As if he can read my mind, Jack says, “Didn’t you use to live on this side of town?”

“Once upon a time. So where are we going?”

He grins at me, and I melt into the seat. My insides have gone warm and soft, and I lean into this feeling because it’s not something I have all the time. It’s okay to be happy, I hear Rachel say. It’s okay to let yourself enjoy the good times.

Tonight could be the night. My Pauline Potter work-off-the-weight sex night. Jack Masselin, you just might be my first.

He says, “I was thinking we’d get something to eat and take it from there.” But he might as well say I’m taking you to the moon and back, and while we’re up there, I’m going to collect the stars for you so that you can keep them.

And suddenly I’m thinking about the daughter we’re destined to have. Beatrice, I think. We’ll name her Beatrice.

We drive past Olive Garden, Applebee’s, and the Red Lobster that opened last month. I’m mentally ticking through all the restaurants in town—there aren’t many—but we pass one after the other. I half expect him to just circle around and take me home, no food, no date. Or maybe drive across the Ohio line where no one will recognize him or me or us.

But then we’re leaving Amos, and my heart deflates a little, which tells me I didn’t actually expect him to do this, and now he’s doing it—smuggling me over city lines like the daughter of some wealthy oil baron.

“Where are we going?” My voice sounds flat, as if it’s underridden a semi about fifty times.

“Richmond.”

“Richmond?” It comes out sounding like ARE YOU F-ING KIDDING ME? RICHMOND?! WHY DON’T YOU JUST CHAIN A BOULDER TO MY LEG AND THROW ME IN THE RIVER?

“Yes, Richmond. There’s no way I’m taking you to one of the usual dumps in town. Not looking like that.”

Clara’s Pizza King is an institution. It’s the best pizza for miles, and there’s a red double-decker bus parked in the dining room. The place is crowded, but I’ve called ahead. We can sit in the bus or at a corner table upstairs that has a porch swing on one side. Libby chooses the porch swing.

We move through the tables, Libby in front of me, and I see people staring at her. This happens when I’m with Caroline—people look at her. But they look at Caroline because she’s the kind of tall, sexy girl you look at.

As we walk, I can see where the path is too tight, where Libby will have to squeeze through. I offer to go first because that way I can choose which way to go so she doesn’t have to worry about it. I’m clearing the way, and people are gawking, and it hits me that up until recently, I was one of them. Maybe not the snickering ones, but the ones sitting next to them. I don’t know what to feel or do, so I stare back. Do I know them or not know them? I don’t even care. They’re watching her and me, and this table of boys starts saying shit. Does she hear them? I can’t tell. Probably. I throw my head back—a move I like to think makes my hair instantly grow twenty times bigger, and me ten feet taller—and I give them the eye. They get quiet.

Upstairs, Libby takes a seat on the swing, and now I can sit on the other side of the table or I can sit next to her. I think, Fuck ’em all, these people who are staring. I say, “Is that space taken?” I nod down at the swing.

“You don’t have to.”

“What?”

“Sit by me.”

“Move it, sister.”

She shoves over, and we rock back and forth, like we’re kicking back on our front porch on a summer afternoon. Each table has an actual phone—the old-fashioned kind with a cord—and after I call in our order, I take her hand.

I say, “My palms are sweaty.”

“Why?”

“I’m nervous.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m sitting next to you on this swing and you’re beautiful.”

She hesitates, like she’s not sure whether to take the compliment. But then she says, “Thank you.”

Being out in the world with her is different from being alone with her. For one, there are too many other people. For two, I’m on guard, ready to take on anyone who tries to get it started with her or me. For three, it’s making me think about her weight in a way I haven’t really, truly thought about until right this moment.

We’re sitting there in silence, so I decide to tell her about Dr. Amber Klein and the tests and everything I haven’t told her about my time as Jack Masselin, Lab Rat. Libby’s not saying anything, but I can tell she’s listening. Her head is cocked to one side, and I can see her eyes taking it all in.

Finally she goes, “How do you feel?”

“The same. Maybe a little worse. Maybe a little better.”

“Are you going to tell your parents?”

“I don’t think so. What’s the point, right? I mean, there’s nothing any of us can do, short of downloading facial recognition software directly into this brain of mine. Telling them won’t magically create a cure. It’ll just give them more shit to worry about.”

“I’m sorry. I wanted there to be something they could do for you. Not because your brain isn’t awesome the way it is, but because it would make you feel better.”

Now it’s my turn to not say anything. I sit looking at her until it’s just us, Libby and me, no one else for miles. What I want to do more than anything is kiss her. I almost do, but then the waitress is standing there with our food.

As we eat, Libby is glancing around, and finally she looks at me and goes, “Richmond, huh?” And there’s something in her tone that makes me set down my drink.