I draw a fueling breath then begin. “I’m sorry I left so quickly this morning at the diner.” That’s easy to get out—what comes next is harder.

But then maybe not as hard as I anticipated, because the huge knot of anxiety comes undone when I continue with the cold, stark truth. “I left because I didn’t think I could stop kissing you if I stayed, and I care about you too deeply to jeopardize our friendship. Even though kissing you was absolutely fantastic and definitely not at all chaste. So I hope you’ll forgive me for being a dick.”

I try to read her reaction, try to find the secret to Summer in her brown eyes, but all I see is surprise.

Or more like shock.

Because her irises go wider than the moon, and she blinks several times, like she’s trying to make sense of my words.

For a second or two, her lips seem to twitch like she has a secret. But if she does, she’s keeping it in, because she schools her expression before she parts her lips to speak.

A ringing bell from the store interrupts us. A large man with a thick beard and a helpful grin pops out of the shop. “We’re closing in ten minutes. Just wanted to see if you needed something before we shut for the evening.”

“Yes. We do,” I say, and then we head inside, quickly finding a cubic zirconia that looks mostly real, and once we leave, she returns to the conversation.

“There’s nothing to forgive. We’re all good. And I appreciate you saying that. It means a lot to me.”

“It does?”

“It does. I care so much about our friendship too. I truly do. And I don’t want to jeopardize it either.”

I sigh in relief. “Well, that’s good. That’s great. Being on the same page and all.” But I’m still eager to know what was on her mind earlier. “What were you going to tell me before we went in there?”

She smiles as she looks at her fake ring. “Just what I said, for the most part. That I love being friends with you.” She lifts a hand like she’s going to set it on my arm, but she doesn’t. She lowers it and keeps her arms at her sides. “But also that it’s probably for the best if we don’t pretend to kiss again . . . because I liked it too. A lot.”

Oh.

Well.

That’s an interesting twist. “You did?”

She gives me a what can you do shrug. “I did.” She smiles a little impishly then taps my skull. “But don’t let that go to your head too much. I don’t want your ego to grow any larger.”

“No, I wouldn’t want it to outpace other large parts of my body.” Joking is easier than addressing what she’s just told me.

But I stew on it anyway as we walk to Madison Square Garden to catch Fitz’s game. Along the way, I’m extremely grateful for the noise of Manhattan, for the sardine-packed streets stuffed with tourists and locals, and for the smells of garbage, the scent of buses fuming, the din of phone calls, of cabs honking, of cars stopping.

It keeps my focus on the immediate rather than this brand-new information that’s complicating matters even more.

She liked it too.

A lot.

When we go inside the Garden, it feels like I’m entering a safe zone.

There is no way I will be tempted to kiss her here.

Not a chance.

Especially when we grab nachos and beer. The nachos here are covered in jalapeños, and who would want a jalapeño kiss?

Not this guy.

Not at all.

Not even with Summer.

Then I take a bite of the nachos, and they are spicier than I remembered.

Who am I kidding? I bet she’d taste fiery.

That’s the trouble.

24OLIVER

But a deal is a deal.

That’s what we have. A deal to appear engaged. A deal to look the part.

So we do our best at the game, shouting and cheering and, also, talking.

Like we’ve done for the last seventeen years.

Every year. Every day.

And I can forget the jalapeño desire. I can forget how good she tasted, how fantastic she smells. I can do what I’ve always done—be her friend.

“Have you given any more thought to your gym time frame while you save the rest of the money?”

“No. But my mom texted me again. She offered me the money a second time, but . . .”

“But you’re not going to take it, I trust?”

“It just doesn’t feel right to me.”

“I suppose.” I take another drink of my beer as the good guys chase the puck on the ice and Summer shouts her encouragement.

At the next lull, she picks up the discussion as if we’d only hit pause.

“You get why I turn her down though, right?” she asks earnestly. “I want to do this myself. I already pretty much get off scot-free in the rent department, living with my grandma. I don’t want to be beholden to anyone else.”

“But your mom would give you the money. So would you truly be beholden?”

She reaches for the nachos, scoops one up, and chews. “No, but what if I was? She always talked about how she gave up her job to help support my dad’s business. So what if it became this thing that would hang over us?”

I nod, taking a tortilla chip and eating it as New York attacks the net. But New York misses the shot, and the collective shoulders in the rink slump.

“Your mom’s happy though, don’t you think? At least, she always seemed that way when we were younger.”