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“Sasha?”

It’s the last voice I expect to hear bouncing around the girls’ bathroom, echoing with a vibration much lower than what these walls are used to.

“Heath?”

I’m so surprised I lower myself to speaking to him, even pushing open the stall door. We’re alone, the long mirrors on the far walls reflecting back an endless line of Sashas and Heaths, none of them knowing what to say. We look at each other for a second, him breaking away first to inspect the tampon dispenser like it might have a suggestion.

“You shouldn’t be in here,” I tell him. “You’ll get in trouble.”

“I put a sign on the door,” he says. “‘Caution. Wet Floor.’ You know, Cuidado piso mojado.” He cracks an old joke, bending his body into a ridiculous position.

“Thanks, Captain Accident,” I say, a small smile tugging on my lips at the name we gave the anonymous silhouette of a man who always seems to be falling on floors, jamming his hand into tight spaces, and dropping hair dryers into bathtubs.

But it’s no accident that Heath has followed me here, and I know it. I’m trapped, the stall door against my back, myriad copies of myself staring me down. Heath leans against one of the sinks, the tail of his shirt dipping into more STDs than he’ll have a chance of catching in the next twenty years.

“You didn’t answer my texts,” he says. It’s not sad or accusing. It’s a statement of fact; typical Heath. I don’t tell him that I never read them in the first place.

“I’m sorry,” I say. And I kind of am. Maybe. He might be boring, but that doesn’t mean my salacious sister gets to skewer him for entertainment. “I’ve got a lot going on.”

He holds my gaze for a minute, and I wonder if he’s going to call me out on the fact that I’ve always had a lot going on. Instead he studies the puffed skin around my eyes, the dark circles underneath.

“I’m worried about you,” he says.

“I’m fine.” These words are stockpiled for me within easy reach. Always locked and loaded, both a weapon and a defense. But Heath has heard them too many times and familiarity reduces their effectiveness.

“You’re not fine,” he shoots back. The endless line of Heaths on both sides of the bathroom are an army now, one I know I can’t hold off for long. The tail of his shirt is wet, hanging against his jeans to spread a dark oval there. “Something’s . . . off, Sasha,” he says. “Something is wrong.”

How can someone who knows me so well not realize?

Sasha Stone is not off.

Sasha Stone is not wrong.

But Sasha Stone is closing the distance between us, watching as thousands of Sashas and thousands of Heaths find some comfort in the nooks of each other. And while these places are not a perfect fit, they are at least familiar.

He smells like Tide, because heaven forbid his mom ever buy generic. I’m simultaneously repulsed and attracted to his cleanliness, the fact that he’s not Isaac both a magnet and a mark against him.

Newton says that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction, but lately everything that happens inside of me ripples out in twos, my love and hate doled out equally between Isaac and Heath, satisfying no one.

“We okay?” Heath says into my ear, his breath moving a lock of my hair.

It’s so normal, so deeply programmed into who I am that I lean forward just enough that his lips are against the soft skin of my neck. “Yeah,” I say. “We’re good.”

And that’s the thing. We are. Heath and I are good. Good the way sugar cookies with no sprinkles and white cotton undies and organic deodorant are good.

We’re good.

I’m good.

Sasha Stone is good.

I repeat this as I walk into the hallway, my hand in his, my heart a dead thing in my chest.

eleven

What. The. Fuck. Wait, I k(no)w this one. DON’T tell me. He’s so n-ice. So gòÓd. What if he k(new)? I said out with the old—you remember the IN part. These boys . . . your FEELings. Equal and opposite erection. HA. What Would Jesus Do? What Will Mom Say? Will Dad Even Notice?

I owe you something but not everything. The one for you is not the one for me.