“It isn’t good for the people who have to live with her every day, but for you it is,” Vi explains. “The stages of relationship mourning are complex for women. We have phases. The moping part means she’s not happy about the choice she made. No spa days means she’s punishing herself for not talking things out—or whatever she needs to punish herself for. The not eating is something some girls do when they’re sad.”

“You don’t not eat.” When Vi and Waters broke up earlier this year, she was all over the dairy treats, even though she can’t actually tolerate them.

Vi flips her ponytail over her shoulder. “That’s where the complex part comes in. Not all girls stop eating. Some of us do the opposite. Like me. I eat ice cream because it tastes good and it makes me feel like crap on the inside. It gives me the moops, so it’s like punishment, and it ensures I won’t gain the post-breakup ten pounds because it all comes out the other end anyway.”

“That’s seriously messed up, Vi.”

“Maybe, but it serves its purpose.”

“You were eating ice cream earlier this week.”

“I was sympathy eating. Sometimes I pick fights with Alex so I have an excuse to eat dairy. Don’t you ever tell him that, or I’ll wax a spot on the top of your head so you look like you’re losing your hair.” She makes a circle over her skull.

She’s always threatening to wax and/or shave parts of my body. She has yet to actually follow through, so I’m not worried. “Why would you pick a fight with him?”

“Not like a real fight. Just, like, you know, leaving the dishes out of the dishwasher, or the cap off the toothpaste, or forgetting to buy new lube so we can’t have marathon sex—that kind of thing.”

I give her the eye. “Sometimes it’s like you’ve been my sister my entire life, and then you have to go and overshare and ruin it all.”

“Isn’t that what makes our relationship awesome? Can you imagine if you’d had a crush on me when our parents first got married? That would’ve been wicked messed, eh? We’d probably have our own reality TV show.”

I don’t respond. I have nothing to say to this. Once I made a passing remark that she took the wrong way. She was hammered off of three light beers. She took it out of context and hasn’t ever let it go.

“So if things don’t work out with Alex and me, and you and Sunny don’t get back together, and your career takes a dump, and we need to make some money because you spend all yours on booze and hookers, we should totally pitch that to a TV station. They’d pick it up in a hot herpes minute.”

“Hookers are unnecessary. I’ve never had to pay for sex. If things don’t work out with Alex, I’ll set you up with Randy.”

I grin as her face scrunches up. She sets her coffee on the table, lifts the laptop from her knees and makes her standard thrusting motion. “It would never work. I can’t control the air hump. It’s embarrassing enough on the occasions when I see him now.” She settles back in her chair cross-legged and repositions her laptop. “In other, more exciting and important news—sit your ass down for this—”

“I’m already sitting.”

“Fuck you for ruining my intro.” She pretends to wind up her middle finger like a jack-in-the-box. “Apparently, Mr. My Balls Get Fondled By the World has been trying to contact Lily since your orgy weekend at the cottage.”

“There was no orgy.”

“That was a test. Good to know. But anyway, your ballsy friend tried to see Lily after the car wash fiasco. It didn’t work, but get this, she hasn’t gotten back together with that douchey guy, Benji. I met him, by the way. He’s a huge dickface. She could do way better. She’s actually nice.”

Following a conversation with Violet is like trying to watch a professional ping-pong tournament. “To you maybe.”

This is news about Randy trying to see Lily. He’s only mentioned her once since we’ve been back in Chicago. He’s been doing the gym with me the past few days, and he’s come back to my place instead of going to Lance’s, too. I thought it was a moral support thing, like he was trying to make it easier for me to cut the bar scene. Maybe his motivation is different than I assumed.

“Have you called Sunny yet?”

“No.” I go back to staring at the screen. She asks this every time I see her.

“Why not? You’re obviously miserable without her, and she’s miserable without you.”

“I don’t know. What am I supposed to say?”

“Honestly, Miller . . .” She makes another one of her faces. “I can’t do it. I can’t call you Miller. It has to be Buck. I keep trying it on, but it’s like a cheap pair of underwear. It doesn’t fit right. I can’t get comfortable.”

“No one said you had to call me Miller.”

“Yeah, but Sunny calls you Miller and so does Randy. I feel bad that I can’t make it work for me.”

“Don’t. Buck is a multipurpose nickname. If you want to feel bad about nicknames, stop calling me yeti.”

“If you had dark hair, you’d look like a Sasquatch.”

“I would not. I keep everything trimmed all nice-nice. Except my balls. Those are bare, like two squishy, smooth, flesh-colored plums.”

She makes a sound like she’s coughing up a hairball. “Thanks, asshole. I liked plums up until now. If you stopped trimming for three weeks, you’d look like one of those wolf people. If we get that reality TV show going, we could dye it all to prove I’m right, but I think we should go purple so you look like a giant wine-dipped yeti.”