Page 54 of Night Shift

Why does it feel like Nina’s not taking my side on this?

“They’re boys, Nina. And if you list out every little shred of evidence I have from that night, it’s the classic setup for the it was all a bet trope.”

Nina smacks a palm to the counter.

“There it is! I knew it! You make a narrative out of everything. Look—yes. Sometimes art imitates life. But you always oversimplify things so you can tuck them into neat and tidy boxes. It’s like you’re doing a literary analysis of your own fucking life to avoid actually living it.”

“I don’t do that,” I argue. Oh, God, I do.

“You do,” Nina says. “It’s self-sabotage. Because if you can convince yourself you already know how it ends, then you get to walk away without having to actually be a real person and live your life. Sometimes it feels like you don’t want to do anything. I get that you’re not a big fan of parties and crowds, but sometimes it feels very I’m not like other girls.”

It’s like she’s struck me across the face.

“I am like other girls,” I argue. “I make a point not to think I’m better than other women, and you know that.”

“So why were you able to full-on maul Vincent when it was just the two of you, but Harper and I had to physically drag you into the basketball house to get you to fucking talk to him? Huh? What’s all that about?”

“Because I was nervous,” I splutter. “I’m not good at this stuff, Nina. I’m not like—”

“Other girls?”

“That is not where I was going with that!”

Nina huffs, turns to shove her favorite mug onto the shelf, and then presses the cupboard door shut. When she spins to face me again, her expression is maternal in a way that makes me feel like I’m in elementary school again and my mom is asking me why I can’t just go over and say hello to the other kids instead of clinging to her leg.

“I love you, Kenny,” Nina says. “And that means I have to tell you when I think you’re in the wrong before you make a complete mess of everything.”

I think of Vincent’s face, bathed in magenta and cyan party lights. The ragged sigh he played off with a shrug. I’ve already made a mess.

“Can you please stop treating me like a child,” I beg Nina. I feel nauseous. My skin is tight. “Just because you like parties doesn’t mean I have to. And just because you go on tons of dates and hook up with people all the time—”

“So, I’m the whore best friend?”

I frown. “The what?”

“I’m just saying.” Nina shrugs. “It sounds like you’re the poor virginal main character, and I’m the whore best friend who’s only around to cheer you on while you go after the guy. I’m a supporting character. A plot device. I lent you my hottest bodysuit, dragged you to a party—because God forbid the bookworm go to a party of your own free will—and then I strategically slipped out of the picture so you could get the golden boy alone.” She folds a damp tea towel on the counter and gives it a proud pat. “I’m the whore best friend.”

“No, you aren’t,” I protest. “You’re not a whore, Nina.”

“And you’re not a child. So, stop acting like one and have some fucking agency.”

I’m so stunned, and my body is so shivery and overheated, that all I can think to do is slide off the kitchen stool and storm off to my room.

Like a child.

• • •

The next few days are miserable.

Chaucer kicks my ass. Then I learn we’re doing some Shakespeare next. Someone in our building takes my laundry out of the dryer and puts theirs in instead, stealing a dollar and wasting an hour of my life. I trip over a curb while crossing the street onto campus and make eye contact with a girl from my women’s literature class.

I don’t see Vincent at all, except in a very vivid nightmare.

(We’re in the basketball team’s house, except the floor plan is all scrambled and wonky, the way they tend to be in dreams. I’m chasing Vincent. I try to scream his name, but nothing comes out, and he keeps getting swallowed up in the crowd of faceless strangers.)

It’s a rotten week.

It doesn’t help that Nina and I are in some kind of horrible Wild West–style standoff, and Harper, who’s made it clear she won’t pick a side, has gotten mad at us for fighting and decided to ice us both out too. The three of us don’t fight often. We’ve never shuffled around the apartment in silence, coming and going without a word and waiting until the coast is clear to use our shared bathroom. I know I’ll have a break from the tension this weekend—Nina’s improv class is taking an overnight road trip to do a festival, and Harper’s headed home for the weekend to celebrate her grandmother’s hundredth birthday.

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