The next day Reese recruits my help making a batch of cupcakes for the school bake sale, which raises funds for prom and is apparently mandatory for all the cheerleaders. We end up at my house again, mainly because I feel bad subjecting her family to the doll’s shrill crying.
“So, how’s it going with your bundle of joy?” she asks as she looks down at its spot on top of the kitchen table.
I groan and duck down to grab the mixer from the bottom cupboards. “At least it’s finally quiet,” I say as I straighten again. “I swear that thing is programmed to be most annoying right after school gets out.”
“Man, I’m so glad I didn’t take this class.” She rocks its plastic carrier. “She is kind of cute, though. Wait—is it a she?”
“It’s a doll.”
“What’s her name, though?”
I scowl. “She doesn’t have a name.”
“I always named my dolls growing up. My favorite was Alexandra, because she had this wire in her hair so you could curl it or braid it and it would stay. Anyway. You should give her a name!”
I open a drawer and pull out the measuring cups. “Can we just focus on the cupcakes, please?”
She holds a hand up in surrender. “Fine.”
“Sorry. But the thing was wailing for like, half an hour before you got here, and I can’t listen to it again.”
Reese stifles a grin and glances down at the doll once more. “Some powerful birth control right here.”
I snort a laugh. “No kidding. I had to bring it on my date last night, so I can attest that’s true.”
“And how is Holland?” she asks as she sidles up next to me.
“He’s good...” I bite my lip and line up the measuring cups in order of size. “He sort of said the L word last night.”
Reese’s eyes go wide and she smacks her hand on the counter. “What? Why didn’t you tell me this at lunch? Oh my god—what did you say?”
I make a face that’s somewhere between a smile and a grimace. “That it was too soon.”
“That’s probably the most on-brand thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Well, it was! But he was good about it.” I turn and lean against the counter. “He didn’t seem to expect me to say it back yet.”
“Yet,” Reese repeats, like she’s reading way too much into that single syllable. She smiles at me for another moment. “I’m happy for you.”
“Thank you.” I spin back around to face the counter, more than ready for a change in subject. “But we should seriously get going on this.”
“Okay, okay. So what’re we making?”
I open my laptop to show her the recipes I’ve earmarked. “Up to you. I think we have the ingredients for any of these.”
While she looks through the options, I go to grab ingredients out of the pantry. Flour, sugar, baking soda, vanilla extract. All the basics. I unload everything onto the counter next to Reese. “So what’d you decide?”
She doesn’t answer. Instead she tilts the screen toward me. “What is this?”
My stomach drops when I catch a glimpse of Bayes’ theorem—I left the list from last night open. Reese lifts a brow, waiting. My heart slams against my rib cage.
“Nothing,” I croak out. My hand reaches, shuts the laptop, and tugs it closer to me. “That was just—”
“Will probably last a week once college starts?” Reese’s voice trembles, and I am the worst. I should have deleted that stupid document. Should never have written it in the first place.
“God. Reese—listen. I was so worked up last night, so I was just... I was trying to use Bayes’ theorem, like you said. To figure out how I felt.”
“Yeah, it’s pretty clear how you feel.” She rocks back on her heels like she wishes my kitchen was bigger, that she could put more space between us. “You think I’m naive. That I’m kidding myself about Kevin.”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out right away. “No—I just think...”
“What?” she snaps. “Just say it, Aubrey.”
“I told you, I was confused last night. And—look, I’m not saying your feelings aren’t real. But...you don’t even know what your major will be in college. You have no idea who you’ll be in four years.” Reese flinches at this, but I’m not telling her anything she hasn’t already said herself. “Or who he’ll be. You’re both in this little bubble, going to all the same parties and hanging out with all the same people, but things are going to change next year. Whether you like it or not.”
“And you think I don’t know that? You think I don’t get how hard it’s going to be? Or I guess you just think you know more about my relationship than I do.”
I think of all those relationship advice articles she’s been reading and cringe. I’m such an asshole. “No—I know. Reese, please—”
But already Reese is packing up her things. “Look, I get that you’re dealing with some intense stuff right now. And I’ve tried to be supportive. I mean, god.” Reese huffs a laugh. “I was standing here telling you how happy I was that your relationship with Holland is getting more serious. And meanwhile you were using all the personal stuff I’ve told you to fuel your cynical bullshit.”
Her voice shakes, and it tightens my own airways, makes me have to swallow hard against the shame rising up the back of my throat.
“I’m really sorry,” I finally spit out. “I didn’t mean...” I shake my head, unsure how to finish that sentence. I didn’t mean to sound like a condescending jackass. I didn’t mean to hurt her. But I did mean what I said, at least some of it.
Why am I the bad guy for pointing out the super obvious fact that most high school relationships don’t last?
“You did mean it, though. You’ve always thought this. That I’m naive and you’re so wise, except you can’t even see the way you’re hiding out in your own safe little bubble.”
“Please.” I’m stinging from her comments, and this comes out sounding less like a plea and more like a weapon.
She slings her bag onto her shoulder. “You know... You probably don’t need to stress so much about all this stuff with Holland. Because at this rate, it’s not going to matter whether you believe in love. You’ll end up alone regardless.”
My molars clench. “At least I can be alone. Unlike you, who jumps from boyfriend to boyfriend because you don’t like yourself enough to be alone.”
Reese’s cheeks go ruddy. She looks as though I slapped her. “Fuck you, Aubrey.”
With that she flies out the kitchen door, leaving an unsettling silence in her wake.
After a few breaths I turn back to the counter. Put the mixer away, then the measuring cups. Store the ingredients back in the pantry and dust off the counter, washing away the evidence that she was even here.
But I can’t shake the feeling that this fight was different. The kind that leaves a scar. The kind you point to months later, when you never see or speak to the other person anymore, and you say, that, right there. That was the moment we fell apart.