“You’re supportive,” I said.

“No, I’m realistic,” she replied. “She’s been training for two months now, and her times aren’t improving. At all. If she insists on doing this, she’s just going to embarrass herself.”

“Still,” I said, looking at Laney again, who was still plodding along. “You have to admit, it’s kind of impressive.”

Olivia harrumphed. “What is? Total denial?”

“Total commitment,” I said. “You know, the idea of discovering something that, for all intents and purposes, goes against your abilities, and yet still deciding to do it anyway. That takes guts, you know?”

She considered this as the security guard passed by, going the other way. “If she’s so gutsy, though, why is it that she usually quits at about the two-mile mark, then calls me to come pick her up?”

“She does that?” I asked.

“Only about every other time. Oh, wait. Is that not supportive, though?”

I sat back, ignoring this, planting my hands on the pavement behind me. It wasn’t like I was some expert on the meaning of being supportive. Was it being loyal even against your better judgment? Or, like Olivia, was it making your displeasure known from the start, even when someone didn’t want to hear it? I’d been thinking about this more and more since Nate’s and my discussion at Spice and Thyme. Maybe he was someone who lived in the moment, easily able to compartmentalize one part of his life from another. But to me, the Nate I was spending more and more time with was still the same one who was going home to a bad situation with his dad and who planned to get out as soon as he could—both of these were reasons I should have kept away, or at least kept my distance. Yet if anything, I kept moving closer, which just made no sense at all.

Now, I looked over at Olivia, who was squinting into the distance, the timer still counting down in her lap. “Do you remember,” I asked, “how you said that when you first came from Jackson, it was hard for you, and that’s why you never bothered to talk to anyone or make friends?”

“Yeah,” she said, sounding a bit wary. “Why?”

“So why did you, then?” I asked, looking at her. “I mean, with me. What changed?”

She considered this as a minivan drove by, pulling up on the other side of the box office. “I don’t know,” she said. “I guess it was just that we had something in common.”

“Jackson.”

“Yeah, that. But also, not being like everyone else at Perkins. You know, having some part that’s different, and yet shared. I mean, with me it’s my family, my economic standing. You, well, you’re a lush and a delinquent—”

“Hey,” I said. “That was just one day.”

“I know, I’m just kidding,” she said, waving me off with her hand. “But neither of us exactly fit the mold there.”

“Right.”

She sat back, brushing her braids away from her face. “My point is, there are a lot of people in the world. No one ever sees everything the same way you do; it just doesn’t happen. So when you find one person who gets a couple of things, especially if they’re important ones . . . you might as well hold on to them. You know?”

I looked down at the stopwatch sitting on the curb between us. “Nicely put,” I said. “And all in less than two minutes.”

“Conciseness is underrated,” she said easily. Then she looked over my shoulder, suddenly raising her hand to wave to someone behind me. When I turned, I was surprised to see Gervais, in his peacoat standing in front of the box office. Seeing me, his face flushed, and he hurriedly grabbed his ticket from under the glass and darted inside.

“You know Gervais?” I asked her.

“Who, extra salt, double-lic whip? Sure. He’s a regular.” I just looked at her. “That’s his concession order,” she explained. “Large popcorn, no butter, extra salt, and two packs of licorice whips. He hits at least one movie a week. The boy likes film. How do you know him?”

“We ride to school together,” I said. So Gervais had a life outside of carpool. It wasn’t like it should have been surprising, but for some reason, it was.

Just then, I heard a buzzing: her phone. She pulled it out of her pocket, looked at the screen, then sighed. Laney. “I’d say I told you so,” she said. “But it’s not like I get any satisfaction from this.”

I watched as she flipped it open, hitting the TALK button and saying she’d be there in a minute. Then she picked up her book and got to her feet, brushing herself off. “Still,” I said, “you have to get something, though.”

“From what? ”

“From this.” I gestured around me. “I mean, you are out here timing her. So you can’t be totally opposed to what she’s doing.”

“No, I am.” She pulled her keys out of her pocket, shoving the book under her arm. “But I’m also a sucker. Clearly.”

“You are not,” I said.

“Well, then, I don’t know the reason,” she said. “Other than she’s my cousin, and she asked, so I’m here. I try not to go deeper than that. I’ll see you around, okay?”

I nodded, and then she was walking away, across the lot to her car. Watching her, I kept thinking of what she’d said earlier about having things in common, and then of Nate and me in his garage on Thanksgiving, when I’d told him about my mom and our history. Clearly, sharing something could take you a long way, or at least to a different place than you’d planned. Like a friendship or a family, or even just alone on a curb on a Saturday, trying to get your bearings as best you can.