The Code for Love and Heartbreak - Jillian Cantor Page 0,31

eyes shut, and toss and turn for a few more minutes before I finally give up and pull my phone out of my night table drawer, power it on.

The only text is one from Dad, saying he went into work for a few hours and didn’t want to wake me before he left. That I looked like I needed some sleep after last night and he hoped everything was okay. Can we talk over dinner? I’ll pick something up on the way home. Text me later and let me know what you want.

When he’d picked me up from the dance last night, I’d gotten in his car and refused to say a word the entire ride home. Dad asked if I’d had fun, and then, when I didn’t answer, he asked if something was wrong. I’d just shrugged and looked out the window, not wanting to discuss any of it with him, worried if I did, I’d scream—or worse, cry. Finally, he pulled into the garage. I told him I was really tired, and I’d gone straight upstairs and gotten into bed. It had taken me hours to fall asleep, as every time I closed my eyes I kept seeing Hannah’s bright, excited face as she was dancing, and George’s red, angry one looming over me.

I glance at the time now, and it’s after eleven. I never stay in bed this late, not even on Sundays, and I do have a calculus test and a Spanish quiz tomorrow. I need to practice piano today, too. I force myself to get out of bed and get some work done.

I go into the kitchen, brew some coffee for a mocha. Then I sip it at the kitchen table, and pick up my phone, glancing at it again. I think about texting Hannah, but I’m not sure what to say to her. Should I apologize? She was having a great time at the dance when I saw her, and I only gave her what she asked for: a match. Still, I can’t help feeling this is all my fault and that she might hate me right now. Maybe instead I should text Phillip and yell at him for ruining everything? He’d seemed genuinely upset when we’d lost states last year. How could he do this to us now?

I’m still considering what to do when the doorbell rings. I walk toward it slowly, wondering whether or not to actually answer it. It would be just like George to storm over here if he was still angry. But also, part of me hopes it is him, because then he can help me figure out what I’m supposed to do next.

I look through the peephole, and it’s not George. It’s Sam. He’s standing there on my porch, looking down at his sneakers, a paper bag in his hands. I have never felt happier to see anyone, and I open the door quickly before I realize that I’m still in the clothes I slept in, and that my hair is a total mess. I quickly pull it back into a ponytail with the hair tie on my wrist.

“Did I wake you?” Sam asks, taking in my outfit—my old stretched-out gray sweatpants and my Stanford sweatshirt.

“No, no. I got up a little while ago.”

He holds up the paper bag. “I brought donuts.”

I open the door wider. “Come on in. You want a mocha?” Then I clarify that it’s just half coffee, half milk, with a packet of Swiss Miss mixed in.

“Sure, sounds great.” He follows me into the kitchen where I make him his own cup, hand it to him and then invite him to come sit with me on the couch. I curl up on one end, tucking my feet underneath me, sipping on my mocha. Sam sits next to me, puts his cup down on Dad’s Phillies coaster on the coffee table and leans his elbows on his knees, turning his head to look at me. He offers me a half smile before opening the paper bag. “Glazed or chocolate?” he asks me.

I consider it for a moment, because really you can’t go wrong with either one. “Glazed,” I finally decide. He hands me a donut, and I take a bite, chewing around the edges, letting the sweetness of the glaze melt in my mouth, soothe me a little.

“I am a firm believer that donuts fix all things,” Sam says.

I laugh a little, but the donut catches in my throat and then I almost feel like