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Tough stuff. I was interested in hearing about this.

“Like what?”

She plopped herself down in my old beanbag chair that I had rescued from the basement.

“Well, even though his parents accept me, and my parents accept him, like, the whole world isn't so ready to deal with, like, interracial relationships.”

“You get a lot of shit for dating someone black?”

“No!” Her blue eyes bulged. “Just the opposite!”

“Really?”

Then she went on to say that since Pepe started at NYU he's been hassled by black girls for choosing a white girlfriend—a blond Barbie-doll-gorgeous white girlfriend, no less—over one of them.

“There's a shortage of smart, black men who aren't, like, in jail,” Bridget went on. “And so there's a lot of competition among black women to get one. So for someone like me,” she yanked on her platinum ponytail for emphasis, “to be dating Percy is, like, in their opinion, an insult to all African Americans.”

“Wow,” I said, surprised by Bridget's intensity. “How does Percy feel about all this?”

Bridget's smile returned to her perfect face. “He says he's never considered race a factor in his friendships and relationships, so why start now? And that if those girls were more open-minded, then maybe they would find someone who makes them as happy as he is with me.”

She sighed, squashed down into the beanbag, and closed her eyes. “And, like, the long-distance thing makes this even harder.”

“Uh-huh,” was all I could say.

“It's so hard to find the line between, like, missing him enough and living your life, you know?”

My mouth soured with the metallic taste of blood. I hadn't realized that I'd been gnawing on my upper lip that hard.

“Like, logically, I know it makes sense for Percy and me to just break up now and just live our separate lives and not have to worry about missing each other all the time. But when I think about that, I get sick. Physically sick. Like I seriously throw up. I need to be with him, even if I can't, like, be with him.”

I shivered.

“Why am I telling you this?” she asked, her face flushed with the rush of emotion. “You know all about it! You miss Marcus as much as I miss Percy!”

I nodded convincingly, pressing a tissue to my lip.

“You know he never stopped talking about you, like, the entire three thousand miles to California . . .”

“I know,” I said, my eyes dropping. “You've told me.” Bridget went out of her way to remind me time and again, just so there was no doubt in my mind that nothing had happened between them.

“I mean, it was, like, really, really sweet but, like, really, really annoying, too,” she went on, half-joking. “There's only so much gushing you can listen to. About how you were the most dynamic, the most interesting person he'd ever met. About how he loved your way with words, your ability to laugh at yourself. How you always managed to keep him guessing. How the sexiest thing about you is that you have no idea just how sexy you are. And on and on and on and on . . .”

I know this is all true. And yet, it bothered me now, as it bothered me then: Why did I have to hear these things through a third party? Why hadn't Marcus ever said any of these things to me?

Is it because I never asked?

“It's just so hard to be in love sometimes,” Bridget said. “Maybe we can find some inspiration in this next film, Better Off Dead.”

Bridget giggled, but I didn't.

“That's a joke,” she said, looking me over with concern. “Are you okay?”

No, I wasn't okay. Now I was the one who felt sick. I looked at myself in the mirror and my skin was like chlorophyll.

“Yeah,” I said. “I just miss Marcus, like you said.”

She patted my head sympathetically, much like I had with Marin when she was upset by his absence. “He'll be back tomorrow.”

Yes, tomorrow.

As Bridget popped in the DVD, I took off my ring and read its inscription: My thoughts create my world.

What about my actions? What about those?

the thirty-first

Marcus returned today. And with him, a sky so bright and blue I had to squint.

“Let's go for a walk,” he said, grabbing my hand and pulling me off my parents' doorstep.