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“I’m done with her,” I say to Jess as we’re closing up at the Hidden Fern. She’s balancing the cash register; I’m sweeping, feeling furious about Celia, still furious two days after the dinner party. She’s been my best friend for years, but I’m done with her—done with her chore wheel, done with her hovering, done with her nervous energy, erratic as the flight path of a moth.

“Because of Piegate?” Jess says. “To be honest, I thought it was kind of funny.”

“It wasn’t just the pie,” I say, and I readjust my grip on the broom. “It’s been a whole summer of things. Of not being supportive of you and me. Of ditching us on the Fourth of July.”

“But it must have been a shock to her to hear you want to stay here,” says Jess. “Have you thought of talking to her? Telling her why?”

I think of all the reasons why I want to be someplace new next year: how good it feels to be with Jess—of course. But it’s more than that. How important it feels to be far away from the memory of my dad; how it feels like relief to be in a place where no one knows me as the Kid Whose Dad Left, a place where people just know me as Ros. I feel a little guilty over potentially leaving my mom—not that she’s said yes yet—but not guilty enough to keep me there, at home. Home feels smothering, like a shirt I’ve long outgrown. But I think of explaining this all to Celia, and I feel suddenly exhausted.

“About Celia,” Jess says.

“Celia, who I’m done with,” I say, sweeping aggressively.

“I know, I know. It’s just—is it possible you’re being a little rash? Maybe there’s a way for the two of you to save something.”

“You sound like her,” I say. “Telling me not to rush.”

“Maybe that’s not such a bad thing,” Jess says softly.

My anger releases its hold slightly. If I’m being honest with myself, part of me loves Jess for telling me to think things through. She doesn’t just know how to rush—she knows how to pause, too. It occurs to me that the patience I love in Jess is something I love in Celia, too.

I’m so lost in thought that I knock over one of the terrariums. It shatters on the floor, a mess of soil and glass, like the picture window in miniature. I sweep it up and go to throw it away when Jess calls, “Wait!”

From the dustpan, she fishes out two succulents that were growing inside. She replants them in empty terra-cotta pots and sets them by the cash register, where they greet customers like old friends. Two happy, healthy green plants, rescued from the broken parts.