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Dale just laughed and pointed his phone at him again like he was recording his embarrassment.Is he?

Asher held up his hand, blocking the camera. “You don’t need to think of anything, she’s coming.”

“And how are we going to know it’s her when she walks in? You’ve never met this girl and have zero pics of her.”

“I’ll know,” Asher said.

Dale scoffed. “By the magic of your underdeveloped intuition?”

“Thanks for the support,” Asher said.

“But, seriously,” Dale responded. “Tell me you’ve spoken to her. Like actually heard her voice.”

Asher gave an eye roll with his whole head. “Stop recordingme.”

“Kamala,” I whispered. She looked over from where she was straightening napkins but obviously eavesdropping as well. It wasn’t like they were talking quietly. “What rhymes with rat-dished?”

“Don’t be mean, Wren.”

I didn’t think it was mean. The guy’s friend seemed like the mean one, thinking up ways to humiliate him for fun.

Dale continued, “I will stop recording when you do any sort of video call with this girl.”

“I’ll do better,” Asher said. “I’ll talk to her in person when she walks through that door.” He stared at the door as though him saying it would make her magically appear.

Dale burst out laughing. I shivered, the laugh triggering me. My mom used to do that: laugh when I was uncomfortable, laugh when I was hurt, laugh when I asked a question she didn’t want to answer.

“Asher, dude, it’s over. You can admit it,” Dale said through his laughter. “I’ve played along this far, but you don’t really think she’s coming, do you? I know Elinor did a number on you, but are you really this stupid?”

I shot to my feet, almost involuntarily. My chest was burning. “Can I use the break room?” I asked Kamala under my breath.

“Why?” she asked warily.

“Can I?”

“Yes.”

I picked up my tote, rounded the counter, and went down the hall as casually as possible. Meg exited the kitchen just as I reached the break room. Her eyes went from my messy bun to my flip-flops. She had a sour look on her face that I knew was more stress than actual meanness. I thought about suggesting one of the books on her shelf—yoga or self-hypnosis—but decided not to press myluck.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

“I spilled something on my shirt, I wanted to change.”

She gave a single nod. “Don’t linger.”

“No, yes, I mean, thank you, I won’t.” I pointed to the door and rushed around her.

I stepped into the break room and dug the change of clothes I had brought for after the beach out of my bag—a pair of jean shorts and a striped crop top. Kamala appeared just as I stripped off my sweatshirt.

“What are you doing?” She was obviously shocked. I was a little too. I wasn’t typically impulsive. I tried very hard not to be, in fact.

“I’m helping.” I peeled off my leggings and pulled on my shorts.

“What? Helping who?”

“That guy out there has been talking to a girl he’s never met.I’ma girl he’s never met.”

Kamala’s eyebrows pulled together as she took in my meaning. “He doesn’t need you to save him from his own friend.”