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“He doesn’t deserve your tears,” I say.

She looks up at me.

“Don’t cry over a guy like that. He isn’t worth the salt.”

That’s my mom’s line. I’ve heard her say it to my aunt twice and to a neighbor once, standing in our kitchen with her arms folded, and it comes straight out of my mouth before I know it’s coming.

Kylie makes a sound that’s half a laugh. “You don’t have to be nice to me,” she says, wiping her cheeks.

“I’m not.”

She wipes her face again with her sleeve, and then she sits down on the top step all at once, like her legs are done, and puts her elbows on her knees. “I’m so stupid. My boyfriend of three years said there was nothing wrong with us while he was texting someone for two weeks and telling me I was weird for asking, and I apologized to him. And now I’m sitting in a stairwell because a guy I met at a party turned out to be running some—” She flings a hand out. “Whatever this is. Some hockey revenge thing.”

“That’s not you being stupid. That’s two guys lying.”

“It’s the same girl both times, accepting the lies.”

I stay against the railing with my arms crossed, because I don’t know what else to do with them. The light over the landing hums. Somewhere above us, a door opens and closes, and somebody’s music gets louder and then quiet again.

“Look,” I say. “I don’t know you. But whoever you end up with shouldn’t make you feel like this. Raise your bar.”

She puts her face in her hands.

“And you were right to come ask me,” I say. “You had a feeling, and you went and checked. That’s not stupid. That’s the opposite.”

Her shoulders shake once. Then she wipes her eyes hard, sits up straight, and breathes out. “Okay.”

There’s a long pause while she fidgets with her sleeve again. “What did he actually say? In the kitchen.”

She’s sad, Kennebeck. Sad girls are easy.

“That he got your number in four minutes while I was standing right there,” I say. “And that it was a good start.”

She’s quiet. “That’s it?”

I don’t answer.

“What else?” she asks, concerned.

I don’t tell her.

“Was it bad?”

“Yeah.”

She looks up at me. I look back and don’t tell her, and after a second she nods, and I watch her decide not to make me.

“Okay,” she says again. She stands, leans back against the wall, and pushes her hair out of her face with both hands. “So what do I do?”

“About what?”

“About him. He’s going to text me tomorrow. He already texted me tonight.” She pulls out her phone and shows me the screen: Glad you came, twenty minutes ago. “What am I supposed to do with that?”

“Block him.”

“And then he knows I know.”

“Who cares?”