"Ahmir Wentworth?" Rochelle's voice is so shrill that my cell phone speakers crackle. I can only imagine what she would be doing if she were sitting next to me instead of in Oahu. I am suddenly very thankful for Hawaii.

"Yep." Deciding it's safe, I take a moment to adjust my bag on my shoulder, juggling my coffee cup in my hand and pressing my phone between my cheek and shoulder. I am right; Rochelle is too stunned to speak for the time being. By the time she's ready, I am off down the street and away from the coffee shop. The downtown area is too cutesy, but it makes for good walking, and I don't want to drive home on my cell phone.

"But…um…what?"

"Are you always this articulate?" I laugh, taking a swig of burning hot coffee and only just managing to not swear at the top of my lungs as it sears the roof of my mouth.

"But how? And why? And what the hell have you been doing?"

"Nadya lives here now. He came to see her, so that's the why. As for the how, I'm pretty sure that's easy. And I haven't been doing much. Just babysitting Charlie and hanging out with Lou and Hen."

"Who are also spending time with Ahmir Wentworth."

"Yep."

"Jesus, Anne! Awkward, much?"

"You have no idea," I say, taking another, more careful, sip. Her amazement, more than just being funny, is really validating for me. And I'm having more fun than I should telling her about it.

"How can you two spend time with each other?"

"Well, it's remarkably easy, since we pretend not to know each other. At all. Also, we don't speak to each other."

"Your idea or his?"

"His. I think. Maybe ours. Not sure. " This is less fun. I drink more coffee to cover up what I feel to be an awkward, telling silence.

"Are you okay?" She sounds legitimately concerned, and I immediately feel bad for thinking she was indifferent.

"I mean…I guess so. Actually, no, I am okay. Nothing's really wrong, it's just really strange, you know? And it's not like anything's actually going to happen, it's just weird seeing him here."

"Do you need anything? Do you want me to come back? I can leave whenever, you know—"

"No, I'm okay, Rochelle. Really. I'll call you if I need anything."

"Promise?"

Even as I say the words, though, I know I won't. It's my problem, and I'm starting to realize just how little I need to share with her. But I still feel bad for lying to her. This is probably the first lie I've ever told her. Hopefully, it will be the last. But I doubt it.

When I get back to the house, Lou and Hen and Ahmir are playing basketball on the driveway. I'm jittery from the coffee, but otherwise fine, and it's with surprising ease that I walk up to all of them with a general smile. Ahmir has the ball, and is palming it with one hand. I had forgotten he could do that.

"Who's winning?"

"Me, so far," Hen says a little smugly. "I'm just H. Ahmir is a H-O, and Lou's a big old H-O-R. Wanna play?" Lou glances at her, and for a second I think I see annoyance there. But I'm probably wrong about that.

I shrug. "I really suck at this game. And I'm entering halfway through."

"Yeah, but if you suck, you'll lose anyway, so it really doesn't matter, right?"

I grin. "Right." I strip my jacket off and lay it on the still-warm hood of my car. The air is crisp, but I still have a sweatshirt on, and I want to at least give myself the chance of not being completely demolished. I look around the little group, from one to another, and I manage to make eye contact with everyone. It's actually kind of exciting. "So, where do we start?"

We play H-O-R-S-E for awhile. I do not lose, but I come mighty close. Next, we play a half-hearted round of Shoot-til-you-miss, which is confounded by the fact that Hen and Ahmir have skills and Lou and I clearly do not, and games of Ahmir-and-Hen-have-the-ball are less entertaining for the masses. I'm about to throw in the towel completely, when Hen says, "Are you coming with us to Lyme?"

I frown, and focus for a second on making a jump shot, which turns into a pathetic air ball. Lou makes a buzzer sound behind me as I turn to squint up at Hen.

"Lyme?"

"Yeah! Didn't Mary tell you?"

"First time I've heard of it," I say, trying exceptionally hard to not sound in any way offended by this fact. I'm actually not offended—there are a lot of things that get decided with me out of the room, and I can either take offense or roll with the punches; I've chosen the latter—but people tend to be so anxious to not be offensive that they automatically assume the other person is touchy or passive-aggressive. So to allay any fears of lifelong emotional scarring, I stick my hands casually in my jean pockets and shrug.

But clearly it doesn't work. Hen and Lou exchange a look, and Hen starts in, "Sorry, it's just been—"

But Lou interrupts: "Well, if you were around more, you'd probably be up to speed." And crosses her arms. And juts out her hip. And glares. None of which spell success for me.

Now, there are several things which I could say at this moment. Several things I would very much like to say. I could say that we live next door, and if there's anything you want me to know, you can walk twenty feet and tell me. Or use the cell phone you possess specifically for the purpose of communicating with others. I could say that if you wanted me to know, you would have told me, and you're mad at me not because you think I'm touchy, but because you don't want me coming. I want to say that just because the guy you like isn't dating you, it doesn't mean you can be snippy and mean to me, who has been your friend for a long time. I want to say get over yourself and tell me about the trip.

Instead, I smile, and shake my head, and say, "Oh, no, I'm not offended, it was just a surprise. What's this about Lyme?" Hen smiles, and Lou relaxes. Ahmir doesn't say anything, but I catch his eye for a second, and he gives me a long, considering look that isn't hostile. And later, after I climb back up the hill from retrieving the ball, I see him looking at Lou in the same way. But then I look away.

It's time to think of other things.

The trip to Lyme, as it turns out, is Ahmir's brainchild. His best friends, Harry Harville and Ben Chaptin, who are left forward and right defensive forward, respectively, on the Flash wit h Ahmir, live in Lyme. Harville is still recovering from an injury he got toward the end of last season, an injury which may or may not be the end of his soccer career. The physical therapy has kept him close to home, and Ahmir hasn't seen him or Chaptin in a month. When he told Lou about his plans to go visit them, she pounced on the idea of spending time in a resort town, and made it a group trip.

Which is where Hen and I come in. The art of the group trip is that it's low-pressure. Like a group date, the kind you have in middle school where you sit next to each other but don't have to spend awkward time together, the group trip has all the opportunities of a couple's trip, but all the security of having the best of chastity belts, your family, be there with you. That way, there's no suspicion of ulterior motives, even if none of your motives resemble anything close to respectable.

While I know my part in all of this is marginal and useful for someone else's purpose, I am excited to go. The last time I was in Lyme, I was seven. It was the year before my mother died, and she and I have played on the beach for hours. Lyme was a Cape town under-visited, under-appreciated, and absolutely free from the touristy Cape stuff that afflicted nearly every other area. I am also a little ashamed to be finding ulterior motives in everything Lou does. Maybe it was a nice gesture, or a reassurance that he wasn't going to spoil the party. Where Lou suddenly finds me burdensome and obnoxiously reticent, I am appalled to realize that I find her catty and self-centered. This, after years of friendship. I am jealous. It has to be said. I don't like seeing her with Ahmir, and even though I'm trying to let go of the ferocity of the hold my heart has on him, I can't seem to shake the envy I feel when I see them together. And while admitting it is one step closer to a cure, if there is a cure, it doesn't help that I have, in some way, betrayed an old friend of mine. I no longer trust her judgment. And I can't trust mine either, out of shame.

So when we pack the cars, I don't say a word. When the group splits up, I opt to ride with Mary and Charles and Charlie, rather than with Ahmir and the girls. The ride is a long one—four hours with good traffic—and I spend most of that time asleep. I want to escape my weakness, the kind that makes me jealous of my friend's happiness. I have no right to be jealous. I rejected him. I disappointed him, and I deserted him. We're strangers, and worse than that, because we can't ever be friends again. I have lost any chance with him forever. I've known it, but I haven't accepted it, and this, this moment, right now, I have to start if I'm ever going to be all right. So I sleep, with Charlie's head on my shoulder, and I pretend as I drift off that when I wake up everything will be fixed. I pretend that my dreams will carry my jealousy, my pettiness, my anger away with them, and I'll be left with someone I can be proud of, a person I can live with. I pretend that my dreams, if I have them, will soothe me, and comfort me, and convince me to be happy with what I have. I pretend that when I wake up, I will love someone else. I pretend that that's possible.

And then we're there, in Lyme, driving up to the small house Ahmir rented for the trip. It's the gravel of the driveway that wakes me up from the near-coma I've been in the majority of the trip. I drag my eyes open as Charlie closes his door, and Mary peers through the windshield at the classic beachside New England cottage, with natural shingle and white trim. A small brass number twenty-seven is affixed on one side of the front door, under the front light. I carefully lift Charlie's sleeping head off my shoulder, and sit him upright in his car seat. Then I open my door, my muscles screaming in protest as they stretch, my legs slowly coming back to life under me as I stand, leaning against the car, taking in the scenery.

It's breath-taking. Anyone who has never been to New England always associates us with penny loafers and sweater vests, with lobsters and Harvard and the Big Dig. Anyone from Texas or the backwoods of Alabama usually calls us Godless liberals and completely un-American, and leaves it at that. But there is a kind of untamed beauty about the seaside that takes my breath away every time I see it. The gray water, the green sea grass, the little houses that are ridiculously expensive to own. The politics of the place—the social setups and the traditions—are unimportant, really. It's the sea that matters, and it is so beautiful. You could travel your whole life and never see anything to match it. Breathing in the air, I lift my face to the sky, as little tiny drops of mist float down onto it. It's a deep breath, and when I exhale, I feel better. And then I turn toward the house, and help Charlie out of the car, and throw my bag over my shoulder.

There is, of course, an immediate problem with the house: it is too small. Ahmir needs his own room, being the only single man there and not yet officially dating Lou. Lou and Hen share the room on the top floor with the twin beds, an obvious set-up. Mary and Charles get the master bedroom, which also has a daybed. As Ahmir lays out his idea for Charlie to sleep on the daybed, giving me the last room on the bottom floor, he meets with strong resistance from Mary.

"Oh, no, no, no, Charlie needs to have his own room." She insists, holding her shoulder bag with both hands, and taking a stance which says very clearly I saying it nicely but just try and fight me. Her sunglasses are on top of her head, giving her the unsettling appearance of glaring at Ahmir with two sets of eyes. Her newly-manicured nails flash like claws in the light shining in from the open front door and the large windows.

Ahmir chances a look my way. He looks away quickly, and says, "I'm sorry, I thought that you would be okay with Charlie sleeping in your room. That last room was supposed to be for—"

Mary cuts him off, "No, Charlie needs to develop a schedule without us being there. He needs to sleep in a room by himself. A vacation like this could ruin his schedule, and then we'd have to start all over again when we get home."

"But what about Anne?" Lou asks, hands on her hips, frowning thunderously.

Everyone looks at me. I have a choice: insist on a real bed and create needless conflict, or sleep on the couch and let my sister win. I suddenly realize that I honestly don't care. I sling my bag down on the couch, and as it hits, I say "Problem solved." Nobody moves for a moment, then they splinter off. Lou and Hen go upstairs, grumbling. Mary pulls Charlie to his room to put his things away, and Charles travels to the master bedroom. Ahmir stands still in the middle of the room, his mouth a thin line. He had thought he'd planned it better, I could tell, and he was annoyed.

I turn toward him, and shrug. "It's okay."

He starts a little, and considers me for a moment. I give him a small, resigned smile, and shrug again. He frowns, then, after a moment, moves away to the stairs, shaking his head.

His footsteps pause at the bottom of the stairs, but I don't know if he turns to look at me again. I'm already unzipping my duffle and taking out my sleeping bag. I don't think I'll be sleeping well that night.