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From Valeria. A Venmo payment.

A hundred bucks. The caption: For the Uber back. I’m so sorry, but I need a moment to collect my thoughts. I’m so sorry this happened.

I can’t ruin Romy’s celebration right now. And Valeria just ditched me.

I look out at the party, and I see Wyatt. Sweet, kind-of-douchey Wyatt. Wyatt, who supported me through all of this. He isn’t standing with Steven anymore.

I practically run up to him. Pull him into a hug.

And he untangles, pushing me back.

“What are you doing?” he demands.

“What…?” I study him. He’s…His eyes are puffy, like he’s been crying. “Wyatt, what happened?”

He takes a deep breath. “What happened? You exposed your secret relationship and Steven knows I knew! He said I’m fired and I can forget the promotion!”

As if I thought this couldn’t get any worse. “Wyatt…”

“I gotta go.”

And he just leaves, no other explanation.

I pull out my phone, pull up Noam’s number. I just can’t bring myself to return to my apartment tonight.

Are you at Wes’s house?

Noam, by some miracle, answers right away.

Yeah, why?

Can I crash with you for a few hours?

Ugh sure.

I type Valeria’s address into Uber. Send one more text to Romy.

OMG OMG OMG OMG ROM HOLY FUCKING SHIT IS RIGHT!!!

It’s so easy to fake enthusiasm over text.

chapter twenty-one

I Uber to Val’s, pick up my car, and drive over to Noam’s friend’s house in Santa Monica without talking to anyone. I don’t answer a single text, not even to elaborate on the celebratory message I sent Romy. And Jesus, it’s ridiculous that I’m not celebrating. It’s so incredibly awesome what’s happening to her. I am so happy for her.

I text Noam to tell him I’m here, but I get no reply and I have to knock. Noam answers the door, thoroughly disturbed, PS4 controller still in his grubby hand.

“You know we won’t stop playing for you,” he says. He looks me up and down. “Why do you look so nice?”

Thanks for the compliment, I guess. “I just came from the Oakley in Flames wrap party.”

Noam leads me to the living room/kitchen, dumping his body onto the couch next to Wes, one of his college friends. Wes glances up at me.

“Hey, Luna,” he says.

“Hey, Wes.”

We likely won’t say much more than that to each other.