“Bye, Miller!” Clara whisper-shouts from her porch, all smiles and bare feet on the steps. She gives a tiny wave, the kind you’d only bother with when you really liked someone.

Miller grins, wide and stupid, and lifts a hand over his shoulder. “Bye, Clara.”

You don’t miss the way his voice softens when he says her name. You don’t miss much these days.

Miller’s truck had broken down a few days ago, so you, being the world’s most loyal best friend, had been his personal chauffeur ever since. Including, apparently, picking him up from Clara Grant’s house at nearly two in the morning.

You tap your fingers on the steering wheel as he jogs over, taking his sweet time like you’re not half-asleep and freezing. The porch light catches in his hair. She’s still standing there, watching him go.

Of course she is.

You and Miller have known each other your whole lives, since diapers, technically, though you’d rather not think about that part. You’ve been through everything together. School dances, bad haircuts, first heartbreaks. Everyone, your mom, his grandpa, the whole town, always said you two were inevitable.

Guess not.

The passenger door creaks open, and Miller slides in, smelling faintly like campfire and whatever cheap perfume Clara probably wears.

“Hey,” he says, flashing you that easy, guilty smile. “Thanks for picking me up.”

You keep your eyes on the road, shifting the car into drive.