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That night at eight, he called me.

"Rowan, where are you?"

I was at a little noodle shop near my parents' apartment. I didn't answer the question. "What is it?"

His voice softened, almost tender. "Nothing. I just wanted to say—the cake is delicious. As always."

A pause. Quieter: "Thank you. For the effort."

Before I could respond, Juliet's syrupy voice chimed in from the background.

"Rowan! Ashton told me you made my birthday cake yourself. Is that really true? Oh my God, you're so talented. Unlike me—clumsy little me, Ashton calls me a walking disaster."

She invited me to the party. The next second, Ashton was back on the line.

"Rowan. You don't need to come."

Click.

A minute later, a location pin appeared in my messages, followed by: When you come, stop by the bodega and grab her a bag of those ketchup chips.