“It’s true.”
“No, because the hoodie?—”
“Wait, is that his?”
“Stella!”
I laugh despite myself, which only makes it worse.
Lila lunges for my wrist.
“What is this?”
I let her look.
The bracelet catches the fluorescent light—slim gold chain, dark blue enamel, tiny compass rose.
Mari makes a small wounded sound.
“He got you jewelry?”
“It’s not—” I stop because apparently I do not have a useful lie ready foryes, and he fastened it on my wrist in a cliffside hotel suite after introducing me to his parents.
Lila squints at the bracelet, then at me.
“That is not random-boy jewelry.”
“No,” Mari agrees. “That is deeply intentional jewelry.”
One of the freshmen across the room blurts, “Wait, are you and Tristan Vale actually together?”
I look up.
And because I am too tired and too happy and too done hiding to perform coyness before six a.m., I just say, “Yes.”
Silence.
Then bedlam.
Half the room screams.
The other half starts laughing.
Someone actually claps.
Lila points at me like I’ve personally betrayed women’s sports by not telling her sooner.
“I knew it.”
“You absolutely did not.”
“I spiritually knew it.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“It is now.”
Mari, more observant and therefore more dangerous, studies my face for one long second and says quietly, “You’re different.”
