"You don't owe me anything," she snaps.

"Navy, we both know that I owe you everything."

She's quiet again. I'm not sure if it's because she's eating or thinking or coming up with a harsh retort.

"Not everything," she says.

"Everything," I repeat, regretting more than anything what I did to her.

"Can we not talk about this right now?" she asks as though the soup replaced her indignation with a little bit of comfort. Or maybe Kat is in the room.

"But we can talk about it?"

"I guess so."

"The Grilled Cheese Factory over on Houston makes gourmet grilled cheese sandwiches. They have like, thirty on the menu."

"I like mine plain on white bread with American cheese."

"I know. They have that too. It's on the kids menu."

She's not ready to laugh.

"Will you meet me there?" I ask.

"Where did you hear about this place?" she asks, slurping the soup.

"Loads of research with the intent to help you feel better. You know I'm lousy in the kitchen." I picture her smiling at the memory of me burning toast and not just charring it, but setting the toaster on fire. I'd cut the bread too thick. "But practically speaking, they have Wi-Fi and a lot of tables. There's rarely a wait." I think I hear a tinkle of laughter. "Then you'll meet me?" I ask.

"Yeah. Text me the address and I'll see you in an hour."

"An hour?" I ask, surprised she didn't want to put it off until next week or next year.

"I want to get this over with. But practically speaking, I'm hungry for a grilled cheese."

It's not an excited Of course I'll meet you because I don't deserve that, not after what I did, but I'll take it.

Chapter 21.

Cream Pie The warm shower, the first I've had in a couple of days, soothes the itch that's been irritating me since I got off the phone with Carrick. Leave it to him to try sentimentality to lift the weight of his guilt.

Afterward, I pull on a clean pair of leggings, a sweater, and tie my hair in a knot on top of my head. I'll walk into the Grilled Cheese Factory with my chin held high and make a grand entrance. I amuse myself with contemptuous scenarios as I stuff his stupid T-shirt into a plastic bag-he doesn't even deserve for me to wash it-and go to the kitchen.

"You look-" Kat starts, licking the batter from the brownie bowl.

"Not sick."

She clears her throat. "You guys should come back here after your sandwiches and have dessert. I couldn't possibly eat all of these brownies by myself."

"I'll gladly help, but I'm not sharing with Carrick. After today we can both forget about him."

She points the spatula at me. "That's harsh, Navy."

"If you knew-"

The spatula clangs in the empty bowl. "Yeah, if I knew. If you'd tell me. I'm your best friend. I love you like a sister. I wish you'd trust me."

But I can't. I can't tell her the whole story because I can't even trust myself.

Valentine's decorations cover the door, walls, soda machine, even the cash registers at the Grilled Cheese Factory. It looks like cupid puked in here.

The tables form a horseshoe around the perimeter of the restaurant. Carrick sits beneath paper cut outs of pink and red Xs and Os. He leans toward his laptop. I'd expect him to pound the keyboard with his large fingers; instead, he caresses the keys, creating harmonic clicking. A sign in the shape of a piece of Swiss cheese sits on the table with the number thirty-four on it.

"Did you think I wouldn't show up?"

He quickly closes the computer and stashes it in his bag. "I took the liberty of ordering for us," he says.

I raise my best bitch brow.

"Plain on white bread with American cheese. I knew you were hungry and probably haven't eaten much in the last few days so I didn't want you to have to wait."

"You didn't want to leave me waiting?" I ask wryly.

"Better late than never?" He blinks his best puppy dog eyes.

"Not even slightly amusing." I reluctantly lower into the chair, not sparing him the hint of a smile.

"So," he says, scrubbing his palms down his thighs.

I've seen Carrick the confident. Carrick the star athlete, the class president, the brother, the best friend, the player, the deceiver. I've seen many versions of him, but not this version with the hand-wringing, eyes-darting, and with the thin bead of sweat on his brow.

"So," I repeat. Although we've run into each other a few times in the last few weeks drawing my wounds to the surface, his apparent nervousness pricks the balloon of my contempt, disappointment, and rage.

"I'm sorry," he says lamely.

"So you've said. If you want to talk, you'll need more than those two words."

His face crumbles and he swallows. His lips part slightly. He feels terrible. Not flu terrible, just miserable.

The magnetic push and pull, a confusion in polarity, a freak of science catches me off guard. I want to shout at him and I want him to hold my hand. I want things to go back to the way they were ten years ago and I never want to see him again.

"I regret what happened. It was really shitty of me to-"

"Carrick, that's not even the half of it."

"I never meant to hurt you."

I pull out the plastic bag with his T-shirt and toss it in his direction. "This about sums it up."

He catches it, glances at me with curiosity, and then peers inside. He wrinkles his nose. "That's how you made me feel? Like a stinky old T-shirt?"

"Used, Carrick. That's your shirt by the way."

A server brings us each a stainless steel plate with a serious-we're-not-messing-around grilled cheese sandwich. Mine, on plain white bread with American cheese is the biggest, cheesiest, meltiest most delicious thing I've ever seen. A thin layer of extra cheese coats the top. It's crispy and buttery, but anger and sadness replace hunger.

"I dragged myself out of my warm, cozy apartment because you wanted to talk. Talk or I walk."

He opens his mouth at the same time as a surprised shout comes from a neighboring table. A young woman, a freshman in college at best, stares at the meal in front of her. Like my own plate, a decadent grilled cheese sandwich, a side salad, and carrot sticks sit untouched.

I'm trying to bring myself back to the conversation with Carrick, but my attention remains on the girl who's now crying. I glance around for an explanation-perhaps she was with someone and they had a disagreement, but there's no sign of a date or friend hastily leaving the Grilled Cheese Factory. Plus, there's only one meal on the table. Her shoulders shake as she sobs into her hands.

After it goes on for another minute, I go to her table, rest my hand on her shoulder, and say, "Excuse me. I don't mean to be nosy, but you seem really upset-"

She wipes her eyes. "It's nothing."

"Are you sure?"

She nods and then picks up a carrot and takes a bite.

"If you change your mind, I'm at that table right there," I say, pointing toward Carrick.

She swallows hard and says, "Thanks."

I return to our table, but can't help overhear her talking on the phone.

"She said I was the reason extra-large was invented and that they only have one size. That they'd have to special order me a shirt that says wide load, coming through. She said I was too fat." The girl is in tears again.

Carrick and I lock eyes.

I stalk over to her and ask, "Who said that to you?"

The girl's face squishes up and she lets out another sob.

"I'm sorry. I don't mean to meddle."

She tells the person she's on the phone with that she'll call them right back. "It's stupid, but I'm doing this program called UBoss; it's about going after our dreams and living more."

"UBoss?" I ask. "Are you serious?" She meets my smile with confusion.

"I'm doing the program right now. Username Navybean."

Her mouth parts in surprise and then her face brightens. "No, no way. Seriously? I'm MelodyMiles."

"We talk for a few minutes about the program and then she glances at Carrick. Don't tell me he's one of your dates from the dare."

"No!" I say a little too loudly. "An old friend. Not even that. Just someone."

A smile flickers on her lips.

"So what happened?" I ask her. Our connection translates easily from the online community to this in person encounter.

"It's so embarrassing."

I glance at Carrick. "Believe me, I know what embarrassment is like."

"Since you know everything else about me, I guess there's no harm in telling you what happened. I'd been working at a pharmacy, but wanted to do something, I don't know, more daring and fun, so I submitted an application for a job as a cashier at the boutique Boots & Babes, down the street," she says, gesturing vaguely toward the door. "I called to check on my status and I guess I wasn't good enough." Tears spring to her eyes.

"I went there last week to look for daring outfit." I shake my head. "No, you're more than good enough. Listen, if you feel shamed because of your size, remember this, you aren't fat. You may have fat just like you have a pinky toe, but you aren't a pinky. We don't go around saying, 'Oh, look at that pinky person. Let's discriminate against them because they're different.' Own who you are and what you look like. Honor that body of yours as a force of nature whatever size it is."

She snorts a laugh through her tears. "You sound like Mimi, but thank you for saying that."

"I mean it and you're welcome." I lean in closer to her. "When I was thirteen my mom took me shopping and I overheard the saleslady telling her that they didn't have anything in my size. It was a low moment."

"But you're fit," she says.

Sort of. "I wasn't always-it was partially puberty and I can blame the contents of my pantry. I also never wanted to feel that low again. Not so people like that lady wouldn't say crappy things to me, but because I wanted to feel strong. Strong enough to deflect shitty comments." I flex my not-so-buff arm.

"Wow."

"Even if I was still the size I was when I was thirteen, that would be okay because I know that I'm a good person and you are too. Whoever said that to you on the other hand..."

"Yeah," she rolls her eyes, "Pumera."

"Pumera? At Boots and Babes?' I snarl. "I'll be sure never to shop there. Enjoy your dinner," I say, giving Melody a hug. "It was nice meeting you."

Carrick puts down his sandwich half when I sit back down. "I heard what you said to her. That was good of you. When we're done here should we go over to Boots and Babes?" His smile is as sly as mine.

"That's exactly what I was thinking." I take a bite of my sandwich and look up to see Carrick staring at me. "What?"

"I remember when I gave you that T-shirt to wear. I didn't think you'd meet me. I didn't think you'd go skinny-dipping. I didn't think-"

"It's better not to think about it."

"Is it though?"

"It works for me."

"Does it?"

No, not at all.