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Shit. Shit. Shit. She clenched her teeth, held her breath, and braced herself.

“Will you be at the game?”

She froze for a moment. “The…game?”

“Yeah, the state championship?” Zoe continued slowly, giving Rory a funny look now. “I know things with you and Tyler are…weird right now…”

What the hell does that mean? Rory thought.

“…but I know it would mean so much to him if you came. You’re, like, his favorite person in the whole world.”

She coughed, suddenly feeling very uncomfortable. “And…you aren’t?”

“God no,” she said, and to Rory’s bewilderment, she smiled. “I mean, sure, he cares about me, but if you’re not there, it will crush him.”

Her body melted just thinking about the kind of effect she had on Tyler. “Is he nervous?” she asked softly.

“Very,” Zoe admitted. “But he’s too proud to come talk to you after some fight you had at the movie theater?”

Rory exhaled. She doesn’t know about the kiss.

And why would she? That would be incredibly odd for a boyfriend to tell his girlfriend. Hey, Zoe? I kissed Rory, but it meant nothing. I still want to be with you. Carry on.

“Please tell me you’ll be there,” Zoe pleaded.

“I’ve never missed a game.”

“I know, I just…” Zoe hesitated. “I just know how much he needs this to go well, and you seem to be the only thing that truly calms him. I needed to make sure.”

She registered the concern chiseled all over Zoe’s beautiful, dewy, pimple-free face.

“Promise me?”

She couldn’t help but smirk at Zoe’s determination and gall to approach another girl and plead for her to come watch her boyfriend play football. What a weird, weird world she was living in.

“Okay, Zoe, I promise.”

“Thank you!”

Zoe threw her arms around Rory’s shoulders, then instantly let go. “Sorry, are we officially hugging friends? Blake said you love hugs…”

“Hugs are fine.”

“Good,” Zoe said. “See you Saturday!”

She watched her walk away, her mind spinning. She leaned against the locker and slid to the floor, resting in a crouched position before pulling out her phone and typing.

SOS. Emergency sleepover.

Melanie typed back instantly.

I’ll bring the ice cream.

* * *

Rory paced back and forth in the living room. They’d reached the point of the emergency sleepover where it was time to share secrets—bowls of half eaten strawberry ice cream on the coffee table, comfy sweats and fuzzy socks on, hair tied up in ponytails, credits rolling on the TV after watching One Hundred and One Dalmatians, candles burning on end tables.

And Rory had one big, fat secret to share.