“Oh, no. I’m fine. I’ll just eat something here.” My excuse floods from my mouth quickly, maybe too quickly.

“You don’t have anything. Come on, just come,” she says, reaching for my hand and pulling me to a stand.

“I’ll go,” Paige says, pulling the extra layer of shirt off of her arms to make sure the one-size-too-small tank top is squeezing her boobs enough to make part of them spill out. I don’t want to go. I don’t do public places well, especially cafeterias that are crowded with people. But Paige is already positioning herself close to Nate, and she’s making excuses to touch him, pointing to something on his shirt and lifting the back of his shirt to “look at the tag on his jeans to see what kind they are.”

“Okay, I’ll go.” I don’t know what I’m doing, and I don’t know how I’m going to survive this. But thank you, jealousy, for being a force to be reckoned with, perhaps the only emotion strong enough to conquer fear.

We’re walking out the door, and my heart is pounding so fast I honestly think I might have a heart attack. I try to keep my arms out to my sides because my armpits are sweating profusely. I’ve never been so nervous in my entire life.

“Whose phone is ringing? Cass is that you?” Paige says, tugging at her sister’s purse. She’s on the other side of Nate, and has to reach across him to reach Cass, which is the only reason she is doing that, and I know it. I know it because it’s my phone that’s ringing, and every single one of us knows it. It’s obvious, and Paige is pathetic.

“It’s mine. You guys go ahead. I’ll catch up,” I say, pulling my phone out and seeing my mom’s contact info.

“I’ll wait. We’ll catch up,” Nate says, leaning against the wall and nodding to me to take my time. He’s waiting. For me. And I’m so glad, but also mortified that he’s going to hear me talk to my mom. And she’s going to ask questions. Personal ones—ones that I don’t want to answer in front of him.

“Hi, Mom,” I say, trying to sound just the right mix of positive and neutral.

“Well, you sound good,” she says, already analyzing. My mom is an economist. But somewhere along the way she decided she’s also Dr. Phil.

“Yeah, just going to get some dinner. What’s up?” I say, trying to urge her to be fast, but also not encourage too many questions.

“You’re going out?” Shit.

“Yeah, I’ve made some friends. My roommate is really nice. We’re going to eat.” I spare a quick glance at Nate, and he’s grinning at me. I’m so embarrassed that he’s listening, because I know my mom is about to go on and on about how important friends are, and how proud she is of me for trying hard. And there she goes.

“Honey, you’re doing so well. This is only going to get easier, too. Friends are an important part of the healing process…”

I tune the next part out, because I’ve heard this speech before. Friends equal healing, yeah…got it. Ross said this to me once in a joint session with my mom, and she clung to it. I don’t think she even knows what those words mean anymore, she just repeats them to me over and over—like it’s a cheer—until I reach the invisible finish line.

“Look, Mom. I’m sorry, but they’re waiting on me. I don’t want to make them wait,” I say, staring right at Nate, who’s the only one really waiting.

“Okay, well, call me tomorrow. Let me know how classes go,” she says, not hanging up right away.

“Right. Okay, love you,” I say, suddenly really dreading the idea of going to the cafeteria full of people. But there is some truth to what my mom says—friends are part of healing.

“Ready?” Nate says, kicking off from the wall and holding his arm out for me. I don’t take it—not because I don’t want to, because god, do I want to—but because I don’t like what it means if I do. I used to take Josh’s arm. He used to sprint from his class to mine, waiting for me outside my door just to walk me to my next class. It was our thing, and I think that means it can’t be a thing I do with anyone else.

I can tell I’ve made him uncomfortable by the way he’s standing in the elevator, like he’s afraid of offending me. He’s all the way in the opposite corner—giving me space since I refused to touch his arm. I like Nate. And I want to be his friend because I like being close to him. And that has to be enough.

We stop on the second floor, and two girls get in. They notice us standing at opposite corners. “He farted,” I say, partly wanting to see how uncomfortable it makes these two girls—because, like, who the hell takes the elevator for one floor? And, I want to bring back Nate’s smile, which I seem to have done. Teeth. Dimples.