Page 69 of Never Not Friends

She won’t look at me.

Not once.

Eventually, she stands, brushing her hands together lightly like she’s wrapping things up. “I should probably head out. It’s late, and I’m tired.”

A chorus of awws and "Already?" comes from the group. Everyone starts shifting, standing, gathering their things. I stay where I am for a second, watching her. She moves through the girls first, hugging them. When she gets anywhere near me, she pivots—subtle but intentional—redirecting herself toward the door.

I let out a slow breath and push off the couch. Maybe it’s for the best. If I call her out on the video, if I force the conversation, it might make things worse. More awkward.

She clearly doesn’t want to talk about it, so I won’t.

Five seconds after she leaves, Juliet gasps. “Emma forgot the leftover birthday cake!”

I glance over. The plate is still sitting on the counter. Before I can think, I grab it and head for the door. “I’ll take it to her.”

Juliet looks out the window. “She’s still there. Hurry.”

“Emma!” I call as I step outside.

She’s just reaching her car. There’s a pause, one hand on the door handle, but she doesn’t turn around.

I jog the rest of the way to her, slowing as I get close. “Emma, you forgot your leftover birthday cake.”

“You can have it,” she says quickly, unlocking the door and sliding into the driver’s seat.

I step forward and catch the door before she can shut it. I hold the plate out. “It’s your birthday cake. Take it home. Your parents might want some.”

“You take it. It’s your birthday on Monday.”

“Juliet made me my own cake.”

The second I say it, something falls in her expression. Something like…I don’t know. Hurt, maybe? And then it’s gone. She looks away again, focusing on the steering wheel.

That’s when I blurt, “You’re avoiding me.”

She shakes her head. “No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. And it’s because of that stupid video Juliet showed everyone.”

She exhales, like she’s already planned out her apology. “Sorry, that was awkward. Obviously, it means nothing. I was just a silly teenage girl.”

I frown slightly. “You don’t have to apologize…or be embarrassed.”

“And you don’t have to be so nice. It was awkward, and I am embarrassed. Let’s just leave it at that and never talk about it again. Okay?”

I hesitate. I don’t know why I hesitate. But something about the way she’s playing with the stitching on her steering wheel—like she wants to disappear—makes me push a little further.

“I said the same thing.”

That gets her attention. Her head snaps up, and for the first time all night, she actually looks at me.

Really looks at me.

And I can’t read her expression at all.

“I told my mom the same thing when we were together back then,” I continue, suddenly very aware of how stupid this sounds. But I can’t let her dismiss it or minimize those feelings. “I told her that I was certain I was going to marry you someday.”

Her expression doesn’t change. Or maybe it does, and I just don’t understand it.