I shoot off a reply to let Bryce know I’m on my way. I sigh with momentary relief.

I love Bryce. Between my mom, my stepdad, my little sister, and sometimes Claudia, my house is constantly in motion. And there’s my dad, too, and all my worries about him ever finding someone and my abuela getting older. Then the never-ending Shamrock drama.

But Bryce. I never have to worry about Bryce. We’ve been together since freshman year. Bryce is The One. We’ve had our hiccups, but what long-term couple hasn’t?

As I push through the doors leading into the parking lot, I find Bryce leaning against his sparkling cobalt-blue Dodge Charger with shiny new dealer plates. Despite what everyone might think, I’m not a materialistic person, but I’ve got to admit: there’s something hot about having a boyfriend with a flashy car. And Bryce has a new car every few months—a perk of his dad being none other than Clay Dooley, owner of not one but four local dealerships. Clover City doesn’t even have a damn Target, but we have almost as many car dealerships as we do gas stations. Anyway, with the last name Dooley, he’s Clover City royalty. If he’s a prince, I’m his princess.

He greets me with a kiss—an open-mouth kiss for everyone to see. His hands grip either side of my waist, and he literally sweeps me off my feet.

We can’t keep our hands off each other. I know it can be obnoxious and over the top. But I spend my entire day 100 percent in control of my life. When I’m with Bryce, the buzzing in my brain eases and I can operate on autopilot.

He twists his hand into my ponytail and tugs playfully. “I missed you today.”

“Well,” I tell him, “you’ve got me for two whole hours before my family gets home.”

“Say no more,” he says, and smacks my ass.

I yelp, trying to force a giggle. I might be down for public displays of affection, but that’s not exactly my flavor. Whatever. It’s not a big enough deal for me to make a thing of it. And I’ll totally get him back tomorrow and embarrass him in front of his friends with some sappy-ass baby talk or something.

“Hey,” he says as we’re getting into the car. “There’s Ellen.”

My gaze scans the parking lot, and there she is. For a brief moment, regret pokes at the pit of my stomach. “Gimme a sec,” I tell him.

Ellen was my sad attempt at branching out for more female friends while Bryce was busy with football season. She was in the pageant and we worked together at Sweet 16. She’s the kind of girl everyone wants to be friends with. I am so not that girl. But I am the girl who gets what she wants, and I wanted El to be my friend.

But the pageant ended. I didn’t win—even though Bryce’s dad, who served as a judge, swore I had his vote. I thought for sure I’d at least get runner-up like Claudia had a few years ago. And then a couple weeks later, Ellen left Sweet 16 for a higher-paying job at Cinful Rolls, the cinnamon-bun stand in the food court. So I decided that I don’t need friends. I don’t even have time for them, honestly. But something about Ellen still makes me feel like a failure, and that really pisses me off.

“El-bell!” I call, but she doesn’t flinch. She probably can’t hear me over the engine. “El! Ellen!”

She doesn’t turn around as she walks arm in arm with her friend Willowdean—who, by the way, hates me for no reason other than that I was a good friend to Ellen when she wasn’t—to the other side of the parking lot, where Tim’s Jeep is parked.

“Ellen!” I yell a little louder but immediately regret the decision. It feels desperate, and on the list of things I hate, that is nearly number one.

She freezes, but Willowdean doesn’t hear me and instead trips on a chunk of gravel as Ellen inadvertently yanks her back. Ellen laughs, and so does Willowdean, their heads knocking together.

For a brief moment something that feels like jealousy crawls up my spine.

Finally Ellen turns around and searches the empty parking lot for a second before she sees me. I offer a short wave, and from all the way on the other side of the lot I can see that she’s surprised it’s me, and not necessarily in a good way.

“Hey!” she shouts back. “How’s Sweet 16?”

“Good,” I say. “Same as it’s always been. I haven’t been working as much since it’s dance-competition season.”

“Cool!”

If it’s even possible to share an awkward silence from across a parking lot, we do. I immediately feel foolish for thinking that she and I could be friends. Or that I need friends to begin with.

“Babe!” says Bryce from inside the car as he gently revs the engine.

Willowdean tugs at Ellen’s hand and whispers something in her ear. A feeling that is only faintly familiar creeps up my neck. It’s the kind of feeling I get when people assume I’m dumb because I’m on the dance team or because I’m pretty. Or when Bryce took me home for the first time, and his dad called me a pretty little señorita. (I’ve spent many sleepless nights fantasizing about the perfect comeback to that, by the way.) It’s that feeling like you’re the butt of the joke.

I don’t say good-bye or wave. I just turn around and slide into the passenger seat, slamming the door behind me.

“Whoa,” says Bryce. “Careful.” He pats the dashboard, soothing the car.

I close my eyes and shake my head. “Sorry. Let’s hurry up before my family gets home.”

The tires squeal as we take off out of the parking lot and blow straight through a stop sign. Bryce rests one hand on my thigh, and we break so many speed limits that this dumb town becomes a blur.

Bryce lies sprawled out on my floor while I sit cross-legged on my bed with my laptop balancing on my knees. He’s spent the last thirty minutes nuzzling and kissing me, trying to distract me from my task: figuring out how the hell to fund the rest of the dance team’s season. Bryce, tall, white, with broad shoulders, and bright green eyes, makes for a very tempting distraction, but my focus is unwavering.

He groans, rolling back and forth on my mauve-colored shag carpet. “Are you almost done?”

“I don’t know.” I bite back a grin.

He’s being annoying, but there’s something I love about seeing him in my room, in my old house with its fading carpet and popcorn glitter ceilings. You would think he would care about how outdated this place is or that he’d rather be at his fancy new house that looks more like the Parthenon than anything that belongs in Clover City. But he’s here. With me.

He sits up, trying to get a glimpse at my computer screen. “What are you even doing?”

I open my mouth to speak, but I get lost in a blog post about a high school band that sent themselves to Nationals by having a twenty-four-hour marathon drum circle. No, thank you.

“Babe,” says Bryce. “Babe, your phone is ringing.”

“Oh.” I blink quickly.

He tosses me my phone from where it sits on the floor, and I catch it like a hot potato.

“Hello?” Why do I always say it like a question?

“What’s a dad got to do to get his girl to answer her phone? I already pay the damn bill.”

I laugh, but my shoulders slump. I have a great dad; however, I’m not always the best daughter. “Sorry, Dad. I’ve been crazy busy with practice and—”

“I know, I know. You’ve got a life. I get it. But maybe you could make it over here for a weekend visit soon, yeah? Your abuela has been nagging the hell out of me about you coming down for your birthday.”

I can’t even think that far beyond my immediate problems right now, but instead I just say, “Tell her I miss her.”

“You can call her and let her know yourself. I think I hear from Claudia more than I hear from you.”

I sigh into the receiver. “You’re really piling it all on, aren’t you?”

He yawns and groans, like he’s stretching after a long day at work. “Watching your kid’s life unfold on Facebook doesn’t really cut it, if you know what I mean. So how’s Bryan or Reese or whatever his name is?”

I giggle, and Bryce looks up from his phone as if he can sense my dad talking about him. Dad isn’t one of those fathers who thinks his daughter isn’t dating until she’s forty-three or that I’m completely void of hormones. But Bryce, with his flashy cars and show-stealing (and casually racist) dad, isn’t really someone my dad, who values things like a smartly organized toolbox and almost any Nicolas Cage film, especially National Treasure, has patience for.