Lenny’s is a famous diner in San Diego. We usually go there after long nights out because it’s open twenty-four hours, and it’s more upmarket than IHOP. Blythe, Esme, and Alisha will never admit it, but they also like it because it’s a great spot to pick up bikers, pretty fitness instructors on their way to make it big in LA, and other types of handsome, rugged men their parents would never let them hang out with otherwise. Consequently, I hate Lenny’s. I always end up sitting in a red vinyl booth, drowning french fries in different sauces as I wait for my friends to come back from their hookups. I pretend to text Principal Prichard when I see them through the windows coming back and adjusting their skirts.

“Are you sure that’s exactly what your ass needs right now? Fried food?” I’m officially turning into Esme. I’m fat-shaming people to get off the hook.

Alisha snickers beside me, gulping a bottle of Smartwater.

“Life’s too short not to eat greasy food, then starve yourself for a week. Just drive to Lenny’s, Dar. The guys are already on their way.”

As soon as I set foot in Lenny’s, I know I’ve stepped onto a minefield.

It looks like your typical American diner: black and white checked floors, red and white vinyl booths, jukeboxes on every table, and walls crammed with pictures of the owner—you guessed it, Lenny—hugging legendary athletes and local celebrities. The menu flashes in pink and green neon letters above the silver bar. Packed, noisy, and carrying the mouthwatering scent of deep-fried onions and burgers, this place is heaven for our semi-drunken asses. We slip into the guys’ booth, but I can’t shake off the feeling that something terrible is about to happen.

Everyone orders a milkshake. Knight’s hair is so tousled and his lips are so puffy it looks like a bear has assaulted him. Guys are so weird. They can love a girl to death but still mess with other people. The guys order an obscene amount of food. The girls get Cobb salads and french fries. I decide to stick to my vanilla and chocolate milkshake and grin when I think about what Penn would make of it if he saw my choice. Is it akin to ice cream? I would ask Mel if we were still on speaking terms.

Gus makes a police siren noise, sprinkling it with a burp.

“Yo. Loser alert at three o’clock.”

We all twist our heads to the side and see the Las Juntas football crowd sitting in a booth opposite to ours. The only people I recognize are the big quarterback who seems tight with Penn, the handsome African-American dude with the Mohawk, and, of course, my housemate.

Penn is wearing a black shirt with a hole where the heart is and unintentionally baggy Levi’s that’re worn to death. His wallet chain is intact, and he is munching on an unlit cigarette he is never going to smoke. I know he quit; I overheard him telling Melody, who bought him patches and a book the size of my head called How to Quit Smoking—and he is talking to the waitress who is taking their order.

Her name tag says Adriana.

Adriana. Wasn’t that the name of his so-called girlfriend, whose existence I’m trying to suppress?

“Are they still bitter about the loss?” Esme cackles, slurping her milkshake. Blythe is scrolling through the Instagram page of the Italian artist Vaughn went to over the summer, and I know why. There’s a picture of Vaughn on there, sculpting. Vaughn doesn’t have any other social media accounts and never will.

“Dunno, don’t care.” Gus snorts, and I know my instincts about the minefield were right. I don’t want another altercation with Penn. A sad, distant status quo is better than igniting his hatred toward me. His flames of loathing eat at everything in my vicinity once they’re directed at me.

“Scully seems over it. They don’t call it the cave of wonders for nothing.” Esme raises her phone and snaps a picture of Penn and Adriana laughing as she stands over him with the notepad.

“Here, Blythe. I’m sending you a souvenir to the fact that you’re pathetic.” Esme laughs. “Are you still maybe pregnant?”

“Shut up, bitch.”

Blythe goes eerily white. Marx, please don’t let her be pregnant. It’s like an ice pick in my chest, digging deep.

“Don’t be sad, girl. You’ll probably get a round on this stallion when he cleans your pool in oh, about five years or so.” Alisha yawns, examining her pink-tipped fingernails.

Gus slurps his milkshake extra noisily.

“What does Blythe have to do with Scully?”

Blythe flips her hair and pretends to laugh. I can see how badly she wants to cry, and it almost makes me feel sorry for her.

“I may have taken him home after the fight. He was the next best thing after Vaughn.”