me, all right?”
“Mmm.” I pass empty tables loaded with plates.
We were close. Now she doesn’t even tell me when she makes big decisions like quitting her job.
The door to the diner jingles when I push it open with my hip, and I catch the full brunt of December cold to the face.
I make a mental note to mention holiday decorations to Sylvia as I step into the chilly sunshine, but a hand on my arm catches me just before I unlock Sylvia’s old barge of a Buick. I don’t know what I expect when I turn around, but it isn’t good.
It’s Sarah and Kiersten.
They’re duplicates of each other, their arms crossed in defense against the cold, backs ramrod straight.
“Did Sylvia need something?” I ask.
Kiersten raises her brows to Sarah. She nods once, a gesture of solidarity.
Sarah sets her jaw and stands a little straighter.
“You need to tell Rhodes who you are.” Sarah cuts her eyes to Kiersten, who nods her on. “I bombed my project presentation because of you, and now you need to get what you deserve with her. I needed that scholarship, too, Iliana.”
“You told Kiersten?!” My voice ricochets off the side of the building and echoes into the parking lot. “Sarah! You’re my best friend—when I tell you things, I expect you to keep them to yourself.”
“Really? She’s your best friend.” Kiersten snorts. Sarah snorts. “What’s going on in her life right now, Iliana? Why is she afraid? Why is she lonely? Do you even give a shit about her, or do you expect her to follow you around because you’re a God-forsaken narcissist, and narcissists cease to exist when they don’t have a sycophant telling them how wonderful they are?”
I’m disoriented—like I’ve been slapped.
My vision crackles around the edges.
I dig my heels into the pavement as if I’m going to fall over. I wish Kiersten had just slapped me instead; this hurts worse.
I loathe the day I ever set eyes on Kiersten, and I loathe Sarah for being the kind of person who absorbs the worst qualities of the people around her—and I wonder which parts of her I used to love were actually ugly reflections of what other people see in me.
I could blast off at Kiersten about how she doesn’t know the lifetime of history Sarah and I share, or everything we’ve been through together, or how she really doesn’t understand how complicated things have become between Rhodes, Sarah, and myself.
I could blast off at Sarah for breaking the one sacred thing we had together—trust—and giving away a fifteen-year friendship because someone new is providing her with the constant attention she so desperately craves.
My conversation with Mom over a week ago hangs over my head, an entire childhood of Sarah standing too close to the blast zone while I pack dynamite into the crevices of each wall that has stood in the way of getting what I want.
She has always been in the position to lose something where I’ve stood to gain.
My face burns, but there’s no going back now.
“Are you not going to say anything to this?” Sarah is a tearful, choking mess.
I’m supposed to say “I’m sorry” right now, but I want Sarah to apologize for breaking my trust, for putting me in the position for all of this to be so much fucking worse. Every bone in my body aches with loss—losing Alice, losing Rhodes, and losing Sarah.
I don’t know how to apologize, how to take responsibility for my role in what happened to Sarah without taking responsibility for the entire rotten mess.
“You know what? This is the worst. You’re the worst.” Kiersten throws off her apron and shoves it into my chest. “I’m leaving. Iliana, if you don’t tell Rhodes, we will.”
“Why the hell do you care about Rhodes, anyway?” My voice leaves me so fragile.
I’ve never heard it like this before.
I don’t think I’ve ever been so desperately fractured in my life.
Kiersten sneers.
“I don’t care about Rhodes. But Sarah does.”
“You deserve for this to blow up in your face,” Sarah says. “She loves whoever she thinks you are, this online person you pretend to be with her, and she needs to know what she’s really dealing with.”
The meanness in her face, the cross of her arms, her voice—none of it is remotely recognizable to me. I know every square inch of her face. I’ve seen her earn every single scar and pockmark on her body, and yet this person is a complete stranger.
I miss my friend.
“So that’s what this