that friendship plus distance has a way of magnifying the things that should stay hidden. When you change so gradually, the people you’re with every day don’t have a chance to notice.

So all I have to do is avoid the kind of time she wants to spend together. Last night, a separate room and a locked door seemed like a decent start.

Now Kyle’s standing in the doorway, fresh from a shower, in his brand-new clothes.

“I thought you were checking on the car,” I say.

“I was. Then I saw it.”

I follow Kyle out into the foyer, then pat my back pocket for the extra house key Jade left before going to school. Arm is still curled up on the couch—hopefully the Deckers don’t mind her crashing here while we’re out. I’m not sure Rodeo Drive is as welcoming as half-empty diners in Sacramento.

We’re out the door, onto the porch, then down the stairs. The sun and the wind have an agreement going here—just when the breeze gets too chilly, the sun picks up the slack. Kyle jogs into the street, right across to Ocean Park Boulevard’s thin, grassy median. The Deckers live in a small bungalow on a street that points straight to the ocean—the same direction Kyle’s gesturing now.

“Holy. Shit.”

Kyle shakes his head, incredulous. “It was too dark when we got here last night. I didn’t notice it.”

“Jade said it was close, but . . . it’s so close.” Well, not really. The Pacific is barely an inch-wide stripe across the horizon, but I can see it clearly. It’s as if I can hold up my thumb and smudge the inky blue of the ocean into the sky. “Let’s go.”

“To the beach?”

“Yeah, I want to go in the water.”

He glances at me, dubious. “Cloudy, it’s February.”

“Kyle,” I mimic, “it’s frigging Southern California. It’s not like they shut down the ocean.”

There’s an amused twist to his lips. “I think sometimes they do, actually. Something about rain runoff.”

“Oh. My. God,” I whine. “Come on.”

I set off, Kyle chuckling behind me. Neither of us knows where we’re going, but straight ahead should be as good a direction as any.

We walk for fifteen minutes along a path that lies parallel to the beach and should be front and center in a postcard. The perfectly spaced date palms reach way up into a vibrantly blue sky. Santa Monica might border on annoyingly perfect, but I’m already too in love to care.

Once we cross over onto the beach, I kick off my shoes and roll the cuffs of my jeans. We shuffle through a long stretch of cool sand, and Kyle stops where it starts to dampen. I go on, right to the shoreline, ignoring the chill that creeps up into my bare feet. So maybe I was a little overzealous earlier, but after being a brat about the whole thing, some part of me is going into the goddamn Pacific.

“How is it?”

I don’t bother turning around as I give Kyle the finger. “It’s freezing,” I admit. “Satisfied?”

“Nah. Just curious.”

“You can come feel it for yourself.”

“It’s freezing enough right here,” he says, “but thanks.”

A small wave swells up, foamy around my ankles, and I have to grit my teeth so I don’t shriek. It gets easier to adjust every time, so much so that it becomes close to comfortable. Or my feet have gone numb.

Eventually, Kyle comes up beside me, his sneakers dangling from his fingertips. “Are we really here, looking at this?” he says.

I cluck my tongue. “Sedona desert boys. So impressed with water.”

“And Bend girls?” He elbows me. “You prefer your water at a glacial temperature?”

Bend might have every other body of water—rivers, lakes, streams, waterfalls—but we’re totally lacking in saltwater. “This one summer, my parents took us to Lincoln City. It was the first time I’d ever been to the ocean, and I ran straight in because I thought it was a lake.”

“Not so much?”

“Most lakes don’t have waves that’ll knock a five-year-old on her butt.”

“True,” he laughs. “But if you do end up at USC, you could get some practice in.”

“What do you mean?”

He gives me a sideways glance. “USC’s only a few miles from here. I looked it up. You’d be able to come here every day, if you wanted.”

I could. Every single day. Without Ashlyn.

I’ve never imagined myself anywhere without her—certainly not college. Before, our course was so set. And now, it’s all up to me. There are hundreds of places I could end up, schools or programs or neither of those things because I don’t know where I’m going. The thought seizes me, ping-ponging around my brain until I’m light-headed.

I anchor myself here with this: Ashlyn and I will never go to USC like she intended. We’ll never be on this beach together. Yet in her own way, she still managed to get me here.

Kyle and I stand, shoulder to shoulder, at the edge of Santa Monica. Up and down the beach there are others, all determined tourists probably, doing the same—staring ahead, watching the water, hypnotized by the vastness of it. It’s so big out there, so much more mysterious and promising than what’s at our feet.

Behind me, a kid squeals, and I imagine her bolting across the sand, her mom or dad or someone who loves her chasing closely behind. The people riding bikes on the same walkway Kyle and I were on earlier. Beach apartments and small cafés and a few blocks inland, a high school where one of my oldest friends might have already figured me out. And everyone here, looking the opposite way. We’re all staring out to the ocean like the answers are in front of us when, really, the whole world is at our backs. Waiting for us, hoping we’ll turn around and take notice.

But I’ll let it wait. I won’t worry about the rest of the world, or USC, or Jade. I just pick out a spot on the horizon as my feet sink deeper into the sand.

KYLE AND I are having fun. Possibly. It might be fun. Fun or it’s that we’re showered and not wearing our parkas and the salty air is going to our heads. Either way, Kyle hasn’t frowned in an hour, so I’m checking that off in the having-a-blast column. And I’m feeling it, too—a lightness, in the way the beachy wind flirts with the curly ends of my hair and how the sun warms but never burns.

We end up doubling back, away from the Pacific, up to wide Ocean Avenue—we want to see the Santa Monica Pier from where it begins. I’m disappointed we’re a couple of months too early to catch the jacarandas in bloom. The spindly trees fan out with trumpet-shaped purple flowers, like in a Dr. Seuss book. We definitely don’t grow those in Bend.

The big blue Yacht Harbor, Sport Fishing, Boating, Cafés sign curves above the street. I dig my phone from my pocket and tap into the camera.

“I can take it,” Kyle says. “If you want to get in there.”

My eyes move to him and the sign, the cars zooming by on the street behind him, the palm trees canopying above us. And I’m so . . . present. Grounded on this sidewalk, with Kyle, on a trip that Ashlyn is leading us on. It makes me say, “We should get one together.”

His forehead wrinkles. “Um, okay. Good idea.”

He doesn’t sound so sure, but I hand over my phone anyway—he is the tall one. As he raises his arm to aim it, I inch closer until my sleeve just barely brushes his chest. We stretch and duck around, trying to find the best pose; when we do, my shoulder is digging into Kyle’s torso; his fingertips are pressed to my back. I keep entirely still.

“Ready?” he asks.

“Ready.”

Once he snaps the photo, time catches up with itself.

He gives back my phone, where Zoë’s Fact of the Hour is waiting: The Ferris wheel at the end of the Pier is solar-powered! She spoke to my parents yesterday, and managed to cover for me without self-destructing, but it’s my turn next. There’s no chance they’re letting today go by without hearing my voice.

Kyle and I move under the archway and down the big ramp. My phone is still in my hand when we reach the old-fashioned blue-and-beige building at the bottom. That’s how we both hear the familiar words—“I don’t want anybody else”—sing from its speakers.

“Not again,” I murmur, my head falling back. I saw his missed call before bed last night, and judging from the time, Matty tried me when we were still at AMPLYFi. Probably right when Kyle and I were kazooing to the Beatles.

“Again? He already called you?” Kyle is staring at my phone like Matty might mist out of it like a genie from a lamp. Is he still upset, or does he wish Matty would call him instead?

“I was going to tell you—” No, there’s no time to get into it, so I pick up.

“Matty, hey.” I look at Kyle as I say it. He gestures vaguely over his shoulder, which I assume is his way of saying he’ll meet up with me later. After. “Hey,” I repeat once he’s gone, “I meant to call you back, but—”

“But you’re in California with Kyle?”

So we’re all caught up, then.

“You’ve heard.”

“Yeah.” His voice is gritty—Matty is pissed. You’d think for someone that doesn’t happen to often, he’d be worse at it, but he’s not much of a half-asser. “Let’s see who I’ve heard it from. Jacob,” he starts like he’s ticking the names off on his fingers. “Tyrell, everyone else on the baseball team, my uncle.”

My stomach curdles with each name, one more person waiting for us when we go home. “What did they tell you?”

“Kyle’s dad says you’re visiting Ashlyn’s organ recipients. And you took a cat with you?”

“Arm,” I say.

“. . . Arm?”

“She’s the cat.” Settling between two of the old building’s domed windows, I whisper, “Matty, you didn’t tell anyone about the recipients, did you? Because this could get us into a lot of trouble.”

“Why?”

“We don’t exactly have permission.” I shift my weight from one foot to the other, back and forth. “So please, please, you have to keep it a secret.”

“What the hell, Cloudy?” He sighs out, long and loud, and I instantly regret asking him for a favor. “Not only did you take off without telling anyone, you took off with Kyle without telling me.”

I’m trying to keep my voice down but it’s hard to hear it over my own heartbeat. “We didn’t plan it. And since when do I need your approval to go anywhere?”

He mumbles something away from the phone. Then more intently: “Maybe I’d like a heads-up when my ex skips town with my cousin.”

I wait until a woman pushes a stroller out of earshot. “Don’t be an asshole,” I grind out through my teeth. “I asked him to come and he agreed. That’s all.”

“Kyle wouldn’t get out of bed on Friday night and the next day he’s road-tripping with you? You aren’t even friends.”

My thumb is poised to end the call. “If you’re so puzzled, maybe you should be having this conversation with Kyle instead of bitching at me. Oh, right! You’re not talking to Kyle.”

He sighs another time, right into the receiver, right into my ear, and it’s so familiar. How many times have I felt his breath in my ear? On my neck, down my stomach, wherever else he put his lips, which was lots of places. I never loved Matty, not like that, but he was a better boyfriend than I deserved. And maybe things were awkward after I broke it off, but when Ashlyn died, he was there again—my friend, and more than that, it turned out. If he thought our hookups would lead to more, he never said so.

There’s a muffled noise on his end; I picture him rubbing his forehead like he used to in geometry. “Look, I promise I won’t say anything, okay? But Kyle’s dad told me about the kid in Sacramento.”

I spill a little more of our secret. “Ethan.”

“How’d that go?”

“He’s really happy. And we’re hoping we might actually talk to this other guy, Freddie. He’s in Palm Springs.”

Matty hesitates. “Why didn’t you tell me any of this? We texted the night before you left.”

I inhale air that’s dense with the scent of funnel cake. I hadn’t considered asking Matty along. Is that what this is about? Sure, he’s worried about Kyle, but does he believe we purposely left him behind?

“You were fighting. It seemed like you both could use the space.”

Matty’s laugh is flat. “I figured he’d tell you about our fight.”

“Kyle didn’t know what was going on until we were in Sacramento, so don’t be mad at him. Not for being here, anyway.”

Again he’s quiet. Then: “It’s good he’s with you. You’ve been really strong through this.”

That’s what people tell me. I’m strong. “Yeah.”

“And seeing these people could be good for him. Right? Closure or something?”

“That’s the idea.”

He chuckles, and tension snakes out of my shoulders. “Only you would come up with that idea. What did you tell your parents?”

“They’re away,” I say, “and will never know about this.”

“Your sister, too?”

“Oh.” I pause, praying my phone will spontaneously drain itself. “She knows. She’s . . . not away.”

“Zoë’s home?!” He puffs out a breath. “Do you need me to check on her?”

She may be a total pest, but I can’t refuse this. “Would you? She might want a ride to the grocery store or library—wait, is your car out of purgatory yet?”

Knowing Matty, he’s already done something to get it taken away again.

“Nope,” he says, his lips popping on the P. “And I’d rather not talk about it. But it’s cool, I can ask Danielle to drive me.”

Hold on.

“Danielle?”

He coughs once. “We’ve been hanging out lately.”

“Danielle from my cheer squad?”

“We’re sort of together,” he tells me, carefully. Matty being nervous is almost as unusual as him being pissed. “It just kind of happened last week. Is that weird for you?”

“You’ve had other girlfriends since we dated.”

“Yeah, but we’ve never talked about it. Not after . . . everything, you know?”

He means last fall.

A few weeks after Ashlyn died, the school held a candlelight vigil for her in the Bend High parking lot. Afterward, there was a party at some senior’s house—a better way to honor Ashlyn, everyone said, except hardly anyone mentioned her. But Matty did; he sat on top of a picnic table in the backyard and told stories about growing up next door to Ashlyn, like the time they went trick-or-treating and she dressed up as a jellyfish, and when they were twelve and snuck beer from a cooler at their Fourth of July block party. He talked about Ashlyn to anyone who’d listen, until the sky was dark and the porch railing was lined with empty plastic cups. When he was finished, I kissed him and led him from the party into the basement.

That was the first time. When I was with Matty, I was thinking of only one thing, not a million. Not if it hurt when Ashlyn flipped over her bike, or if she’d gone unconscious immediately. Not if the doctors could’ve done more for her, or if I should’ve asked her to come with me while I got my hair cut, so she wouldn’t have gone on that bike ride in the first place. For a month, whenever Matty and I could steal some time away from school and football and cheer, I was okay. Then he ended things. He felt like he was losing himself more and more every time; like somehow it made him feel more alone. I pretended that I didn’t understand what he meant—I did, though. Losing myself was the whole point. But in the end, I didn’t want to risk losing him, too. I didn’t have many people left.

“No, it’s not weird,” I say to him, my voice steady. And I don’t get that churning-stomach, frozen-veins sensation when I picture them together, so I know it’s the truth. “You and I are friends, Matty.”

“We are.”

“She makes you happy, I hope?”

“Well, she does this thing where—”

“No!” I shout. “Matthew Ocie Junior, do not say another word. We are not those kind of friends.”

He’s cackling, and I can picture him, wherever he is, with his hand on his stomach. “We’re not? Really? I think we might be.”

“Never. And we never, ever, ever will be.”

“I can live with that,” he says, smiling bigger than ever—you can just tell.

THE BUILDING I’VE been leaning against ends up also housing an old carousel and its gift shop. I find Kyle there, near a tall stand of refrigerator magnets. The one he’s focused on is colorful metal, shaped like the big Ferris wheel outside. When he puts his finger to it, it actually spins.

“Like the real thing,” I say.

He straightens up, his eyes avoiding the phone in my hand. “Let’s see for ourselves.”

We walk the length of the pier, our feet thumping against the faded wooden slats, past bike racks, a full-on trapeze setup, and an arcade.

“So Matty was furious,” I tell Kyle, even though he didn’t ask. “I guess I deserve it. I did chloroform you, dump you in the back of your car, and drive you and your cat to Sacramento.”

“Then we’re even,” he laughs. “Since Lita’s convinced I abducted you.”

I slap his arm. “Eavesdropper.”

Kyle takes a few more steps, his hands in his pockets. “What else did he say?”

“Your dad told him about the recipients.” Kyle’s eyes go big and round, afraid he’s blown the whole thing, and I wave it away. “Don’t worry. Matty won’t rat us out.”

“He must think I’m really losing it now.”

I grin. “He sounds pretty into it, honestly.”

We stop outside the entrance to Pacific Park, a small amusement park right on the pier. There’s a roller coaster that loops around a good chunk of the grounds, including other rides and a bunch of carnival-type games. In back, the enormous Pacific Wheel stands tall, glinting under the clear sky.

Once we buy our tickets, we head straight for it. The wheel has a spiral design in the center that’s lit up in neon, and the cars that dangle around it alternate colors: red and yellow and red and yellow.

Kyle and I end up in a yellow one. We slip onto the bench seats opposite each other, a thick metal pole between us—my guess is for grabbing on to. The cars have no windows, just seat backs that reach our shoulders, an umbrella-like cover on top of us, and open air in between. Shortly after we’re locked in, the ride starts, and the car swings as we move slowly up, up, up, until we’re coming down, down, down again.

“What happened with Matty that was so bad?” I ask. “You guys never fight.”

Kyle clears his throat, shifting on the hard seat. “I’m not trying out for baseball this year.”

My mouth goes dry. That is so not what I expected—mostly because I wasn’t expecting an answer at all. “Repeat that.”

He shrugs. “I’m not trying out for the team this year and Matty . . . disagrees with my choice.”

No wonder Matty flipped; he loves playing with Kyle. Not to mention that Kyle missing an entire season isn’t quite an indication that he’s moving on.

My first instinct is to question him until he tries to rappel down the side of the Ferris wheel. But badgering him didn’t work out so well for Matty. “Last time I checked, you’re only supposed to quit the stuff you suck at.”

He weaves his fingers together. “It’s not about being good or bad at it,” he says. “I need a break.”

Over Kyle’s shoulders, the ocean sparkles in the sunshine. I shield my eyes and look into his. “From baseball?”

“From having all those people depend on me. I could use a few months off from that. And from Matty. Or his expectations, I guess.” He laughs, but it’s halfhearted. “You know how intense he gets when he’s really excited about something.”

I nod because I understand, but it’s like I’ve swallowed a knot. There’s more to Kyle’s life than baseball, but it’s one of the things that made him happiest. I could see it on his face whenever Ashlyn dragged me to a game. We’d sit up in the bleachers on the third base side and talk about anything but baseball, eyes on Kyle the whole time. It was hard to ignore him out there. He was the only one on the team who wore his uniform socks pulled up to his knees, like an old-time player. His personal hat tip to tradition. And he was all grace and confidence on the field. He never made a flashy play to get attention; he treated each boring, routine ground ball with respect. Every so often, he’d crouch down and run his fingers through the infield dirt, as if he needed to keep the contact.

For Kyle and baseball, it was true love. So maybe this will be only a short break for him, but what if it’s not? What if he gives up and regrets it?

Something tells me that what Kyle really needs now is a distraction. “Confession time,” I say, slapping my palms on my thighs. “My last Ferris wheel experience was not my finest moment.”

He folds his arms over his chest. “Really?”

“It was at this end-of-the-school-year carnival in fifth grade. Nicholas Morgan promised to take me on the Ferris wheel, just the two of us. Huge stuff.” Kyle’s mouth twitches in a smile. Encouraged, I go on. “But by the time I made it there, he was already getting on with Raquel Harrison. Raquel Harrison! Who started a rumor that I never washed my gym shorts.”

He leans back, bracing a foot on the pole. “That is the worst Ferris wheel story I’ve ever heard. You weren’t even on a Ferris wheel.”

“That,” I tell him, “is the entire point. I should have been. Entire lives could have changed if I’d only been there sooner and gotten the chance.”

Our car comes to a stop as it reaches the pinnacle of the ride. We both slide over, peering all the way down at the boardwalk.

“Maybe this is it, then,” he says, closing his eyes to the wind. “This is your second chance.”

A spiky, charged buzz goes through me at the sight of him.

Maybe it’s my first chance. One I didn’t get five years ago so I could have it here, on the sunniest day I’ve ever seen, hovering above a postcard city.

The Ferris wheel churns again, jolting us forward.

What am I doing?

This isn’t some cutesy first date. I’m not here sightseeing with Kyle. We’re not even supposed to be in Santa Monica. This is a stopover on a trip that matters more than tourist attractions and silly stories. It matters more than anything.

Our car dips lower, dropping back down to the pier, scattering whatever electricity thrum there was left.

JADE POUNCES AS soon as her front gate clicks shut. “So how does Kyle look naked?”

It’s like the time a sheet of snow fell off our garage and onto my hatless head: stupefying and obnoxious and a little painful. Not that I wasn’t expecting Jade to get straight to the point as soon as we were alone, but Kyle naked is a little too . . . pointy.

My lungs ache, even though we’re just starting our run. I haven’t taken a decent breath since Jade suggested it. She asked Kyle along, too, but he doesn’t have any of his exercise clothes to run in. Neither do I, really, except for my sneakers—and Jade kindly offered to lend me shorts and a T-shirt. We were all in the kitchen, setting up for dinner, and I’d been edgy from a phone call with my mom that included telling her I was making quesadillas for Zoë. So when Jade brought up the run, I couldn’t come up with an excuse fast enough. Not that she would’ve taken an excuse, anyway.

“Don’t tell me you two do it with your clothes on,” she says now, watching my face. “What a waste.”

“Would you stop?” I hiss, glancing over my shoulder. When we left, Kyle was with Jade’s father in the backyard, checking out the new hammocks. With any luck he’s still there, an entire house-sized distance between him and this conversation.

Jade snickers, but her pace quickens to a light jog and I follow. “Okay, you’re looking at me like I’m absurd when you’re the one on a road trip you’re obviously lying about. And I’m not supposed to believe this is an interstate sex romp?”

“No, you’re not, you hornball.” I stretch out an arm, briefly hiding my face as it reddens. Matty had insinuated something similar—not that he actually believed it. But everyone back home . . . they might. “And we wouldn’t have to leave Bend to have sex.”

She purses her lips. “You would for it to count as a romp.”

“There’s no romping!”

“If you say so,” she snorts, her eyes sparking, “Then what’s up? You’d really come all the way to California and not tell me?”

My exhale is shaky. This is the warm-up to whatever else she has in store for me. “We were six hours away. That’s not exactly in the neighborhood.”

“I know there’s a story here. Zoë was way too much of a jittery mess on the phone.”

I wipe sweat from my forehead. “Do you remember when Mr. Ordell used to say, ‘If I can hear you talking, you’re not running hard enough’?”

Jade grins. She must be picturing our middle school gym teacher, complete with track pants, polo shirt, and top-notch farmer’s tan. “I think it was more like, ‘If I can hear you talking, or see any shred of joy on your face, you’re not running hard enough.’ But this isn’t gym class. I want to talk!”

I fix my eyes straight ahead. There’s a full moon, and the palm trees and condos along Barnard Way are burnished orange by streetlights. Kyle and I walked this same street only a few hours ago—the ocean is right there. Although it’s too dark to see it beyond the boardwalk, I can smell its briny scent, more powerful here than up near Jade’s house.

I breathe out a sigh. “Okay, then. How does Theresa look naked?”

She laughs and reaches over to poke me sharply in the forehead. “I missed you, idiot.”

I take the opportunity to spring ahead, my feet pressing down hard into the cement. I can’t get away from Jade, or her questions, but running away right now tastes a little bit like freedom.

When I’m running—or tumbling, or practicing cheers, or exercising—my mind goes clear. Distracting myself constantly is exhausting, but when I’m active, I’m centered. I can let everything go.

We continue on to Ocean Avenue, then Santa Monica Boulevard, before turning into the Third Street Promenade. White fairy lights hang from the trees, glittering in the dark. It makes the place feel enchanted, like so much more than a few blocks of retail shops and restaurants.

Once we’re back on the street, there’s less to gawk at and fewer people to maneuver around. My legs blaze from ankle to thigh, and my arms throb—stretching before the run didn’t prepare my muscles at all, not with how tight they’ve been. But I want to get back to Jade’s quickly, so I push myself to run faster. She glances at me every so often with her eyebrows pulled together. She’s cataloging everything I do, and the sooner we’re with Kyle, and Arm, and even her parents, the better.

We pass a mural on Main Street—it’s an entire wall painted red, with the words “you are beautiful” scrawled across it in a neat white script. My mind pulls up the Thoreau mural back home, and a twinge darts up my chest. It makes me stumble and when Jade notices, her pace slows to a walk.

I keep jogging, not willing to slow down, but my skin goes cold and clammy. “Come on, Jade,” I huff. “A little farther.”

Her forehead wrinkles when she looks at me. “Aren’t we ever going to talk about her?”

Stupefying. Obnoxious. Painful.

I finally fall into step with her, panting. “What?”

“Ashlyn.”

My veins contract or expand or whatever they need to do so they won’t burst. Blood thunders in my ears as I steer myself around a woman walking her beagle. “What about Ashlyn?”

She pulls at the waist of her red shorts—“Vikings Cheer” is stitched onto the right leg. “How have you been? For real?”

I’ve answered that so often, it doesn’t register anymore. But this is Jade, not a random classmate or one of my mom’s friends who I’ve run into at the supermarket.

“It’s hard,” I tell her, my gaze on the squat and square blue building across the street. “Not having her around, I mean. But I’m doing okay.”

“Are you? Because it doesn’t seem like it.” I turn to her, and she holds up her hand. “She was your best friend. You’re more than entitled to not be okay.”

My shirt is heavy with sweat and rough against my skin. I just want it off. “Then what’s your point?”

Her voice is gentle when she says, “You’re different.”

I stop under a low, leafy tree. All I wanted was to avoid this conversation, but now that it’s happening, I’m aggravated Jade started it in front of a car wash. “How would you know if I’m different? We barely ever see each other.”

Jade rubs a hand down her face, weary. “I am so sorry that I couldn’t make it to her funeral. My mom was still looking for work back then and we didn’t have . . . I’m not trying to make this about me. What I’m saying is, even though we live far apart, I’m always going to be around for you. And I want you to know that you can talk to me.”

It hurts to smile, but I do. “I do know that, you sap.”

Her expression softens. “That. That’s what you do whenever I bring up Ashlyn. It’s like shutters come down over your eyes, or someone turned off your switch. You check out and change the subject.”

Nausea roils deep in my belly, a pit that gets bigger and bigger. “You’re imagining things.”

“You can’t bottle everything up, Cloudy,” she says. “If you do, you’ll never move on.”

I swallow hard. The school counselor, my parents, they all said the same thing. If I didn’t talk about Ashlyn’s death, how it made me feel, I’d never get past it. But here’s the thing about talking: every conversation ends the same way, with Ashlyn still dead and me missing her so much that it’s overwhelming, excruciating, and relentless. And when you talk enough about something, you give it a shape. You make it real.

Why doesn’t anyone get that?

Jade puts her hands behind her back. “Don’t get me wrong, Cloudy, I understand needing to get out of Bend. But this trip is kind of . . . unlike you.”

I roll my lips together. “Meaning?”

“You’re lying to your parents, your friends, skipping practice—you’ve never left the squad behind like that. Your sister’s home alone. And all for a spur-of-the-moment road trip with Ashlyn’s boyfriend? That’s not you.”

My skin is tight enough to split open. So what if I left things back in Bend? It’s not as if I’m doing this for myself. This trip is about Kyle getting through something big—and I’m not sorry for it. Not when I’m finally helping him. How can I look out for Zoë, for the squad, and for Kyle at the same time? How many people can I be there for at once?

“You haven’t given me a straight answer since you got here,” Jade pushes. “What’s going on?”

Warning bells and shrieking alarms and blaring sirens sound in my head, but I say it, anyway. “You really want to know what this trip’s about?”

She shrugs at me like of course. Of course I do.

So I tell her.

I tell her everything. Kyle’s rut, and the emails, and Ethan, and Palm Springs, and the Vegas wedding.

Her mouth opens the slightest bit as she absorbs it all, and before she can answer, I add, “I’m going to finish our run.”

Then, with my heart beating double-time and halfway up my throat, I turn away. And this time, I am running away from her, and her questions, but there’s nothing freeing about it.